LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. ifjHji, ©npiingl^i 1^0. Shelf-A-A-.. UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. / WASHINGTON IRVING THE SKETCH BOOK EDITED BY ELMER E. WENTWORTH, A.M. Adelphi Academy, Brooklyn, N.Y. x^^yo ^ JJoston ALLYN & BACON 1894 -e^'^*^' Copyright, 1894, BY Elmek E. Wentworth. C. J Peters & Son, TYPE-SETTI'RS and Kl.rCTROTVrERS, 14.5 High St., Boston, U.S.A. INTRODUCTION. An appreciation of Irving's literary work, a plea for his right to a high rank among the makers of English literature, — these form no part of the plan of this volume. Nor do I purpose attempting to justify his place in the list of English authors read or studied in our schools as models, a list limited and conditioned by the necessity of devoting much time to subjects which, as their admirers seem to think, differ from English literature in this, — that they cannot be learned in easy lessons without a master. It may be that truth is on the side of the professional pedagogue who informed me, some months ago, that " Irving is antiquated. We have advanced beyond him, and to better writers." It may be that he was right; that the Addison whom Irving loved and followed has been surpassed by many a writer of our time. Yet, at the risk of appearing prejudiced and old-fashioned, I must confess that my opin- ion is now what it was, — that Irving should be read and studied, because he lias something to give which our young men and maidens need. But I am in danger of departing from my avowed intention. An essay which shall set forth my creed as to the true method of teaching and studying English in our secondary schools, is as little a part of my plan as is a critique on Irving. Such an essay is unnecessary. Mr. Thurber wrote it for me in the introductions to his editions of Macaulay and of Addison. Two things I wish to add as supplement- iv Introduction. ary to what Mr. Thurber has said ; one a suggestion to the pupil, one a reminder to the teacher. To the pupil I would say, — to him who will never read for other than pleasure's sake, no less than to him who may become a life-long student of English, — read your Bible. Prof. A. S. Cook, in The Bible and English Prose Style, has stated at length arguments of which I shall not attempt here to give even a brief. Read his book, if you wish to hear his argument. But, in any case, make yourself familiarly acquainted with the King James version. In substance or in form, in thought or in expression, the Bible mightily in- fluences — it pervades — all English literature. An occa- sional note has been put in to remind you of this fact. Here and there among the notes the teacher will remark one which hints at or suggests a comparison of Irving's thought or expression with that of another writer. Such hints are intended to remind the teacher that he gets most pleasure from a trip to Europe who carries with him the most intimate acquaintance with the history and literature of the countries he may visit. So it is with reading : his joy is widest and deepest who brings to his reading, of Irving, let us say, the widest acquaintance with what others have written of like or contrasted substance and expression. Such acquaintance cannot be "gotten up," as one may pre- pare himself on the history and topography of the next country in his itinerary. But the teacher, by suggesting authors and works for comparison, may do much. It remains briefly to explain the notes. They are intended to suggest rather than to answer questions of fact ; to guide the pupil in his search for information, rather than to supply the information. It is hoped that they do not exceed in fulness or in minuteness of directions. E. E. W. Brooklyn, December, 1893. CONTENTS. PAGE. Advertisement to the First American Edition ... 1 Advertisement to the First English Edition .... 2 Preface to the Kevised Edition 3 The Author's Account of Himself. 9 «^The Voyage 13 EoscoE 20 The Wife 28 l^^J^TP Van Winkle 3'j; English Writers on America 58 /KuRAL Life in England 68 The Broken Heart Y6 The Art of Book-Making 83 A Royal Poet 91 ' The Country Church 107 The Widow and Her Son 113 A Sunday in London 121 The Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap 124 The Mutability of Literature 137 Rural Funerals 149 The Inn Kitchen 162 ^/JEhe Spectre Bridegroom 165 • Westminster Abbey 182 ^/^-CllRISTMAS 195 The Stage Coach 201 Christmas Eve 208 T vi Contents. PAGE. Christmas Day 221 The Christmas Dinxek 236 London Antiqup:s 252 ^JjIttle Britain 259 • Stratford-on-Avon 276 Traits of Indian Character 297 '^ Philip of Pokanoket 310 John Bull 324 The Pride of the Village 342 The Angler 352 £^He Legend of Sleepy Hollow 362 L'Envoy 399 Appendix . 403 Notes 409 ADVERTISEMENT FIRST AMERICAN EDITION. The following writings are published on experiment; should they please, they may be followed by others. The writer will have to contend with some disadvantages. He is unsettled in his abode, subject to interruptions, and has his share of cares and vicissitudes. He cannot, therefore, promise a regular plan, nor regular periods of publication. Should he be encouraged to proceed, much time may elapse between the appearance of his nimibers; and their size will depend on the materials he may have on hand. His writings will partake of the fluctuations of his own thoughts and feelings ; some- times treating of scenes before him, sometimes of others purely im- aginary, and sometimes wandering back with his recollections to his native country. He will not be able to give them that tranquil at- tention necessary to finished composition; and as they must be transmitted across the Atlantic for publication, he will have to trust to others to correct the frequent errors of the press. Should his writings, however, with all their imperfections, be well received, he cannot conceal that it would be a source of the pm-est gratification; for though he does not aspire to those high honors which are the rewards of loftier intellects, yet it is the dearest wish of his heart to have a secure and cherished, though humble, corner in the good opinions and kind feelings of his countrymen. London, 1819. ADVERTISEMENT FIRST ENGLISH EDITION. The following desultory papers are part of a series written in this country but published in America. The author is aware of the aus- terity with which the writings of his countrymen have hitherto been treated by British critics; he is conscious, too, that much of the con- tents of his papers can be interesting only in the eyes of American readers. It was not his intention, therefore, to have them reprinted in this country. He has, however, observed several of them from time to time inserted in periodical works of merit, and has under- stood that it was probable they would be published in a collective form. He has been induced, therefore, to revise and bring them for- ward himself, that they may at least come correctly before the pub- lic. Should they be deemed of sufficient importance to attract the attention of critics, he solicits for them that courtesy and candor which a stranger has some right to claim who presents himself at the threshold of a hospitable nation. February, 1820. PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. The following papers, with two exceptions, were written in Eng- land, and formed but part of an intended series, for which I had made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, how- ever, circumstances compelled me to send them piecemeal to the United States, where they were published from time to time in por- tions or numbers. It was not my intention to publish them in Eng- land, being conscious that much of their contents would be interesting only to American readers, and in truth, being deterred by the severity with which American productions had been treated by the British press. By the time the contents of the first volume had appeared in this occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic, and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the London Lit- erary Gazette. It was said, also, that a London bookseller intended to publish them in a collective form. I determined, therefore, to bring them forward myself, that they might at least have the benefit of my superintendence and revision. I accordingly took the printed numbers which I had received from the United States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had already received friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination, inform- ing him that should he be inclined to bring them before the public, I had materials enough on hand for a second volume. Several days having elapsed without any communication from Mr. Murray, I ad- dressed a note to him, in which I construed his silence into a tacit rejection of my work, and begged that the numbers I had left with him might be returned to me. The following was his reply: My dear SrR, — I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind inten- tions towards me, and that I entei-tain the most unfeigned respect for your most tasteful talents. My house is completely filled with work- people at this time, and I have only an office to transact business in; 3 Preface. and yesterday I was wholly occupied, or I should have done myself the pleasure of seeing you. If it would not suit me to engage in the publication of your present work, it is only because I do not see that scope in the nature of it which would enable me to make those satisfactory accounts between us, with- out which I really feel no satisfaction in engaging — but I will do all I can to promote their circulation, and shall be most ready to attend to any future plan of yours. "With much regard, I remain, dear sir, Your faithful servant, John Murray. This was disheartening, and might have deterred me from any further prosecution of the matter, had the question of republication in Great Britain rested entirely with me; but I apprehended the appearance of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archibald Constable as publisher, having been treated by him with much hos- pitality during a visit to Edinburgh ; but first I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced from him at Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the favorable opinion he had ex- pressed to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch-Book in a parcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hinting that since I had had the pleas- ure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which made the successful exercise of my pen all-important to me; I begged him, therefore, to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they would bear European republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable would be inclined to be the publisher. The parcel containing my w^ork went by coach to Scott's address in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in the coun- try. By the very first post I received a reply, before he had seen my work. "I was down at Kelso," said he, "when your letter reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and will converse with Constable, and do all in my power to forward your views — I assiu^e you nothing will give me more pleasiu'e." The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and efficient good will which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me. Preface. 5 A weekly periodical, he went on to inform me, was about to be set up in Edinburgh, supported by the most respectable talents, and amply furnished with all the necessary information. The appoint- ment of the editor, for which ample fimds were provided, would be five hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable prospect of further advantages. This situation, being apparently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, however, he intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he expressed an appre- hension that the tone it was desired to adopt might not suit me. "Yet I risk the question," added he, "because I know no man so well qualified for this important task, and perhaps because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter secret, and there is no harm done. ' And for my love I pray you wrong me not.' If, on the contrary, you think it could be made to suit you, let me know as soon as pos- sible, addressing Castle Street, Edinburgh." In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, " I am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch-Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire to crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties there always are in managing such a matter, espe- cially at the outset; but we will obviate them as much as we possibly can." The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, which imderwent some modifications in the copy sent : — " I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty; but, some- how or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I have myself." I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. " My whole coiu-se of life," I observed, " has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents, such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my minds as I would those of a weather-cock. Practice and training may bring me more into rule; but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own country Indians or a Don Cossack. " I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun; writing 6 Preface. when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my resi- dence and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or what- ever rises in my imagination; and hope to write better and more copiously by and by. " I am playing tlie egotist, but I know no better way of an- swering your proposal than by showing what a very good-for-noth- ing kind of being I am. Should Mr. Constable feel inclined to make a bargain for the wares I have on hand, he will encourage me to further enterprise; and it will be something like trading with a gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another time a silver tankard." In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declining wiiat might have proved a troublesome duty. He then recurred to the original subject of our correspondence ; entered into a detail of the various terms upon which arrangements were made between authors and booksellers, that I might take my choice; expressing the most encouraging confidence of the success of my work, and of previous works wliich I liad produced in America. " I did no more," added he, "than open the trenches with Constable; but I am sure if you will take the trouble to write to him, you will find him disposed to ti-eat your overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place to see me, I shall be in London in the course of a month, and whatever my ex- perience can command is most heartily at your command. But I can add little to what I have said above, except my earnest recom- mendation to Constable to enter into the negotiation." ' Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had de- termined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to throw I I cannot avoid subjoining in a note a succeeding paragraph of Scott's letter, which, though it does not relate to the main subject of our correspondence, was too characteristic to be omitted. Some time previously I had sent Miss Sophia Scott small duodecimo American editions of her father's poems published in Edinburgh in quarto volumes; showing the "nigromancy" of the American press, by wliich a quart of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott observes: " In my hurry, I have not thanked you in Sopliia's name for the kind attention which furnished her with the American volumes. I am not quite sure I can add my own, since you have made her acquainted with much more of papa's folly than she would ever otherwise have learned; for I had taken special care they should never see any of those things during their earlier years. I think I told you that Walter is sweeping the firmament with a feather like a maypole, and indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe — in other words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th dragoons." Preface. 7 my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or swim according to its merits. I wrote to that effect to Scott, and soon received a reply : — "I observe with pleasm-e that you are going to come forth in Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one's own account; for the booksellers set their face against the circula- tion of such works as do not pay an amazing toll to themselves. But they have lost the art of altogether damming up the road in such cases between the author and the public, which they were once able to do as effectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan's Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding's mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the British public to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless I really was of that opinion. " If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called Black- wood'' s Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of your works in the last number: the author is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you in your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of very considerable talent, and who will soon be inti- mately connected with my family. My faithful fi'iend Knicker- bocker is to be next examined and illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration of a treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when Your name is up, and may go From Toledo to Madrid. And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about the middle of the month, and promise myself great pleasure in once again shaking you by the hand." The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in London as I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller imknown to fame, and without any of the usual arts by which a work is trumpeted into notice. Still some attention had been called to it by the extracts which had previously appeared in the Literary Gazette, and by the kind words spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was get- ting into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed before the first month was over, and the sale was interrupted. At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Her- cules, he put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable 8 Preface. representations, Murray was quickly induced to undertake the futvu'e publication of the work which he had previously declined. A fur- ther edition of the first volume was struck off and the second volume was put to press, and from that time Murray became my publisher, conducting himself in all his dealings with that fair, open, and lib- eral spirit which had obtained for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince of Booksellers. Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and I feel that I am but dis- charging, in a trifling degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who of his literaiy contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not experience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance! W. I. SUNNYSIDE, 1848. THE SKETCH-BOOK. THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. I am of tliis mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel was turned eftsoons into a toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole to sit on; so tlie traveller that stragleth from his owne country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, not where he would. Lyly's Euphues. I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels, and made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of the town-crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been com- mitted, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and customs, and conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the summit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched my eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was aston- ished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the 10 The Sketch -Book. pier-lieacis in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant climes — with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and waft myself in imagina- tion to the ends of the earth ! Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited various parts of my own country ; and had I been merely a lover of fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratifica- tion, for on no country have the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of liquid silver ; her mountains, with their bright aerial tints ; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility ; her tremendous cata- racts, thundering in their solitudes ; her boundless plains, waving with spontaneous verdure ; her broad deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence to the ocean ; her trackless forests, where vegetation pvits forth all its magnificence ; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine; — no, never need an American look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery. • But Europe held forth the charms of storied and poetical association. There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly-cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My native coun- try was full of youthful promise : Europe was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned achievement — to tread, as it were, in the foot- steps of antiquity — to loiter about the ruined castle — to meditate on the falling tower — to escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. I had, beside all this, an earnest desire to see the great TJte Aritliors Account of Himself. 11 men of the earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America : not a city but has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my time, and been almost withered by the shade into which they cast me ; for there is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly the great man of a city. But I was anx- ious to see the great men of Europe ; for I had read in the works of various philosophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and man among the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a highland of the Hudson ; and in this idea I was confirmed, by observing the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, tliought I, and see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated. It has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passion gratified. I have wandered through different coun- tries, and witnessed many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have studied them with the eye of a philosopher ; but rather with the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop to another ; caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and memo- randums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects studied by every regular traveller who would make a book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky landscape painter, 12 The Sketch -Book. who had travelled on the continent, but, following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins ; but he had neglected to paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum ; the cascade of Terni, or the bay of Naj^les ; and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole collection. THE VOYAGE. Ships, shiiis, I will descrie you Amidst the main, I will come and try you, "What you are protecting, And projecting. What's your end and aim. One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, Another stays to keep his comitry from invading, A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading. Halloo! my faucie, whither wilt thou go? Old Poem. To an American visiting Enrope, the long voyage he has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the moment you lose sight of the land you have left all is vacancy until you step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and novelties of another world. In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and a connected succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence and sepa- ration. We drag, it is true, " a lengthening chain," at each remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain is unbroken : we can trace it back link by link; and we feel that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being cast loose from 13 14 The Sketch-Booh. the secure anchorage of settled life, and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imagi- nary, but real, between us and our homes — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and uncertainty, rendering distance palpable, and return precarious. Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which contained all most dear to me in life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it — what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or when he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the exj)ression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind from Avorldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter-rail- ing, or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, and people them with a creation of my own; — to watch the gentle undu- lating billows, rolling their silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. There was a delicious sensation of mingled security and awe with which I looked down from my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the surface ; The Voyage. 15 or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, through the blue waters. My imagination Avould conjure up all that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shape- less monsters that lurk among the very foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phantasms that swell the tales of hshermen and sailors. Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument of human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world into communion ; has established an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable barrier. We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. There was no trace by-which the name of the ship could be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been over — they have gone down amidst the roar of the tem- pest — their bones lie Avhitening among tlie caverns of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell the story of their end. What 16 The Sketch -Book. sighs have been wafted after that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside of home! How often has the mistress, tlie wife, tlie mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expectation darkened into anxiety — anxi- ety into dread — and dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known, is, that she sailed from her port, '' and was never heard of more ! " The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many dis- mal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the even- ing, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by the captain. "As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship across the banks of ISTewfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we were going at a great rate through the water. Sud- denly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We strvick her just amid-ships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore her down below the waves ; The Voyage. 17 we passed over her and were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; they just started from their beds to be swal- lowed shrieking by the waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It was some time before we could put the ship about, she was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We fired signal guns,, and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors: but all was silent — we never saw or heard anything of them more." I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bel- lowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship stag- gering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip into the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. Sometimes an im- pending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and noth- ing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk-heads, as the ship labored 18 The Sketch-Book. in the weltering sea, were frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging round this floating prison, seeking for his prey: the mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! I might fill a volume with reveries of a sea voyage, for with me it is almost a continual reverie — but it is time to get to shore. It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of "land!" was given from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American's bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a vol- ume of associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years have pondered. From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that prowled like guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, stretching out into the channel ; the Welsh mountains, toAv- ering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the taper spire of a village cliurch rising from the brow of a neighboring hill — all were characteristic of England. The tide and wind were so favorable that the ship was The Voyage. 19 enabled to come at once to the pier. It was thronged with people; some, idle lookers-on, others, eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. I knew him by his calculat- ing brow and restless air. His hands Avere thrust into his pockets ; he was whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his temporary importance. There were repeated cheeiings and salutations interchanged between the shore and the ship, as friends happened to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, but interesting demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for coun- tenance. She seemed disappointed and agitated; when I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness had so increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up tlie river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his features ; it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in silent agony. All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of acquaint- ances — the greetings of friends — the consultations of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that I was a stranger in the land. ROSCOE. In the service of mankind to be A guardian god below; still to employ The mind's brave ardor in heroic aims, Such as may raise us o'er the grovelling herd, And make us shine for ever — that is life. Thomson. One of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan ; it contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of newspapers. As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was a little bowed by time — perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of countenance ; a head that would have pleased a painter ; and though some slight furrows on his brow showed that wasting thought had been busy there, yet his eye still beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was some- thing in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different order from the bustling race around him. I inquired his name, and was informed that it was Ros- coe. I drew back with an involuntary feeling of veneration. This, then, was an author of celebrity; this was one of those men, whose voices have gone forth to the ends of the earth ; with whose minds I have communed even in the sol- itudes of America. Accustomed, as we are in our country, 20 Roscoe. 21 to know European writers only by their works, we cannot conceive of tlieni, as of other men, engrossed by trivial or sordid pursuits, and jostling with the crowd of common minds in the dusty paths of life. They pass before our im- aginations like superior beings, radiant with the emanations of their genius, and surrounded by a halo of literary glory. To find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, mingling among the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas ; but it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr. Koscoe de- rives his highest claims to admiration. It is interesting to notice how some minds seem almost to create themselves, springing up under every disadvantage, and working their solitary but irresistible Avay through a thousand obstacles. Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with which it would rear legitimate dulness to matu- rity ; and to glory in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places of the world; and some be choked by the thorns and brambles of early adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile birth place all the beauties of vegetation. Such has been the case with Mr. Eoscoe. Born in a place apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent ; in the very market-place of trade ; without fortune, family con- nections, or patronage ; self -prompted, self-sustained, and almost self-taught, he has conquered every obstacle, achieved his way to eminence, and, having become one of the orna- ments of the nation, has turned the whole force of his talents and influence to advance and embellish his native town. Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me 22 The Sketch-Book. particularly to point him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are liis literary merits, he is but one among the many distinguished authors of this intellectual nation. They, however, in general, live but for their own fame, or j;heir own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the Avorld, or, perhaps, a humiliating one of human frailty and inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from the bustle and commonplace of busy existence ; to indulge in the selfishness of lettered ease ; and to revel in scenes of mental, bvit exclusive enjoyment. Mr. Eoscoe, on the contrary, has claimed none of the ac- corded privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought, nor elysium of fancy ; but has gone forth into the highways and thoroughfares of life ; he has planted bowers by the way-side, for the refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure fountains, where the laboring man may turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams of knowledge. There is a " daily beauty in his life," on which mankind may meditate and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because inimitable, example of excellence ; but presents a picture of active, yet simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man's reach, but which, un- fortunately, are not exercised by many, or this world would be a paradise. But his private life is peculiarly worthy the attention of the citizens of our young and busy country, where literature and the elegant arts must groAv up side by side with the coarser plants of daily necessity ; and must depend for their culture, not on the exclusive devotion of time and wealth, nor the quickening rays of titled patronage, but on hours and seasons snatched from the pursuit of worldly interests, by intelligent and public-spirited individuals. He has shown how much may be done for a place in hours of leisure by one master spirit, and how completely it Roscoe. 23 can give its own impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo De' Medici, on whom he seems to have hxed his eye as on a pure model of antiquity, he has interwoven the history of his life with the history of his native town, and has made the foundations of its fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go in Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of traffic ; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of literature. By his own example and constant exertions he has effected that union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently recommended in one of his latest writings : ^ and has practically proved how beau- tifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other. The noble institutions for literary and scien- tific purposes, which reflect such credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr. Roscoe ; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambition of mental improve- ment among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit to the cause of British literature. In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author — in Liverpool he is spoken of as the banker ; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered him far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the world, and in the world, may be cast down by the frowns of adver- sity ; but a man like Roscoe is not to be overcome by the reverses of fortune. They do but drive him in upon the resources of his own mind ; to the superior society of his own thoughts ; which the best of men are apt sometimes to 1 Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution, 24 The Sketch -Book. neglect, and to roam abroad in search of less worthy asso- ciates. He is independent of the world around him. He lives with antiquity and posterity ; with antiquity, in the sweet communion of studious retirement ; and with posterity, in the generous asj^irings after future renown. The solitude of such a mind is its state of highest enjoyment. It is then visited by those elevated meditations which are the proper aliment of noble souls, and are, like manna, sent from heaven, in the wilderness of this world. While my feelings were yet alive on the subject, it was my fortune to light on further traces of Mr. Roscoe. I was riding out with a gentleman, to view the environs of Liver- pool, when he turned off, through a gate, into some orna- mented grounds. After riding a short distance, we came to a spacious mansion of freestone, built in the Grecian style. It was not in the purest taste, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A fine lawn sloped away from it, studded Avith clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey Avas seen Avinding a broad quiet sheet of Avater through an expanse of green meadoAV-land ; Avhile the Welsh mountains, blended Avith clouds, and melting into distance, bordered the horizon. This Avas Roscoe's favorite residence during the days of his prosperity. It had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. The house was now silent and deserted. I saAv the windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I have mentioned. The AvindoAvs Avere closed — the library was gone. Tavo or three ill- favored beings Avere loitering about the place, Avhom my fancy pictured into retainers of the laAv. It was like A'isit- ing some classic fountain, that had once Avelled its pure waters in a sacred shade, but finding it dry and dusty, Avitli the lizard and the toad brooding over the shattered marbles. • I inquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe's library', Avhich • Roscoe. 25 had consisted of scarce and foreign books, from many of which he had drawn the materials for his Italian histories. It had passed under the hammer of the auctioneer, and was dispersed about the country. The good people of the vicin- ity thronged like wreckers to get some part of the noble vessel that had been driven on shore. Did such a scene admit of ludicrous associations, we might imagine some- thing whimsical in this strange irruption in the regions of learning. Pygmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might picture to ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author ; or the air of intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured. It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. Eoscoe's misfortunes, and one which cannot fail to interest the stu- dious mind, that the parting with his books seems to have touched upon his tenderest feelings, and to have been the only circumstance that could provoke the notice of his muse. The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent hours become in the seasons of adversity. When all that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only retain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility and commonplace, these only continue the unaltered countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that true friendship which never deceived hope, nor deserted sorrow. I do not wish to censure ; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool had been properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat 26 The Sketch -Booh. with others that might seem merely fanciful ; but it cer- tainly appears to me such an opportunity as seldom occurs, of cheering a noble mind struggling under misfortunes, by one of the most delicate, but most expressive tokens of public sympathy. It is difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty, we become too familiar with the common materials which form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Koscoe's townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business ; others as a politician ; all find him engaged like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves ou some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and unosten- tatious simplicity of character, which gives the nameless grace to real excellence, may cause him to be undervalued by some coarse minds, who do not know that true worth is always void of glare and pretension. But the man of letters, who speaks of Liverpool, speaks of it as the resi- dence of Roscoe. — The intelligent traveller who visits it inquires where Roscoe is to be seen. — He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to the dis- tant scholar. — He is, like Pompey's column at Alexandria, towering alone in classic dignity. The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books on parting with them, is alluded to in the preceding article. If anything can add effect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer's heart. Roscoe. 27 TO MY BOOKS. As one who, destined from his friends to part, llegrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile To sliare tlieir converse and enjoy their smile, And tempers as he may affliction's dart; Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art, Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile My tedious hours, and lighten every toil, I now resign you; nor with fainting heart; For pass a few short years, or days, or hours, And happier seasons may their dawn unfold, And all your sacred fellowship restore: When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers, Mind shall with mind direct communion hold. And kindred spirits meet to part no more. THE WIFE. The treasures of the deep are not so precious As are the conceal'd comforts of a man Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air Of blessings, when I come but near the house. What a delicious breath marriage sends forth . . . The violet bed's not sweeter. MiDDLETON. I HAVE often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those disasters wliich break down the spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to sublimity. Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft and tender female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her hus- band under misfortune, and abiding, with unshrinking firmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity. As the vine, which has long tAvined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling around it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shat- tered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity ; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a 28 The Wife. 29 blooming family, kmt together in the strongest affection. " I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, " than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to sliare your prosperity ; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man falling into misfortune is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one ; partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence ; but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect ; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant. These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. Slie had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of Avitchery about the sex. — <' Her life," said he, " shall be like a fairy tale." The very difference in their characters produced an har- monious combination : he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast ; she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture Avith which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight ; and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favor and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond con- 30 The Sketch -Book. tiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doted on his lovely burden for its very helpless- ness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity. It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations ; and he had not been married many months, when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found him- self reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard coun- tenance, and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony ; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife ; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her Avith the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness ; but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that cheek — the song will die away from those lips — the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sor- row ; and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine, by the cares and miseries of the world. At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I heard him through I inquired, " Does your wife know all this ? " — At the question he burst into an agony of tears. *' For God's sake ! " cried he, " if you have any pity on me, don't The Wife. 31 mention my wife ; it is tlie thovight of her that drives me almost to madness ! " " And why not ? " said I. " She must know it sooner or later : you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner, than if imparted by yourself; for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy ; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together — an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind ; and true love will not brook re- serve ; it feels undervalued and outraged, when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it." " Oh, but, my friend ! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects — how I am to strike her very soul to the earth, by telling her that her husband is a beggar ! that she is to forego all the elegancies of life — all the pleasures of society — to shrink with me into indi- gence and obscurity ! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness — the light of every eye — the admiration of every heart ! — How can she bear poverty ? she has been broiTght up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect ? she has been the idol of society. Oh ! it will break her heart — it will break her heart ! — " I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow ; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his sit- uation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively. <' But how are you to keep it from her ? It is necessary she should know it, that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change 32 The Sketch-Book. your style of living — nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, " don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show — you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged : and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary — " " I could be happy with her," cried he, convulsively, " in a hovel ! — I could go down with her into poverty and the dust! — I could — I could — God bless her ! — God bless her ! " cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and ten- derness. " And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him Avarmly by the hand, '' believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more : it will be a source of pride and triumph to her — it will call forth all the latent ener- gies and fervent sympathies of her nature ; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is — no man knows what a ministering angel she is — until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world." There Avas something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with; and following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife. I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose life has been a round of pleas- ures ? Her gay spirits might revolt at the dark downward path of low humility suddenly pointed out before her, and might cling to the sunny regions in which they had hitherto The Wife. 33 revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is accompanied by so many galling mortifications, to which in other ranks it is a stranger. — In short, I could not meet Leslie the next morning without trepidation. He had made the disclosure. " And how did she bear it ? " " Like an angel ! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw her arms round my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me unhappy. — But, poor girl," added he, '• she cannot realize the change we must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract ; she has only read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation ; she suffers no loss of accus- tomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practi- cally to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty hiimiliations — then will be the real trial." " But," said I, " now that you have got over the severest task, that of breaking it to her, the sooner you let the world into the secret the better. The disclosure may be mortify- ing ; but then it is a single misery, and soon over : whereas you otherwise suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man — the struggle between a proud mind and an empty purse — the keeping up a hollow show that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor and you disarm j^overty of its sharpest sting." On this point I found Leslie perfectly prepared. He had no false pride himself, and as to his wife, she was only anxious to conform to their altered fortunes. Some days afterward he called upon me in the evening. He had disposed of his dwelling house, and taken a small cottage in the country, a few miles from town. He had been busied all day in sending out furniture. The new establishment required few articles, and those of the simplest kind. All the splendid furniture of his late resi- dence had been sold, excepting his wife's harp. That, he 34 The Sketch-Book. said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself ; it belonged to the little story of their loves ; for some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melt- ing tones of her voice. I could not but smile at this instance of romantic gallantry in a doting husband. He was now going out to the cottage, where his wife had been all day superintending its arrangement. My feelings had become strongly interested in the progress of this family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to accompany him. He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as he walked out, fell into a fit of gloomy musing. " Poor Mary ! " at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips. " And what of her ? " asked I : " has anything happened to her ? " " What," said he, darting an impatient glance, " is it nothing to be reduced to this paltry situation — to be caged in a miserable cottage — to be obliged to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation ? " " Has she then repined at the change ? " " Repined ! she has been nothing but sweetness and good humor. Indeed, she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her ; she has been to me all love, and tender- ness, and comfort ! " " Admirable girl ! " exclaimed I. " You call yourself poor, my friend ; you never were so rich — you never knew the boundless treasures of excellence you possess in that woman." " Oh ! but, my friend, if this first meeting at the cottage were over, I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience ; she has been introduced into a humble dwelling — she has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments — she has, for the first The Wife. 35 time, known "tlie fatigues of domestic employment — she has, for the first time, looked round her on a home destitute of everything elegant, — almost of everything convenient ; and may now be sitting down, exhausted and spiritless, brooding over a prospect of future poverty." There was a degree of probability in this picture that I could not gainsay, so we walked on in silence. After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded with forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight of the cottage. It was hum- ble enough in its appearance for the most pastoral poet ; and yet it had a pleasing rural look. A wild vine had overrun one end with a profusion of foliage ; a few trees threw their branches gracefully over it ; and I observed sev- eral pots of flowers tastefully disposed about the door, and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a footpath that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we heard the sound of music — Leslie grasped my arm ; we paused and listened. It was Mary's voice singing, in a style of the most touch- ing simplicity, a little air of which her husband was pecu- liarly fond. I felt Leslie's hand tremble on my arm. He stepped for- ward to hear more distinctly. His step made a noise on the gravel walk. A bright beautiful face glanced out at the window and vanished — a light footstep was heard — and Mary came tripping forth to meet us : she was in a pretty rural dress of white ; a few wild flowers were twisted in her fine hair ; a fresh bloom was on her cheek ; her whole countenance beamed with smiles — I had never seen her look so lovely. '