WASHINGTON IRVING

Washington Irving, America’s rst internationally acclaimed man of

letters and the father of the American short story, was born in New
York City on April 3, 1783. He was the eleventh and youngest child
of a prosperous merchant who had emigrated to the United States
from Scotland. Though he grew up in a strict Presbyterian
household that valued the Puritan ethic of hard work, Irving
experienced a pampered childhood and received but a fragmentary
education. As a teenager he delighted in exploring the lower Hudson
Valley, an area that would later gure prominently in his writing.
Instead of following his older brothers to Columbia College, Irving
read books on history and travel, and was especially drawn to the
social satire of Cervantes, Fielding, and Rabelais. In 1802, while
clerking in a Manhattan law o ce, he wrote a series of comic
reports on theater, fashion, and society that appeared in the New
York Morning Chronicle under the signature of “Jonathan Oldstyle,
Gent,” the rst of many pseudonyms. Upon returning from a two-
year tour of Europe, he collaborated on Salmagundi; or, the Whim-
Whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langsta , Esq., and Others (1807-
1808), a gossipy, irreverent potpourri which displayed a roguish
style of satire and burlesque that invited comparison with the essays
Addison and Steele had written for the Tatler and the Spectator.
Irving’s reputation as a writer was greatly enhanced by A History
of New York (1809), his rst full-length book. Posing as Diedrich
Knickerbocker, an absentminded professor of Dutch-American
history, he o ered up a boisterous spoof that lampooned the Dutch
colonization of New York. After a brief period as editor of the
Analectic Magazine, he moved to England in 1815 to work in a
branch of his family’s import-export business. When the company
declared bankruptcy three years later, Irving turned full-time to
writing. The serial publication of The Sketch Book of Geo rey Crayon,
Gent. in 1819 and 1820 made him a literary celebrity on both sides
of the Atlantic. He was lionized by English society and hailed by
William Thackeray as “the rst ambassador whom the New World of
letters sent to the Old” Generally considered the nest example of
Irving’s artistry, the collection of lightly humorous sketches, tales,
and travel reminiscences contains his two best-known short stories,
“Rip Van Winkle” and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” He
subsequently capitalized on the popularity of The Sketch Book with
several Geo rey Crayon sequels, most of them evocative of
European scenes and the European past, including Bracebridge Hall
(1822), Tales of a Traveller (1824), The Alhambra (1832), and The
Crayon Miscellany (1835). Irving’s career took a new direction with
his appointment in 1826 as attaché to the American legation in
Madrid. Turning his attention to non ction he soon completed A
History of the Life and Voyages of Christopher Columbus (1828) and
went on to write several other works based on Spanish themes,
namely A Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada (1829), Voyages and
Discoveries of the Companions of Columbus (1831), and Legends of the
Conquest of Spain (1835).
Irving returned to the United States in 1832 after an absence of
seventeen years. A journey to the West exposed him to life on the
frontier and inspired A Tour on the Prairies (1835) as well as two
accounts of the western fur trade, Astoria (1836) and Adventures of
Captain Bonneville(1837). From 1842 to 1846 he served as minister
to Spain at the court of Isabella II. Afterwards he retired to
Sunnyside, his home on the banks of the Hudson River near
Tarrytown, New York. During the nal decade of his life he turned
out Oliver Goldsmith (1849), a biography of the English novelist and
playwright; Mahomet and His Successors(1850), a chronicle of the
Moslem empire; Wolfert’s Roost (1855), a collection of sketches and
stories originally published in the Knickerbocker Magazine; and The
Life of George Washington (1855-1859), a ve-volume popular
biography of his presidential namesake. Washington Irving died at
Sunnyside on November 28, 1859, and was buried three days later
at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Tarrytown.
In considering the enduring appeal of Irving’s most popular
stories, Clifton Fadiman observed: “We nd it hard to think of ‘Rip
Van Winkle’ as a tale actually written by a real man named
Washington Irving. We think of it instead as a folk tale that we seem
to have known all our lives…. Irving made a work of art out of a
simple and rather dull legend. Into it he put his feeling for an older,
quieter, more innocent America which, even in his time, he knew
would never come again. Into it he put his love for the mysterious
mountains near his home, for the lordly Hudson that for many of us
has some of the magic of the Mississippi. I think it’s the feeling for
the past that makes this simple story cast such a spell. It seems to be
about the childhood of our country, which we can never relive,
except in fancy….’ The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ has some of the
same charm, but more humor and action, together with the
attraction of a good ghost story…. [Both] should be read as Irving
wrote them—in a relaxed, almost dreamy mood. They come out of
the mists of far away and long ago, out of an era in our history
when time seemed to stand still, when America drowsed peacefully,
unaware of its great and stirring future” Richard Ellmann stated:
“The rst American short story, [‘Rip Van Winkle’] has become
standard reading outside as well as inside the English-speaking
world…. The subterranean power of this work made Rip Van
Winkle… one of the great gures of the nineteenth-century
imagination.”
 CONTENTS

Biographical Note
Introduction by Alice Ho man
Preface to the Revised Edition

The Author’s Account of Himself

The Voyage
Roscoe
The Wife
Rip Van Winkle
English Writers on America
Rural Life in England
The Broken Heart
The Art of Book Making
A Royal Poet
The Country Church
The Widow and Her Son
A Sunday in London
The Boar’s Head Tavern, East Cheap
The Mutability of Literature
Rural Funerals
The Inn Kitchen
The Spectre Bridegroom
Westminster Abbey
Christmas
The Stage Coach
Christmas Eve
Christmas Day
The Christmas Dinner
London Antiques
Little Britain
Stratford-on-Avon
Traits of Indian Character
Philip of Pokanoket
John Bull
The Pride of the Village
The Angler
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
L’Envoy

Appendix: Sleepy Hollow

Notes
Reading Group Guide
 INTRODUCTION
Alice Ho man

With the publication of The Sketch Book of Geo rey Crayon, Gent.
(1819-1829), Washington Irving is believed by many to have
created the genre of the short story in America, mixing superstition
and history, the European tradition of fairy tales and folktales, and
local Indian legends. The often humorous and ironic, but also
matter-of-fact, tone in these stories, which is the familiar form of
legend, is woven into a tapestry with the very real corporeal world.
In Irving’s rural America, farmyards are lled with gobbling turkeys
and guinea fowl, yet ghostly tales rule the imagination.
The glorious heart of this collection of stories within stories, tales
within tales, is “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” This fable about a
gullible schoolteacher who thinks quite highly of himself is also a
lesson in the power of the imagination and of the potent in uences
of storytelling. And so it begins that Ichabod Crane journeys to one
of the dreamy, bewitched villages in New York State’s Hudson
Valley, adrowsy, enchanted region where even “good people… are
given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; subject to trances and
visions…. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that
haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and
fancies infecting all the land.”
Ichabod Crane has both a runaway steed and a runaway
imagination, but even his hunger for the marvelous is more than
matched when he comes to this rural village where people have an
enormous appetite for stories, particularly for those concerning the
miraculous—whether they be “the twilight superstitions” that
surround natural phenomena such as shooting stars and meteors, or
stories of haunted bridges and haunted houses, and of a haunted
horseman who long ago lost his head but not his fury.
 “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” begins in the very real geography
of upstate New York, a rich landscape of farms and elds that look
down upon “the mighty Hudson,” an area peppered with towns
whose names we can still nd on the map. Irving is a master at
depicting rustic life, and it is with a rm foothold in the natural
world that the element of the supernatural is rooted. Nature itself, in
Irving’s hands, has stupendous e ects: “… to inhale the witching
in uences of the air and begin to grow imaginative—to dream
dreams, and see apparitions,” such are the results of living in a
“spellbound” region so marvelous, anything seems conceivable
within its con nes.
The inhabitants of Sleepy Hollow nd their way to the dim and
dusky world of the fantastic on very real roads, over very real
bridges. Yet there is magic in the very air, especially for those who
look beneath the surface of everyday life, beneath the brambles and
alders, and for those who listen to what music echoes beyond the
songs of crickets and bullfrogs. The mesmerizing e ect this world of
beast and bloom have upon the hapless Ichabod Crane is evident
from the start:
Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and awful woodland, to
the farm house where he happened to be quartered, every sound of nature,
at that witching hour, uttered his excited imagination: the moan of the
whip-poor-will from the hill side; the boding cry of the tree toad, that
harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech owl; or the sudden
rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from their roost. The re ies,
too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places, now and then
startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would stream across his path;
and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his
blundering ight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give up the
ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a witch’s token.

In Irving’s Sleepy Hollow, the real and imagined collide, conspire,

and become interchangeable. It is a land of contradiction that has an
undercurrent of hell re and mischief at its core. Perhaps it is human
nature, however, rather than the doings of goblins and ghouls, that
is most dangerous: For love can transform men into demons, and
gluttony and greed can bring down even the most good-natured and
foolish of men. What begins as a rivalry between Ichabod Crane and
the local hero and practical joker, Brom Bones, as they vie for the
hand of the lovely and wealthy Katrina Van Tassel, ends as a contest
of the imagination. It is a brilliant, funny, and brutal battle, one
which takes place in the characters’ minds as well as in the dark,
unexplored woods.
The books Irving’s schoolmaster carries with him on his journey
—“Cotton Mather’s History of Witchcraft, a New England Almanack,
and a book of dreams and fortune telling”—stand together as a
guidepost for all American literature to follow, from Hawthorne to
Updike to Stephen King, plaiting images of our beloved landscape to
our darkest dreams, and joining the reaches of our imaginations to
the rugged roads we travel, the elds we walk upon, and the
possibilities we nd at every stony turn, especially when the hour
reaches midnight in the village of Sleepy Hollow.

ALICE HOFFMAN is the author of fourteen novels, including Practical

Magic, Turtle Moon, Local Girls, Here on Earth, The River King, and
Blue Diary. She lives in Massachusetts.
 PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION

The following papers, with two exceptions, were written in England,

and formed but part of an intended series for which I had made
notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan, however,
circumstances compelled me to send them piecemeal to the United
States, where they were published from time to time in portions or
numbers. It was not my intention to publish them in England, being
conscious that much of their contents could 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 rst volume had appeared in this
occasional manner, they began to nd their way across the Atlantic,
and to be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the London
Literary 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 bene t
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,
informing 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
addressed 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 SIR,
 I entreat you to believe that I feel truly obliged by your kind intentions
towards me, and that I entertain the most unfeigned respect for your most
tasteful talents. My house is completely lled with workpeople at this time,
and I have only an o ce to transact business in; 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, without 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
hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh; but rst I determined to
submit my work to Sir Walter (then Mr.) Scott,1 being encouraged
to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced from him at
Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the favourable opinion he
had expressed 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
pleasure of partaking of his hospitality, a reverse had taken place in
my a airs 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 work went by coach to Scott’s address
in Edinburgh; the letter went by mail to his residence in the
country. By the very rst 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 assure
you nothing will give me more pleasure.”
The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had struck the quick
apprehension of Scott, and, with that practical and e cient good
will which belonged to his nature, he had already devised a way of
aiding me. 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
appointment of the editor, for which ample funds were provided,
would be ve hundred pounds sterling a year, with the reasonable
prospect of further advantages. This situation, being apparently at
his disposal, he frankly o ered to me. The work, however, he
intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he
expressed an apprehension 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 quali ed 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 possible, 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 crimp2 you, if it be possible.
Some di culties there always are in managing such a matter,
especially 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
underwent some modi cations in the copy sent.
“I cannot express how much I am grati ed by your letter. I had
begun to feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty; but,
somehow or other, there is a genial sunshine about you that warms
every creeping thing into heart and con dence. Your literary
proposal both surprises and atters 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 un tted
for the situation o ered to me, not merely by my political opinions,
but by the very constitution and habits of my mind. “My whole
course of life,” I observed, “has been desultory, and I am un tted 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 mind 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.3
“I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun; writing
when I can, not when I would. I shall occasionally shift my
residence and write whatever is suggested by objects before me, or
whatever rises in my imagination; and hope to write better and
more copiously by and by.
“I am playing the egotist, but I know no better way of answering
your proposal than by showing what a very good for nothing 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 gipsy for the
fruits of his prowlings, who may at one time have nothing but a
wooden bowl to o er, and at another time a silver tankard.”
In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declining
what 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 con dence of the success of my work, and of
previous works which I had 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 nd him disposed
to treat your overtures with every degree of attention. Or, if you
think it of consequence in the rst place to see me, I shall be in
London in the course of a month, and whatever my experience can
command is most heartily at your command. But I can add little to
what I have said above, except my earnest recommendation to
Constable to enter into the negotiation”*
Before the receipt of this most obliging letter, however, I had
determined to look to no leading bookseller for a launch, but to
throw my work before the public at my own risk, and let it sink or
swim according to its merits. I wrote to that e ect to Scott, and soon
received a reply:
“I observe with pleasure that you are going to come forth in
Britain. It is certainly not the very best way to publish on one’s own
accompt; for the booksellers set their face against the circulation 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 e ectually as Diabolus in John Bunyan’s Holy War4 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
Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine, you will nd 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
intimately connected with my family. My faithful friend
Knickerbocker5 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.6

——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 rst volume of the Sketch Book was put to press in London as
I had resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller unknown 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 word spoken by the editor of that periodical, and it was getting
into fair circulation, when my worthy bookseller failed before the
rst 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 Hercules, he
put his own shoulder to the wheel. Through his favourable
representations, Murray was quickly induced to undertake the
future publication of the work which he had previously declined. A
further edition of the rst volume was struck o 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 liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well merited
appellation of the Prince of Book-sellers.
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
discharging, in a tri ing degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory
of that golden hearted man in acknowledging my obligations to him.
—But who of his literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid
or counsel that did not experience the most prompt, generous, and
e ectual assistance!
Washington Irving
Sunnyside, 1848.7
*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 which a quart
of wine is conjured into a pint bottle. Scott observes: “In my hurry, I have not
thanked you in Sophia’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 rmament 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.”
 THE SKETCH BOOK OF

GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

“I have no wife nor children, good or bad, to provide for. A mere spectator
of other men’s fortunes and adventures, and how they play their parts;
which methinks are diversely presented unto me, as from a common
theatre or scene.”

BURTON1
 THE AUTHOR’S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF

I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out of her shel
was turned eftsoones into a Toad, and thereby was forced to make a stoole
to sit on; so the 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 EUPHUES1

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 cryer. As I grew into boyhood I extended
the range of my observations. My holy day 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 committed or a ghost seen. I visited the
neighbouring 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, from whence I stretched my eye
over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to nd 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 pier heads in ne 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
imagination 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 ne scenery, I should have felt little desire to
seek elsewhere its grati cation, 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 cataracts
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 puts
forth all its magni cence; 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
re nements of highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of
ancient and local custom. My native country 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 footsteps 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 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 anxious 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.2 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 con rmed
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,
thought 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
grati ed. I have wandered through di erent countries 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 lled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the
entertainment of my friends. When I look over, however, the hints
and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart
almost fails me at nding how my idle humour 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, who had travelled on the continent, but
following the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks
and corners and bye 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
Terni3 or the Bay of Naples; and had not a single Glacier or Volcano
in his whole collection.
 THE VOYAGE

      Ships, ships, 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 merchandize and trading,
Another stays to keep his country from invading,
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading.
      Hallo my fancie, whither wilt thou go?

OLD POEM

To an American visiting Europe 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 tted 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 e ect of absence and separation. 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 the secure anchorage of settled life and sent adrift upon a
doubtful world. It interposes a gulf, not merely imaginary, 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 that was 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 expression.
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 worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter
railing 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 gently undulating 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, or the ravenous shark darting like a spectre
through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all that I
had heard or read of the watery world beneath me. Of the nny
herds that roam its fathomless valleys; of the shapeless monsters
that lurk among the very foundations of the earth and of those wild
phantasms that swell the tales of shermen 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
earth into communion; has established an interchange of blessings,
—pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the luxuries of the
south; has di used 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 described some shapeless object drifting at a distance.
At sea every thing 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 o 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 sh had fastened about it; and long sea weeds aunted 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 tempest—their
bones lie whitening among the caverns of the deep. Silence—
oblivion, like the waves, have closed over them, and no one can tell
the story of their end. What sighs have been wafted after that ship;
what prayers o ered up at the deserted reside of home. How often
has the mistress, the wife, the mother pored over the daily news to
catch some casual intelligence of this rover of the deep. How has
expectation darkened into anxiety—anxiety 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 dismal
anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the evening 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 peculiarly struck with a short one related by the
captain.
“As I was once sailing,” said he, “in a ne stout ship across the
banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs which prevail in
those parts rendered it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the
day time; 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 shing
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. Suddenly 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 the broad side toward us. The crew
were all asleep and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just
a mid-ships. The force, the size and weight of our vessel bore her
down below the waves—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 halfnaked wretches, rushing from her cabin
—they just started from their beds to be swallowed 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 further 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 red signal
guns and listened if we might hear the halloo of any survivors; but
all was silent—we never saw or heard any thing of them more!—”
I confess these stories for a time put an end to all my ne fancies.
The storm encreased with the night. The sea was lashed up 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 over head seemed rent asunder by ashes of
lightning which quivered along the foaming billows, and made the
succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over
the wild waste of waters and were echoed and prolonged by the
mountain waves. As I saw the ship staggering 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
impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but
a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock.
When I retired to my cabin the awful scene still followed 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 laboured in the weltering sea were frightful.
As I heard the waves rushing along the side of the ship and roaring
in my very ear, it seemed as if death were raging round this oating
prison, seeking for his prey—the mere starting of a nail—the
yawning of a seam might give him entrance.
A ne day, however, with a tranquil sea and favouring breeze
soon put all these dismal re ections to ight. It is impossible to
resist the gladdening in uence of ne weather and fair wind at sea.
When the ship is decked out in all her canvass, every sail swelled,
and careering gaily over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant
she appears—how she seems to lord it over the deep!
I might ll a volume with the 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 ne 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 rst comes in sight of Europe.
There is a volume of associations with the very name. It is the land
of promise, teeming with every thing 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 towering into the clouds, all were
objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey I
reconnoitered 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 over run with ivy, and
the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a
neighbouring hill—all were characteristic of England.
The tide and wind were so favourable that the ship was 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 calculating brow and restless air. His hands were 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
cheerings 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
demeanour. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her
eye hurried over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some
wished for countenance. 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 ne his messmates had
spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late his illness
had so encreased, 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 the 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 a ection 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 acquaintances—
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.
 ROSCOE1

—In the service of mankind to be

A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind’s brave ardour in heroic aims,
Such as may raise us o’er the groveling herd,
And make us shine forever—that is life.

THOMSON2

One of the rst places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool is

the Athenæum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan;
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 nd it lled 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 re of a poetic soul. There was something in his whole
appearance that indicated a being of a di erent order from the
bustling race around him.
I inquired his name and was informed that it was Roscoe. 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 solitudes of America. Accustomed as we are
in our country to know European writers only by their works, we
cannot conceive of them, 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 imaginations like superior
beings, radiant with the emanations of their genius, and surrounded
by a halo of literary glory.
To nd, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici, mingling
among the busy sons of tra c at rst shocked my poetical ideas; but
it is from the very circumstances and situation in which he has been
placed, that Mr. Roscoe derives 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 way through a thousand obstacles.
Nature seems to delight in disappointing the assiduities of art, with
which it would rear legitimate dullness to maturity, and to glory in
the vigour 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. Roscoe. Born in a place
apparently ungenial to the growth of literary talent; in the very
market place of trade; without fortune, family connexions 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 ornaments of the nation, has turned the
whole force of his talents and in uence 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 particularly to point
him out to my countrymen. Eminent as are his 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
their own pleasures. Their private history presents no lesson to the
world, 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 sel shness of
lettered ease, and to revel in scenes of mental but exclusive
enjoyment.
Mr. Roscoe on the contrary has claimed none of the accorded
privileges of talent. He has shut himself up in no garden of thought
nor elysium3 of fancy; but has gone forth into the highways and
thoroughfares of life; he has planted bowers by the wayside for the
refreshment of the pilgrim and the sojourner, and has opened pure
fountains where the labouring 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, unfortunately, 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 grow 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 can give its own
impress to surrounding objects. Like his own Lorenzo De Medici, on
whom he seems to have xed 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 owing merely in the channels of tra c, he
has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the gardens of
literature. By his own example and constant exertions he has
e ected that union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits so
eloquently recommended in one of his latest writings;* and has
practically proved how beautifully they may be brought to
harmonize and to bene t each other. The noble institutions for
literary and scienti c purposes, which re ect such credit on
Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind, have
mostly been originated, and have all been e ectively promoted by
Mr. Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidly encreasing 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 improvement among its
inhabitants, he has e ected a great bene t 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 my pity. Those who
live only for the world and in the world, may be cast down by the
frowns of adversity; 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 neglect, and to roam abroad in
search of less worthy associates. He is independent of the world
around him. He lives with antiquity and with posterity. With
antiquity, in the sweet communions of studious retirement, and with
posterity in the generous aspirings 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 Liverpool when he turned o
through a gate into some ornamented 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 ne lawn sloped away
from it, studded with clumps of trees, so disposed as to break a soft
fertile country into a variety of landscapes. The Mersey was seen
winding a broad quiet sheet of water through an expanse of green
meadow land, while the Welsh mountains, blending with clouds and
melting into distance, bordered the horizon.
This was Roscoe’s favourite 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 saw the
windows of the study, which looked out upon the soft scenery I
have mentioned. The windows were closed—the library was gone.
Two or three ill favoured beings were loitering about the place,
whom my fancy pictured into retainers of the law. It was like
visiting some classic fountain that had once welled its pure waters
in a sacred shade, but nding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and
the toad brooding over the shattered marbles.
I enquired after the fate of Mr. Roscoe’s library which 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 vicinity 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 something
whimsical in this strange irruption into the regions of learning.
Pigmies rummaging the armoury 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 ba ed 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. Roscoe’s misfortunes,
and one which cannot fail to interest the studious 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 season 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 di cult to combat with others that might seem merely
fanciful; but it certainly 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 di cult, however, to estimate a man of
genius properly, who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled
up and confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their
novelty and we become too familiar with the common materials
which form the basis even of the loftiest character. Some of Mr.
Roscoe’s townsmen may regard him merely as a man of business;
others as a politician; all nd him engaged like themselves in
ordinary occupations and surpassed, perhaps, by themselves on
some points of worldly wisdom. Even that amiable and
unostentatious 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 residence of Roscoe. The intelligent
traveller who visits it, enquires where Roscoe is to be seen. He is the
literary land mark of the place, indicating its existence to the distant
Scholar. He is like Pompey’s column at Alexandria,4 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 e ect to the pure feeling and elevated thought here
displayed, it is the conviction, that the whole is no e usion of fancy,
but a faithful transcript from the writer’s heart.
TO MY BOOKS

As one, who, destined from his friends to part,

Regrets his loss, but hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers as he may, a iction’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.

* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution.

 THE WIFE

The treasures of the deep are not so precious

As are the conceal’d comforts of a man
Lock’d 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!

MIDDLETON1

I have often had occasion to remark the fortitude with which

women sustain the most overwhelming reverses of fortune. Those
disasters which break down the spirits 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 supporter of her husband under misfortune, and
abiding, with unshrinking rmness, the bitterest blasts of adversity.
As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage about the
oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant
is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its carressing
tendrils and bind up its shattered 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
blooming family knit together in the strongest a ection. “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 share your
prosperity; and 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 chie y because his spirits are soothed and relieved
by domestic endearments, and his self respect kept alive by nding,
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. She 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 witchery about the
sex—“her life,” said he, “shall be like a fairy tale.”
The very di erence in their characters produced a harmonious
combination. He was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast; she
was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with
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 favour and
acceptance. When leaning on his arm her slender form contrasted
nely with his tall, manly person. The fond con ding air with which
she looked up to him, seemed to call forth a ush of triumphant
pride and cherishing tenderness; as if he doted on his lovely burden,
for its very helplessness.—Never did a couple set forward on the
owery 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 himself reduced almost to penury.
For a time he kept his situation to himself and went about with a
haggard countenance 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 with the news. She saw,
however, with the quick eyes of a ection, that all was not well with
him. She marked his altered looks and sti ed 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 sorrow; 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 had heard him through I
enquired, “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 mention my wife—it is the thought 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 reserve: 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 forgo all the
elegancies of life—all the pleasures of society—to shrink with me
into indigence 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 brought
up in all the re nements 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 ow, 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 situation 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 your style of living—nay,”
observing a pang to pass across his countenance—“don’t let that
a ict 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 tenderness.
“And believe me my friend,” said I stepping up and grasping him
warmly by the hand—“believe me, she can be the same with you.
Aye, more—it will be a source of pride and triumph to her—it will
call forth all the latent energies 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 re 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
ery trials of this world.”
There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the
gurative 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 nished 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 whole life has been a round of pleasures?—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 revelled. Besides, ruin in fashionable life is
accompanied by so many galling morti cations 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 su ers no loss of
accustomed conveniences nor elegancies. When we come practically
to experience its sordid cares, its paltry wants, its petty humiliations
—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 mortifying, but then it is a single
misery and soon over, whereas you otherwise su er it in
anticipation, every hour in the day. It is not poverty so much as
pretence, that harrasses 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 poverty 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 afterwards 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
residence had been sold excepting his wife’s harp. That, he 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 leant over that instrument and
listened to the melting 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 ne evening I o ered to accompany him.
He was wearied with the fatigues of the day and as we walked
out, fell into a t 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
humour. Indeed she seems in better spirits than I have ever known
her—she has been to me all love and tenderness 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 possessed in that woman.”
“Oh, but my friend—if this rst meeting at the cottage were over
—I think I could then be comfortable. But this is her rst day of real
experience. She has been introduced into our humble dwelling. She
has been employed all day in arranging its miserable equipments.
She has for the rst time known the fatigues of domestic
employment—She has for the rst time looked around her on a
home destitute of every thing 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 by forest trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we
came in sight of the cottage. It was humble 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 several
pots of owers tastefully disposed about the door and on the grass
plot in front. A small wicket gate opened upon a foot path 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
touching simplicity, a little air of which her husband was peculiarly
fond.
I felt Leslie’s hand tremble on my arm. He stepped forward 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 owers were
twisted in her ne hair; a fresh bloom was on her cheek; her whole
countenance beamed with smiles—I had never seen her look so
lovely.
“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are come—I’ve
been watching and watching for you; and running down the lane,
and looking out for you. I’ve set out a table under a beautiful tree
behind the cottage—and I’ve been gathering some of the most
delicious strawberries, for I know you are fond of them—and we
have such excellent cream—and everything is so sweet and still here
—Oh!” said she, putting her arm within his, and looking up brightly
in his face—“oh, we shall be so happy!”
Poor Leslie was overcome—He caught her to his bosom—he
folded his arms round her—he kissed her again and again—he could
not speak, but the tears gushed into his eyes—And he has often
assured me that though the world has since gone prosperously with
him, and his life has, indeed, been a happy one; yet never has he
experienced a moment of more exquisite felicity.
 RIP VAN WINKLE

The following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker,1 an old gentleman of New York, who was very
curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the manners of the
descendants from its primitive settlers. His historical researches,
however, did not lie so much among books, as among men; for the
former are lamentably scanty on his favourite topics; whereas he
found the old burghers,2 and still more, their wives, rich in that
legendary lore so invaluable to true history. Whenever, therefore, he
happened upon a genuine Dutch family, snugly shut up in its low
roofed farm house, under a spreading sycamore, he looked upon it
as a little clasped volume of black letter, and studied it with the zeal
of a bookworm.
The result of all these researches was a history of the province,
during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some
years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary
character of his work and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better
than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which
indeed was a little questioned on its rst appearance, but has since
been completely established; and it is now admitted into all
historical collections as a book of unquestionable authority.
The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work,
and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his
memory to say that his time might have been much better employed
in weightier labours. He, however, was apt to ride his hobby his
own way; and though it did now and then kick up the dust a little in
the eyes of his neighbours, and grieve the spirit of some friends for
whom he felt the truest deference and a ection; yet his errors and
follies are remembered “more in sorrow than in anger,” and it
begins to be suspected that he never intended to injure or o end.
But however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still
held dear by many folk whose good opinion is well worth having,
particularly by certain biscuit bakers, who have gone so far as to
imprint his likeness on their new year cakes, and have thus given
him a chance for immortality, almost equal to being stamped on a
Waterloo medal,3 or a Queen Anne’s farthing.

RIP VAN WINKLE

A Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker

By Woden, God of Saxons,

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep
Unto thylke day in which I creep into
My sepulchre—

CARTWRIGHT4

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the

Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great
Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river
swelling up to noble height and lording it over the surrounding
country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed
every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues
and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the
good wives far and near as perfect barometers. When the weather is
fair and settled they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their
bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest
of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of grey
vapours about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting
sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager may have
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle
roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland
melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little
village of great antiquity, having been founded by some of the
Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just about the
beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuyvesant,5 (may he
rest in peace!) and there were some of the houses of the original
settlers standing within a few years; built of small yellow bricks
brought from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts,
surmounted with weathercocks.
In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which to tell
the precise truth was sadly time worn and weather beaten) there
lived many years since, while the country was yet a province of
Great Britain, a simple good natured fellow of the name of Rip Van
Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who gured so
gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina.6 He inherited,
however, but little of the martial character of his ancestors. I have
observed that he was a simple good natured man; he was moreover
a kind neighbour, and an obedient, henpecked husband. Indeed to
the latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of spirit
which gained him such universal popularity; for those men are most
apt to be obsequious and conciliating abroad, who are under the
discipline of shrews at home. Their tempers doubtless are rendered
pliant and malleable in the ery furnace of domestic tribulation, and
a curtain lecture7 is worth all the sermons in the world for teaching
the virtues of patience and long su ering. A termagant wife may
therefore in some respects be considered a tolerable blessing—and if
so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.
Certain it is that he was a great favourite among all the good
wives of the village, who as usual with the amiable sex, took his
part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they talked
those matters over in their evening gossippings, to lay all the blame
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village too would shout
with joy whenever he approached. He assisted at their sports, made
their play things, taught them to y kites and shoot marbles, and
told them long stories of ghosts, witches and Indians. Whenever he
went dodging about the village he was surrounded by a troop of
them hanging on his skirts, clambering on his back and playing a
thousand tricks on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at
him throughout the neighbourhood.
The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion
to all kinds of pro table labour. It could not be from the want of
assiduity or perseverance; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod
as long and heavy as a Tartar’s lance, and sh all day without a
murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single
nibble. He would carry a fowling piece on his shoulder for hours
together, trudging through woods, and swamps and up hill and
down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons; he would never
refuse to assist a neighbour even in the roughest toil, and was a
foremost man at all country frolicks for husking Indian corn, or
building stone fences; the women of the village too used to employ
him to run their errands and to do such little odd jobs as their less
obliging husbands would not do for them—in a word Rip was ready
to attend to anybody’s business but his own; but as to doing family
duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it impossible.
In fact he declared it was of no use to work on his farm; it was the
most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole country;
everything about it went wrong and would go wrong in spite of him.
His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow would either
go astray or get among the cabbages, weeds were sure to grow
quicker in his elds than anywhere else; the rain always made a
point of setting in just as he had some outdoor work to do. So that
though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away under his
management, acre by acre until there was little more left than a
mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, yet it was the worst
conditioned farm in the neighbourhood.
His children too were as ragged and wild as if they belonged to
nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness,
promised to inherit the habits with the old clothes of his father. He
was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother’s heels,
equipped in a pair of his father’s cast o galligaskins,8 which he had
much ado to hold up with one hand, as a ne lady does her train in
bad weather.
Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals of
foolish, well oiled dispositions, who take the world easy, eat white
bread or brown, whichever can be got with least thought or trouble,
and would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. If left to
himself, he would have whistled life away in perfect contentment,
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about his idleness,
his carelessness and the ruin he was bringing on his family. Morning
noon and night her tongue was incessantly going, and everything he
said or did was sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence.
Rip had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, and that
by frequent use had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders,
shook his head, cast up his eyes, but said nothing. This, however,
always provoked a fresh volley from his wife, so that he was fain to
draw o his forces and take to the outside of the house—the only
side which in truth belongs to a henpecked husband.
Rip’s sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf who was as much
henpecked as his master, for Dame Van Winkle regarded them as
companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye
as the cause of his master’s going so often astray. True it is, in all
points of spirit be tting an honourable dog, he was as courageous
an animal as ever scoured the woods—but what courage can
withstand the ever during and all besetting terrors of a woman’s
tongue? The moment Wolf entered the house his crest fell, his tail
drooped to the ground or curled between his legs, he sneaked about
with a gallows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van
Winkle, and at the least ourish of a broomstick or ladle he would
y to the door with yelping precipitation.
Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of
matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never mellows with age, and a
sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant
use. For a long while he used to console himself when driven from
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages,
philosophers and other idle personages of the village which held its
sessions on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubicund
portrait of his majesty George the Third.9 Here they used to sit in
the shade, through a long lazy summer’s day, talking listlessly over
village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about nothing. But it
would have been worth any statesman’s money to have heard the
profound discussions that sometimes took place, when by chance an
old newspaper fell into their hands from some passing traveller.
How solemnly they would listen to the contents as drawled out by
Derrick Van Bummel the schoolmaster, a dapper, learned little man,
who was not to be daunted by the most gigantic word in the
dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate upon public
events some months after they had taken place.
The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by
Nicholaus Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn,
at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, just
moving su ciently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large
tree; so that the neighbours could tell the hour by his movements as
accurately as by a sun dial. It is true he was rarely heard to speak,
but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every
great man has his adherents), perfectly understood him and knew
how to gather his opinions. When anything that was read or related
displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently and
to send forth short, frequent and angry pu s; but when pleased he
would inhale the smoke slowly and tranquilly and emit it in light
and placid clouds, and sometimes taking the pipe from his mouth
and letting the fragrant vapour curl about his nose, would gravely
nod his head in token of perfect approbation.
 From even this strong hold the unlucky Rip was at length routed
by his termagant wife who would suddenly break in upon the
tranquility of the assemblage and call the members all to naught;
nor was that august personage Nicholaus Vedder himself sacred
from the daring tongue of this terrible virago,10 who charged him
outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness.
Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; and his only
alternative to escape from the labour of the farm and the clamour of
his wife, was to take gun in hand and stroll away into the woods.
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree and share
the contents of his wallet11 with Wolf, with whom he sympathised
as a fellow su erer in persecution. “Poor Wolf,” he would say, “thy
mistress leads thee a dog’s life of it, but never mind my lad, whilst I
live thou shalt never want a friend to stand by thee!” Wolf would
wag his tail, look wistfully in his master’s face, and if dogs can feel
pity I verily believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his heart.
In a long ramble of the kind on a ne autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
mountains. He was after his favourite sport of squirrel shooting and
the still solitudes had echoed and reechoed with the reports of his
gun. Panting and fatigued he threw himself, late in the afternoon,
on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the
brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He
saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on
its silent but majestic course, with the re ection of a purple cloud,
or the sail of a lagging bark here and there sleeping on its glassy
bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.
On the other side he looked down into a deep mountain glen,
wild, lonely and shagged, the bottom lled with fragments from the
impending cli s and scarcely lighted by the re ected rays of the
setting sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene, evening
was gradually advancing, the mountains began to throw their long
blue shadows over the valleys, he saw that it would be dark, long
before he could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh when
he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van Winkle.
As he was about to descend he heard a voice from a distance
hallooing “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!” He looked around, but
could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary ight across the
mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived him and turned
again to descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the still
evening air: “Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle!”—at the same time
Wolf bristled up his back and giving a low growl, skulked to his
master’s side, looking fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a
vague apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously in the
same direction and perceived a strange gure slowly toiling up the
rocks and bending under the weight of something he carried on his
back. He was surprised to see any human being in this lonely and
unfrequented place, but supposing it to be someone of the
neighbourhood in need of his assistance he hastened down to yield
it.
On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the singularity
of the stranger’s appearance. He was a short, square built old fellow,
with thick bushy hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the
antique Dutch fashion, a cloth jerkin strapped round the waist,
several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume decorated
with rows of buttons down the sides and bunches at the knees. He
bore on his shoulder a stout keg that seemed full of liquor, and
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with the load.
Though rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance Rip
complied with his usual alacrity, and mutually relieving each other
they clambered up a narrow gully apparently the dry bed of a
mountain torrent. As they ascended Rip every now and then heard
long rolling peals like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a
deep ravine or rather cleft between lofty rocks, toward which their
rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, but supposing it to
be the muttering of one of those transient thunder showers which
often take place in mountain heights, he proceeded. Passing through
the ravine they came to a hollow like a small amphitheatre,
surrounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which
impending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. During the
whole time Rip and his companion had laboured on in silence, for
though the former marvelled greatly what could be the object of
carrying a keg of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was
something strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that
inspired awe and checked familiarity.
On entering the amphitheatre new objects of wonder presented
themselves. On a level spot in the centre was a company of odd
looking personages playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a
quaint outlandish fashion—some wore short doublets, others jerkins
with long knives in their belts and most of them had enormous
breeches of similar style with that of the guide’s. Their visages too
were peculiar. One had a large head, broad face and small piggish
eyes. The face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was
surmounted by a white sugarloaf hat, set o with a little red cock’s
tail.12 They all had beards of various shapes and colours. There was
one who seemed to be the Commander. He was a stout old
gentleman, with a weatherbeaten countenance. He wore a laced
doublet, broad belt and hanger, high crowned hat and feather, red
stockings and high heel’d shoes with roses in them. The whole
group reminded Rip of the gures in an old Flemish painting, in the
parlour of Dominie Van Schaick the village parson, and which had
been brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement.
What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks
were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest
faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most
melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing
interrupted the stillness of the scene, but the noise of the balls,
which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like
rumbling peals of thunder.
As Rip and his companion approached them they suddenly
desisted from their play and stared at him with such xed statuelike
gaze, and such strange uncouth, lack lustre countenances, that his
heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. His
companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large agons
and made signs to him to wait upon the company. He obeyed with
fear and trembling; they qua ed the liquor in profound silence and
then returned to their game.
By degrees Rip’s awe and apprehension subsided. He even
ventured, when no eye was xed upon him, to taste the beverage,
which he found had much of the avour of excellent hollands.13 He
was naturally a thirsty soul and was soon tempted to repeat the
draught. One taste provoked another, and he reiterated his visits to
the agon so often that at length his senses were overpowered, his
eyes swam in his head—his head gradually declined and he fell into
a deep sleep.
On awaking he found himself on the green knoll from whence he
had rst seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his eyes—it was a
bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twittering
among the bushes, and the eagle was wheeling aloft and breasting
the pure mountain breeze. “Surely,” thought Rip, “I have not slept
here all night” He recalled the occurrences before he fell asleep. The
strange man with a keg of liquor—the mountain ravine—the wild
retreat among the rocks—the woebegone party at ninepins—the
agon—“ah! that agon! that wicked agon!” thought Rip—“what
excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?”
He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean well oiled
fowling piece he found an old relock lying by him, the barrel
encrusted with rust; the lock falling o and the stock worm eaten.
He now suspected that the grave roysters14 of the mountain had put
a trick upon him, and having dosed him with liquor, had robbed
him of his gun. Wolf too had disappeared, but he might have
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him and
shouted his name—but all in vain; the echoes repeated his whistle
and shout, but no dog was to be seen.
He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening’s gambol,
and if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and gun. As
he arose to walk he found himself sti in the joints and wanting in
his usual activity. “These mountain beds do not agree with me,”
thought Rip, “and if this frolic should lay me up with a t of the
rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle”
With some di culty he got down into the glen; he found the gully
up which he and his companion had ascended the preceding
evening, but to his astonishment a mountain stream was now
foaming down it; leaping from rock to rock, and lling the glen with
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scramble up its sides
working his toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras and
witch hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild
grape vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to tree,
and spread a kind of net work in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the
cli s, to the amphitheatre—but no traces of such opening remained.
The rocks presented a high impenetrable wall over which the
torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a
broad deep basin black from the shadows of the surrounding forest.
Here then poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again called and
whistled after his dog—he was only answered by the cawing of a
ock of idle crows, sporting high in air about a dry tree that
overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation
seemed to look down and sco at the poor man’s perplexities.
What was to be done? The morning was passing away and Rip felt
famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog
and gun; he dreaded to meet his wife; but it would not do to starve
among the mountains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty re
lock and with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps
homeward.
As he approached the village he met a number of people, but
none whom he knew, which somewhat surprised him, for he had
thought himself acquainted with everyone in the country round.
Their dress too was of a di erent fashion from that to which he was
accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise,
and whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked
their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture induced Rip
involuntarily to do the same, when to his astonishment he found his
beard had grown a foot long!
He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of strange
children ran at his heels, hooting after him and pointing at his grey
beard. The dogs too, not one of which he recognized for an old
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very village was
altered—it was larger and more populous. There were rows of
houses which he had never seen before, and those which had been
his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names were over the
doors—strange faces at the windows—everything was strange. His
mind now misgave him; he began to doubt whether both he and the
world around him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native
village which he had left but the day before. There stood the
Kaatskill mountains—there ran the silver Hudson at a distance—
there was every hill and dale precisely as it had always been—Rip
was sorely perplexed—“That agon last night,” thought he, “has
addled my poor head sadly!”
It was with some di culty that he found the way to his own
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every
moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the
house gone to decay—the roof fallen in, the windows shattered and
the doors o the hinges. A half starved dog that looked like Wolf
was skulking about it. Rip called him by name but the cur snarled,
showed his teeth and passed on. This was an unkind cut indeed
—“My very dog,” sighed poor Rip, “has forgotten me!”
He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame Van Winkle
had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn and apparently
abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears—he
called loudly for his wife and children—the lonely chambers rung
for a moment with his voice, and then all again was silence.
He now hurried forth and hastened to his old resort, the village
inn—but it too was gone. A large, ricketty wooden building stood in
its place, with great gaping windows, some of them broken, and
mended with old hats and petticoats, and over the door was printed
“The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle” Instead of the great tree,
that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now was
reared a tall naked pole with something on top that looked like a
red night cap,15 and from it was uttering a ag on which was a
singular assemblage of stars and stripes—all this was strange and
incomprehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby
face of King George under which he had smoked so many a peaceful
pipe, but even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was
changed for one of blue and bu ; a sword was held in the hand
instead of a sceptre; the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and
underneath was printed in large characters GENERAL
WASHINGTON.
There was as usual a crowd of folk about the door; but none that
Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed.
There was a busy, bustling disputatious tone about it, instead of the
accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquility He looked in vain for
the sage Nicholaus Vedder with his broad face, double chin and fair
long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco smoke instead of idle speeches.
Or Van Bummel the schoolmaster doling forth the contents of an
ancient newspaper. In place of these a lean bilious looking fellow
with his pockets full of hand bills, was haranguing vehemently
about rights of citizens—elections—members of Congress—liberty—
Bunker’s hill16—heroes of seventy six—and other words which were
a perfect babylonish17 jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip with his long grizzled beard, his rusty
fowling piece, his uncouth dress and an army of women and
children at his heels soon attracted the attention of the tavern
politicians. They crowded around him eying him from head to foot,
with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and drawing him
partly aside, enquired “on which side he voted?”—Rip stared in
vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow, pulled him by
the arm and rising on tiptoe, enquired in his ear “whether he was
Federal or Democrat?”18—Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend
the question—when a knowing, self important old gentleman, in a
sharp cocked hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to
the right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself
before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his
cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating as it were into his
very soul, demanded in an austere tone—“what brought him to the
election with a gun on his shoulder and a mob at his heels, and
whether he meant to breed a riot in the village?”—“Alas
gentlemen,” cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, “I am a poor quiet man,
a native of the place, and a loyal subject of the King—God bless
him!”
Here a general shout burst from the bystanders—“A tory! a tory! a
spy! a Refugee!19 hustle him! away with him!”—It was with great
di culty that the self important man in the cocked hat restored
order; and having assumed a ten fold austerity of brow demanded
again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for and whom he
was seeking. The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no
harm; but merely came there in search of some of his neighbours,
who used to keep about the tavern.
“—Well—who are they?—name them.”
Rip bethought himself a moment and enquired, “Where’s
Nicholaus Vedder?”
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in
a thin, piping voice, “Nicholaus Vedder? why he is dead and gone
these eighteen years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church
yard that used to tell all about him, but that’s rotted and gone too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”
“Oh he went o to the army in the beginning of the war; some say
he was killed at the storming of Stoney Point—others say he was
drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose20—I don’t know—
he never came back again.”
“Where’s Van Bummel the schoolmaster?”
“He went o to the wars too—was a great militia general, and is
now in Congress.”
 Rip’s heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his home
and friends, and nding himself thus alone in the world—every
answer puzzled him too by treating of such enormous lapses of time
and of matters which he could not understand—war—Congress,
Stoney Point—he had no courage to ask after anymore friends, but
cried out in despair, “Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle?”
“Oh. Rip Van Winkle?” exclaimed two or three—“oh to be sure!—
that’s Rip Van Winkle—yonder—leaning against the tree.”
Rip looked and beheld a precise counterpart of himself, as he
went up the mountain: apparently as lazy and certainly as ragged!
The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He doubted his
own identity, and whether he was himself or another man. In the
midst of his bewilderment the man in the cocked hat demanded who
he was,—what was his name?
“God knows,” exclaimed he, at his wit’s end, “I’m not myself.—
I’m somebody else—that’s me yonder—no—that’s somebody else
got into my shoes—I was myself last night; but I fell asleep on the
mountain—and they’ve changed my gun—and everything’s changed
—and I’m changed—and I can’t tell what’s my name, or who I am!”
The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink
signi cantly and tap their ngers against their foreheads. There was
a whisper also about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow
from doing mischief—at the very suggestion of which, the self
important man in the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At
this critical moment a fresh likely looking woman pressed through
the throng to get a peep at the greybearded man. She had a chubby
child in her arms, which frightened at his looks began to cry. “Hush
Rip,” cried she, “hush you little fool, the old man won’t hurt you”
The name of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. “What is your
name my good woman?” asked he.
“Judith Gardenier.”
“And your father’s name?”
 “Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it’s twenty
years since he went away from home with his gun and never has
been heard of since—his dog came home without him—but whether
he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians nobody can tell.
I was then but a little girl.”
Rip had but one question more to ask, but he put it with a
faltering voice—
“Where’s your mother?”—
“Oh she too had died but a short time since—she broke a blood
vessel in a t of passion at a New England pedlar.—”
There was a drop of comfort at least in this intelligence. The
honest man could contain himself no longer—he caught his
daughter and her child in his arms.—“I am your father!” cried he
—“Young Rip Van Winkle once—old Rip Van Winkle now!—does
nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle!”
All stood amazed, until an old woman tottering out from among
the crowd put her hand to her brow and peering under it in his face
for a moment exclaimed—“Sure enough!—it is Rip Van Winkle—it
is himself—welcome home again old neighbour—why, where have
you been these twenty long years?”
Rip’s story was soon told, for the whole twenty years had been to
him but as one night. The neighbours stared when they heard it;
some were seen to wink at each other and put their tongues in their
cheeks, and the self important man in the cocked hat, who when the
alarm was over had returned to the eld, screwed down the corners
of his mouth and shook his head—upon which there was a general
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage.
It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He was a
descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one of the
earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most ancient
inhabitant of the village and well versed in all the wonderful events
and traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at once,
and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory manner. He
assured the company that it was a fact handed down from his
ancestor the historian, that the Kaatskill mountains had always been
haunted by strange beings. That it was a rmed that the great
Hendrick Hudson, the rst discoverer of the river and country kept a
kind of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half
Moon21—being permitted in this way to revisit the scenes of his
enterprize and keep a guardian eye upon the river and the great city
called by his name. That his father had once seen them in their old
Dutch dresses playing at nine pins in a hollow of the mountain; and
that he himself had heard one summer afternoon the sound of their
balls, like distant peals of thunder.
To make a long story short—the company broke up, and returned
to the more important concerns of the election. Rip’s daughter took
him home to live with her; she had a snug well furnished house, and
a stout cheery farmer for a husband whom Rip recollected for one of
the urchins that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip’s son and
heir, who was the ditto of himself seen leaning against the tree; he
was employed to work on the farm; but evinced an hereditary
disposition to attend to anything else but his business.
Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon found many of
his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the wear and tear
of time; and preferred making friends among the rising generation,
with whom he soon grew into great favour. Having nothing to do at
home, and being arrived at that happy age when a man can be idle,
with impunity, he took his place once more on the bench at the inn
door and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village and
a chronicle of the old times “before the war” It was some time
before he could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be
made to comprehend the strange events that had taken place during
his torpor. How that there had been a revolutionary war—that the
country had thrown o the yoke of Old England and that instead of
being a subject of his majesty George the Third, he was now a free
citizen of the United States. Rip in fact was no politician; the
changes of states and empires made but little impression on him;
but there was one species of despotism under which he had long
groaned and that was petticoat government. Happily that was at an
end—he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, and could
go in and out whenever he pleased without dreading the tyranny of
Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, however, he
shook his head, shrugged his shoulders and cast up his eyes; which
might pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate or joy
at his deliverance.
He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr.
Doolittle’s Hotel. He was observed at rst to vary on some points,
every time he told it, which was doubtless owing to his having so
recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to the tale I have
related and not a man woman or child in the neighbourhood but
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the reality of it,
and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was one
point on which he always remained ighty The old Dutch
inhabitants, however, almost universally gave it full credit—Even to
this day they never hear a thunder storm of a summer afternoon
about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are
at their game of nine pins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked
husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their
hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van
Winkle’s agon.
NOTE

The foregoing tale one would suspect had been suggested to Mr.
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the emperor Frederick

der Rothbart and the Kypphauser Mountain;22 the subjoined note, however,
which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact,
narrated with his usual delity.—
“The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, but
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old Dutch
settlements to have been very subject to marvellous events and
appearances. Indeed I have heard many stranger stories than this, in the
villages along the Hudson; all of which were too well authenticated to
admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who
when last I saw him was a very venerable old man and so perfectly rational
and consistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person
could refuse to take this into the bargain—nay I have seen a certi cate on
the subject taken before a country justice and signed with a cross in the
justice’s own hand writing. The story therefore is beyond the possibility of
doubt.
D.K.”

POSTSCRIPT

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum book of Mr.

Knickerbocker.

The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region full of

fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits who in uenced the
weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape and sending good
or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be
their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of the Catskills and had charge
of the doors of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour.
She hung up the new moons in the skies and cut up the old ones into stars.
In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin light summer
clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them o , from the crest
of the mountain, ake after ake, like akes of carded cotton to oat in the
air: until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle
showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen and the corn to
grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds
black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle bellied spider in the
midst of its web; and when these clouds broke—woe betide the valleys!
In old times say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or
Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill mountains, and
took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations
upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear a
panther or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through
tangled forests and among rugged rocks; and then spring o with a loud
ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging
torrent.
 The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or cli
in the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the owering vines which
clamber about it, and the wild owers which abound in its neighborhood,
is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small
lake the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water snakes basking in the sun
on the leaves of the pond lillies which lie on the surface. This place was
held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would
not pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, a
hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock where he
beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he
seized and made o with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall
among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth which washed him
away and swept him down precipices where he was dashed to pieces, and
the stream made its way to the Hudson and continues to ow to the present
day; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.
 ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself, like
a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks: methinks I see
her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her endazzled eyes
at the full midday beam.

MILTON, ON THE LIBERTY OF THE PRESS1

It is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary animosity

daily growing up between England and America. Great curiosity has
been awakened of late with respect to the United States, and the
London press has teemed with volumes of travels through the
republic; but they seem intended to di use error rather than
knowledge; and so successful have they been, that, notwithstanding
the constant intercourse between the nations, there is no people
concerning whom the great mass of the British public have less pure
information, or entertain more numerous prejudices.
English travellers are the best, and the worst in the world. Where
no motives of pride or interest intervene, none can equal them for
profound and philosophical views of society, or faithful, and
graphical descriptions of external objects; but when either the
interest or reputation of their own country comes in collision with
that of another, they go to the opposite extreme, and forget their
usual probity and candour in the indulgence of splenetic remark and
an illiberal spirit of ridicule.
Hence their travels are more honest and accurate the more remote
the country described. I would place implicit con dence in an
Englishman’s description of the regions beyond the cataracts of the
Nile; of unknown islands in the Yellow Sea; of the interior of India,
or of any other tract which other travellers might be apt to picture
out with the illusions of their fancies; but I would cautiously receive
his account of his immediate neighbours, and of those nations with
which he is in habits of most frequent intercourse. However I might
be disposed to trust his probity I dare not trust his prejudices.
It has also been the peculiar lot of our country to be visited by the
worst kind of English travellers. While men of philosophical spirit
and cultivated minds have been sent from England to ransack the
poles, to penetrate the deserts, and to study the manners and
customs of barbarous nations, with which she can have no
permanent intercourse of pro t or pleasure; it has been left to the
broken down tradesman, the scheming adventurer, the wandering
mechanic, the Manchester and Birmingham agent, to be her oracles
respecting America. From such sources she is content to receive her
information respecting a country in a singular state of moral and
physical development; a country in which one of the greatest
political experiments in the history of the world is now performing,
and which presents the most profound and momentous studies to
the statesman and the philosopher.
That such men should give prejudiced accounts of America is not
a matter of surprize. The themes it o ers for contemplation are too
vast and elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet
in a state of fermentation: it may have its frothings and sediment,
but its ingredients are sound and wholesome; it has already given
proofs of powerful and generous qualities, and the whole promises
to settle down into something substantially excellent. But the causes
which are operating to strengthen and ennoble it, and its daily
indications of admirable properties, are all lost upon these purblind
observers; who are only a ected by the little asperities incident to
its present situation. They are capable of judging only of the surface
of things; of those matters which come in contact with their private
interests and personal grati cations. They miss some of the snug
conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly
 nished, and over populous state of society, where the ranks of
useful labour are crowded, and many earn a painful and servile
subsistence, by studying the very caprices of appetite and self
indulgence. These minor comforts, however, are all important in the
estimation of narrow minds, which either do not perceive, or will
not acknowledge, that they are more than counterbalanced among
us, by great and generally di used blessings.
They may, perhaps, have been disappointed in some unreasonable
expectation of sudden gain. They may have pictured America to
themselves, an El Dorado, where gold and silver abounded,2 and the
natives were lacking in sagacity; and where they were to become
strangely and suddenly rich, in some unforeseen, but easy manner.
The same weakness of mind that indulges absurd expectations,
produces petulance in disappointment. Such persons become
embittered against the country on nding that there, as everywhere
else, a man must sow before he can reap; must win wealth by
industry and talent; and must contend with the common di culties
of nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprizing
people.
Perhaps, through mistaken, or ill directed hospitality, or from the
prompt disposition to cheer and countenance the stranger, prevalent
among my countrymen, they may have been treated with unwonted
respect in America; and having been accustomed all their lives to
consider themselves below the surface of good society; and brought
up in a servile feeling of inferiority; they become arrogant on the
common boon of civility; they attribute to the lowliness of others,
their own elevation; and under rate a society, where there are no
arti cial distinctions, and where, by any chance, such individuals as
themselves can rise to consequence.
One would suppose, however, that information coming from such
sources, on a subject where the truth is so desirable, would be
received with caution by the censors of the press. That the motives
of these men, their veracity, their opportunities of enquiry and
observation and their capacities for judging correctly would be
rigorously scrutinized, before their evidence was admitted in such
sweeping extent, against a kindred nation. The very reverse,
however, is the case, and it furnishes a striking instance of human
inconsistency. Nothing can surpass the vigilance with which English
critics will examine the credibility of the traveller, who publishes an
account of some distant, and comparatively unimportant, country.
How warily will they compare the measurements of a pyramid, or
the descriptions of a ruin, and how sternly will they censure any
inaccuracy in these contributions of merely curious knowledge;
while they will receive, with eagerness and unhesitating faith, the
gross misrepresentations of coarse and obscure writers, concerning a
country with which their own is placed in the most important and
delicate relations. Nay, they will even make these apocryphal
volumes text books, on which to enlarge, with a zeal and an ability
worthy of a more generous cause.
I shall not, however, dwell on this irksome and hackney’d topic;
nor should I have adverted to it but for the undue interest
apparently taken in it by my countrymen, and certain injurious
e ects, which I apprehended it might produce upon the national
feeling. We attach too much consequence to these attacks. They
cannot do us any essential injury The tissue of misrepresentations
attempted to be woven round us are like cobwebs, woven round the
limbs of an infant giant. Our country continually outgrows them.
One falsehood after another falls o of itself. We have but to live on,
and every day we live a whole volume of refutation. All the writers
of England united, if we could for a moment suppose their great
minds stooping to so unworthy a combination, could not conceal
our rapidly growing importance and matchless prosperity. They
could not conceal that these are owing, not merely to physical and
local, but also to moral causes. To the political liberty, the general
di usion of knowledge, the prevalence of sound moral and religious
principles, which give force and sustained energy to the character of
a people; and which, in fact have been the acknowledged and
wonderful supporters of their own national power and glory.
But why are we so exquisitely alive to the aspersions of England?
Why do we su er ourselves to be so a ected by the contumely she
has endeavoured to cast upon us? It is not in the opinion of England
alone that honor lives and reputation has its being. The world at
large is the arbiter of a nation’s fame; with its thousand eyes it
witnesses a nation’s deeds, and from their collective testimony is
national glory or national disgrace established.
For ourselves, therefore, it is comparatively of but little
importance whether England does us justice or not—it is perhaps of
far more importance to herself. She is instilling anger and
resentment into the bosom of a youthful nation, to grow with its
growth and strengthen with its strength. If in America, as some of
her writers are labouring to convince her, she is hereafter to nd an
invidious rival and a gigantic foe, she may thank those very writers,
for having provoked rivalship, and irritated hostility. Everyone
knows the all pervading in uence of literature at the present day,
and how much the opinions and passions of mankind are under its
control. The mere contests of the sword are temporary; their
wounds are but in the esh, and it is the pride of the generous to
forgive and forget them: but the slanders of the pen pierce to the
heart; they rankle longest in the noblest spirits; they dwell ever
present in the mind; and render it morbidly sensitive to the most
tri ing collision. It is but seldom that any one overt act produces
hostilities between two nations; there exists, most commonly, a
previous jealousy and ill will; a predisposition to take o ence. Trace
these to their cause, and how often will they be found to originate
in the mischievous e usions of mercenary writers, who, secure in
their closets, and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the
venom, that is to in ame the generous and the brave.
I am not laying too much stress upon this point; for it applies
most emphatically to our particular case. Over no nation does the
press hold a more absolute control than over the people of America;
for the universal education of the poorest classes, makes every
individual a reader. There is nothing published in England on the
subject of our country that does not circulate through every part of
it. There is not a calumny dropt from an English pen, nor an
unworthy sarcasm uttered by an English statesman, that does not go
to blight good will and add to the mass of latent resentment.
Possessing then as England does, the fountain head from whence the
literature of the language ows, how completely is it in her power,
and how truly is it her duty, to make it the medium of amiable and
magnanimous feeling—a stream where the two nations might meet
together and drink in peace and kindness. Should she, however,
persist in turning it to waters of bitterness, the time may come when
she may repent her folly. The present friendship of America may be
of but little moment to her; but the future destinies of that country
do not admit of a doubt; over those of England there lower some
shadows of uncertainty. Should then a day of gloom arrive; should
those reverses overtake her, from which the proudest empires have
not been exempt, she may look back with regret at her infatuation,
in repulsing from her side a nation she might have grappled to her
bosom, and thus destroying her only chance for real friendship
beyond the boundaries of her own dominions.
There is a general impression in England that the people of the
United States are inimical to the parent country. It is one of the
errors which has been diligently propagated by designing writers.
There is doubtless considerable political hostility, and a general
soreness at the illiberality of the English press, but, generally
speaking, the prepossessions of the people are strongly in favour of
England. Indeed at one time they amounted, in many parts of the
union, to an absurd degree of bigotry. The bare name of Englishman
was a passport to the con dence and hospitality of every family,
and too often gave a transient currency to the worthless and the
ungrateful. Throughout the country there was something of
enthusiasm connected with the idea of England. We looked to it
with a hallowed feeling of tenderness and veneration as the land of
our forefathers—the august repository of the monuments and
antiquities of our race—the birth place and mausoleum of the sages
and heroes of our paternal history. After our own country there was
none in whose glory we more delighted—none whose good opinion
we were more anxious to possess—none towards which our hearts
yearned with such throbbings of warm consanguinity. Even during
the late war, whenever there was the least opportunity for kind
feelings to spring forth it was the delight of the generous spirits of
our country to show that in the midst of hostilities they still kept
alive the sparks of future friendship.
Is all this to be at an end? Is this golden band of kindred
sympathies, so rare between nations, to be broken forever?—
Perhaps it is for the best—It may dispel an illusion which might
have kept us in mental vassallage; which might have interfered
occasionally with our true interests, and prevented the growth of
proper national pride. But it is hard to give up the kindred tie!—and
there are feelings dearer than interest—closer to the heart than
pride—that will still make us cast back a look of regret, as we
wander farther and farther from the paternal roof, and lament the
waywardness of the parent, that would repel the a ections of the
child.
Shortsighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct of England
may be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our part would
be equally ill judged. I speak not of prompt and spirited vindication
of our country, nor the keenest castigation of her slanderers—but I
allude to a disposition to retaliate in kind; to retort sarcasm and
inspire prejudice, which seems to be spreading widely among our
writers. Let us guard particularly against such a temper, for it would
double the evil instead of redressing the wrong. Nothing is so easy
and inviting as the retort of abuse and sarcasm; but it is a paltry and
an unpro table contest. It is the alternative of a morbid mind fretted
into petulance rather than warmed into indignation. If England is
willing to permit the mean jealousies of trade or the rancorous
animosities of politics to deprave the integrity of her press, and
poison the fountain of public opinion, let us beware of her example.
She may deem it her interest to di use error and engender
antipathy, for the purpose of checking emigration; we have no
purpose of the kind to serve. Neither have we any spirit of national
jealousy to gratify, for as yet, in all our rivalships with England we
are the rising and the gaining party. There can be no end to answer,
therefore, but the grati cation of resentment; a mere spirit of
retaliation, and even that is impotent. Our retorts are never
republished in England; they fall short, therefore, of their aim—but
they foster a querulous and peevish temper among our writers—
they sour the sweet ow of our early literature, and sow thorns and
brambles among its blossoms. What is still worse they circulate
through our own country, and, as far as they have e ect, excite
virulent national prejudices. This last is the evil most especially to
be deprecated. Governed as we are entirely by public opinion, the
utmost care should be taken to preserve the purity of the public
mind. Knowledge is power, and truth is knowledge; whoever
therefore knowingly propagates a prejudice, wilfully saps the
foundation of his country’s strength.
The members of a republic, above all other men, should be candid
and dispassionate. They are individually portions of the sovereign
mind and sovereign will, and should be enabled to come to all
questions of national concern with calm and unbiased judgements.
From the peculiar nature of our relations with England, we must
have more frequent questions of a di cult and delicate character
with her, than with any other nation; questions that a ect the most
acute and excitable feelings; and as in the adjusting of these, our
national measures must ultimately be determined by popular
sentiment, we cannot be too anxiously attentive to purify it from all
latent passion or prepossession.
Opening too, as we do, an asylum for strangers from every portion
of the earth, we should receive all with impartiality. It should be our
pride to exhibit an example of one nation at least, destitute of
national antipathies, and exercising, not merely the overt acts of
hospitality but those more rare and noble courtesies which spring
from liberality of opinion.
What have we to do with national prejudices? They are the
inveterate diseases of old countries, contracted in rude and ignorant
ages, when nations knew but little of each other, and looked beyond
their own boundaries with distrust and hostility. We, on the
contrary, have sprung into national existence in an enlightened and
philosophic age; when the di erent parts of the habitable world,
and the various branches of the human family, have been
indefatigably studied and made known to each other; and we forgo
the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake o the national
prejudices, as we would the local superstitions, of the old world.
But above all, let us not be in uenced by any angry feelings so far
as to shut our eyes to the perception of what is really excellent and
amiable in the English character. We are a young people, necessarily
an imitative one, and must take our examples and models, in a great
degree, from the existing nations of Europe. There is no country
more worthy of our study than England. The spirit of her
constitution is most analogous to ours. The manners of her people,
—their intellectual activity—their freedom of opinion—their habits
of thinking on those subjects which concern the dearest interests
and most sacred charities of private life, are all congenial to the
American character; and in fact are all intrinsically excellent: for it
is in the moral feeling of the people that the deep foundations of
British prosperity are laid; and however the superstructure may be
time worn, or overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in
the basis, admirable in the materials, and stable in the structure of
an edi ce that so long has towered unshaken amidst the tempests of
the world.
Let it be the pride of our writers, therefore, discarding all feelings
of irritation and disdaining to retaliate the illiberality of British
authors, to speak of the English nation without prejudice, and with
determined candour. While they rebuke the undiscriminating
bigotry with which some of our countrymen admire and imitate
everything English, merely because it is English, let them frankly
point out what is really worthy of approbation. We may thus place
England before us as a perpetual volume of reference, wherein are
recorded sound deductions from ages of experience; and while we
avoid the errors and absurdities which may have crept into the
page, we may draw from thence golden maxims of practical
wisdom, wherewith to strengthen and to embellish our national
character.
 RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND

Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, Friendly to thought, to virtue and
to peace, Domestic life in rural pleasure pass’d!

COWPER1

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English

character must not con ne his observations to the metropolis. He
must go forth into the country; he must sojourn in villages and
hamlets; he must visit castles, villas, farm houses, cottages; he must
wander through parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes;
he must loiter about country churches, attend wakes and fairs and
other rural festivals, and cope with the people in all their
conditions, and all their habits and humours.
In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of
the nation; they are the only xed abodes of elegant and intelligent
society and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish
peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere
gathering place, or general rendezvous of the polite circles, where
they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gaiety and
dissipation, and having indulged this kind of carnival, return again
to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various
orders of society are therefore di used over the whole surface of the
kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhoods a ord specimens of
the di erent ranks.
The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling.
They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen
relish for the pleasures and employments of the country. This
passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities born
and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with
facility into rural habits and evince a tact for rural occupation. The
merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis,
where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of
his ower garden and the maturing of his fruits as he does in the
conduct of his business and the success of a commercial enterprise.
Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their
lives in the midst of din and tra c, contrive to have something that
shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark
and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing room window resembles
frequently a bank of owers; every spot capable of vegetation, has
its grass plot and ower bed; and every square its mimic park, laid
out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with refreshing verdure.
Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form an
unfavourable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed
in business, or distracted by the thousand engagements that
dissipate time, thought and feeling, in this huge metropolis. He has
therefore too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever
he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else; at the
moment he is talking on one subject his mind is wandering to
another; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calculating how he
shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted in the
morning. An immense metropolis like London is calculated to make
men sel sh and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings
they can but deal brie y in commonplaces. They present but the
cold super cies of character—its rich and genial qualities have no
time to be warmed into a ow.
It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his natural
feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and
negative civilities of town; throws o his habits of shy reserve, and
becomes joyous and freehearted. He manages to collect around him
all the conveniencies and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its
restraints. His country seat abounds with every requisite either for
studious retirement, tasteful grati cation or rural exercise. Books,
paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds
are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself,
but in the true spirit of hospitality, provides the means of
enjoyment, and leaves everyone to partake according to his
inclination.
The taste of the English in the cultivation of land and in what is
called landscape gardening is unrivalled. They have studied nature
intently and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and
harmonious combinations. Those charms which in other countries
she lavishes in wild solitudes are here assembled round the haunts
of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and furtive
graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes.
Nothing can be more imposing than the magni cence of English
park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with
here and there clumps of gigantic trees heaping up rich piles of
foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the
deer trooping in silent herds across them, the hare bounding away
to the covert or the pheasant suddenly bursting upon the wing. The
brook, taught to wind in natural meanderings or expand into a
glassy lake—The sequestered pool re ecting the quivering trees,
with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming
fearlessly about its limpid waters, while some rustic temple, or
sylvan statue grown green and dank with age, gives an air of classic
sanctity to the seclusion.
These are but a few of the features of park scenery; but what most
delights me is the creative talent with which the English decorate
the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation; the
most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an
Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely
discriminating eye he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and
pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into
loveliness under his hand; and yet the operations of art which
produce the e ect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and
training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice
distribution of owers and plants of tender and graceful foliage; the
introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a
peep of blue distance or silver gleam of water—all these are
managed with a delicate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like
the magic touchings with which a painter nishes up a favourite
picture.
The residence of people of fortune and re nement in the country
has di used a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy, that
descends to the lowest class. The very labourer, with his thatched
cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment.
The trim hedge, the grass plot before the door, the little ower bed
bordered with snug box; the woodbine trained up against the wall
and hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot of owers in the
window; the holly providently planted about the house to cheat
winter of its dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green
summer to cheer the re side—all these bespeak the in uence of
taste, owing down from high sources, and pervading the lowest
levels of the public mind. If ever love, as poets sing, delights to visit
a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant.
The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the English
has had a great and salutary e ect upon the national character. I do
not know a ner race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of
the softness and e eminacy which characterize the men of rank in
most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a
robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am
inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and
pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the country.
These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and
spirits, a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the
follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can
never entirely destroy. In the country too, the di erent orders of
society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend
and operate favourably upon each other. The distinctions between
them do not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities.
The manner in which property has been distributed into small
estates and farms has established a regular gradation from the
nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors,
and substantial farmers, down to the labouring peasantry; and while
it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused in
each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it must be
confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was
formerly; the larger estates having in late years of distress, absorbed
the smaller, and in some parts of the country almost annihilated the
sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but
casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned.
In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a
man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; it leaves
him to the workings of his own mind operated upon by the purest
and most elevating of external in uences. Such a man may be
simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of re nement,
therefore, nds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower
orders in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the
lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is
glad to wave the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest
heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of
the country bring men more and more together; and the sound of
hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one
great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among
the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country;
and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and
extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal
distribution of fortune and privilege.
To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be
attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature: the
frequent use of illustrations from rural life: those incomparable
descriptions of nature that abound in the British poets; that have
continued down from “The Flower and the Leaf” of Chaucer,2 and
have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the
dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if
they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted
with her general charms; but the British poets have lived and
revelled with her—they have wooed her in her most secret haunts,
they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble
in the breeze; a leaf could not rustle to the ground; a diamond drop
could not patter in the stream; a fragrance could not exhale from the
humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning,
but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers,
and wrought up into some beautiful morality.
The e ect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations
has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the
island is rather level, and would be monotonous were it not for the
charms of culture, but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with
castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It
does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little,
home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farm
house and moss grown cottage is a picture, and as the roads are
continually winding, and the view shut in by groves and hedges, the
eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of
captivating loveliness.
The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling
that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of
order, of quiet, of sober well established principles, of hoary usage
and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages of
regular, and peaceful existence. The old church of remote
architecture, with its low massive portal; its gothic tower; its
windows rich with tracery and painted glass in scrupulous
preservation; its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the
olden time, ancestors of the present lords of the soil; its tombstones
recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose
progeny still plow the same elds and kneel at the same altar. The
parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired
and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants. The style
and footpath leading from the church yard, across pleasant elds
and along shady hedge rows, according to an immemorial right of
way. The neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, its
public green sheltered by trees under which the forefathers of the
present race have sported. The antique family mansion, standing
apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a
protecting air on the surrounding scene.—All these common
features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, and
hereditary transmission of home bred virtues and local attachments,
that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the
nation.
It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the bell is
sending its sober melody across the quiet elds, to behold the
peasantry in their best nery, with ruddy faces and modest
cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church:
but it is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering
about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble
comforts and embellishments, which their own hands have spread
around them.
It is this sweet home feeling; this settled repose of a ection in the
domestic scene, that is, after all, the parent of the steadiest virtues
and purest enjoyments, and I cannot close these desultory remarks
better, than by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who
has depicted it with remarkable felicity.
Through each gradation, from the castled hall,
The city dome, the villa crown’d with shade,
But chief from modest mansions numberless,
In town or hamlet shelt’ring middle life,
Down to the cottag’d vale and straw-roof’d shed,
This western isle hath long been fam’d for scenes
Where bliss domestic nds a dwelling place:
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
(Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard)
Can centre in a little quiet nest
All that desire would y for through the earth;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoy’d; that wants no witnesses
 But its own sharers, and approving heaven.
That, like a ower deep hid in rocky cleft,
Smiles, though ’tis looking only at the sky*

* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann

Kennedy, A.M.3
 THE BROKEN HEART

I never heard
Of any true a ection but ’twas nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
The leaves of the spring’s sweetest book, the rose.

MIDDLETON1

It is a common practice with those who have outlived the

susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the gay
heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love stories, and to
treat the tales of romantic passion as mere ctions of novelists and
poets. My observations on human nature have induced me to think
otherwise. They have convinced me, that however the surface of the
character may be chilled and frozen by the cares of the world, or
cultivated into mere smiles by the arts of society, still there are
dormant res lurking in the depths of the coldest bosom, which,
when once enkindled, become impetuous and are sometimes
desolating in their e ects. Indeed, I am a true believer in the blind
deity, and go to the full extent of his doctrines—Shall I confess it?—
I believe in broken hearts and the possibility of dying of
disappointed love!—I do not, however, consider it a malady often
fatal to my own sex; but I rmly believe that it withers down many
a lovely woman into an early grave.
Man is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature leads him
forth into the struggle and bustle of the world. Love is but the
embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of
the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for space in the world’s
thought, and dominion over his fellow men. But a woman’s whole
life is a history of the a ections. The heart is her world: it is there
her ambition strives for empire: it is there her avarice seeks for
hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she
embarks her whole soul in the tra c of a ection, and if
shipwrecked her case is hopeless, for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.
To a man the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter
pangs—it wounds some feelings of tenderness—it blasts some
prospects of felicity; but he is an active being—he may dissipate his
thoughts in the whirl of varied occupation; or may plunge into the
tide of pleasure. Or if the scene of disappointment be too full of
painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and, taking as it
were the wings of the morning, can “ y to the uttermost parts of the
earth and be at rest.”
But woman’s is comparatively a xed, a secluded, and a
meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and
feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall
she look for consolation! Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if
unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been
captured, and sacked, and abandoned and left desolate.
How many bright eyes grow dim—how many soft cheeks grow
pale—how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none
can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness. As the dove will
clasp its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is
preying on its vitals; so is it the nature of woman to hide from the
world the pangs of wounded a ection. The love of a delicate female
is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes
it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her
bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her
peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm
of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises
which gladden the spirits, quicken the pulses and send the tide of
life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is broken—the
sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams—“dry
sorrow drinks her blood,” until her enfeebled frame sinks under the
slightest external injury Look for her, after a little while, and you
nd friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering
that one, who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and
beauty, should so speedily be brought down to “darkness and the
worm” You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual
indisposition that laid her low—but no one knows of the mental
malady which previously sapped her strength and made her so easy
a prey to the spoiler.
She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove;
graceful in its form; bright in its foliage, but with the worm preying
at its heart. We nd it suddenly withering when it should be most
fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth and
shedding leaf by leaf; until wasted and perished away, it falls even
in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin,
we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could
have smitten it with decay.
I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self
neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they
had been exhaled to heaven; and have repeatedly fancied that I
could trace their deaths through the various declensions of
consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the
rst symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was
lately told to me; the circumstances are well known in the country
where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner in
which they were related.
Everyone must recollect the tragical story of young E——the Irish
patriot;2 it was too touching to be soon forgotten. During the
troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned and executed on a
charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public
sympathy. He was so young—so intelligent—so generous—so brave
—so everything that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct
under trial too was so lofty and intrepid. The noble indignation with
which he repelled the charge of treason against his country—the
eloquent vindication of his name, his pathetic appeal to posterity in
the hopeless hour of condemnation—all these entered deeply into
every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern
policy that dictated his execution.
But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impossible to
describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes he had won the
a ections of a beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late
celebrated Irish Barrister.3 She loved him with the disinterested
fervour of a woman’s rst and early love. When every worldly
maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and
disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the
more ardently for his very su erings. If then his fate could awaken
the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of
her whose whole soul was occupied by his image! Let those tell who
have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them,
and the being they most loved on earth—who have sat at its
threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence
all that was most lovely and loving had departed.
But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful—so
dishonoured!—There was nothing for memory to dwell on that
could soothe the pang of separation—none of those tender though
melancholy circumstances which endear the parting scene—nothing
to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent like the dews of heaven,
to revive the heart in the parching hour of anguish.
To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred
her father’s displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an
exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind
o ces of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by
horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the
Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most
delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of
wealth and distinction. She was led into society; and they tried by
all kinds of occupations and amusements to dissipate her grief and
wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it was all in vain.
There are some strokes of calamity which scathe and scorch the
soul; which penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast it,
never again to put forth bud or blossom. She never objected to
frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as much alone there, as in
the depths of solitude; walking about in a sad reverie, apparently
unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an
inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and
“heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely.”
The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade.
There can be no exhibition of far gone wretchedness more striking
and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To nd it wandering like
a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay—To see it
dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and
woebegone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a
momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the
splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she
sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for
some time with a vacant air that showed her insensibility to the
garish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to
warble a little plaintive air. She had an exquisite voice; but on this
occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul
of wretchedness, that she drew a crowd mute and silent around her,
and melted everyone into tears.
The story of one so true and tender could not but excite great
interest in a country remarkable for enthusiasm. It completely won
the heart of a brave o cer, who paid his addresses to her, and
thought that one so true to the dead, could not but prove
a ectionate to the living. She declined his attentions, for her
thoughts were irrevocably engrossed by the memory of her former
lover. He, however, persisted in his suit. He solicited not her
tenderness, but her esteem. He was assisted by her conviction of his
worth, and her sense of her own destitute and dependent situation,
for she was existing on the kindness of friends—In a word he at
length succeeded in gaining her hand, though with the solemn
assurance that her heart was unalterably another’s.
He took her with him to Sicily, hoping that a change of scene
might wear out the remembrance of early woes. She was an amiable
and exemplary wife, and made an e ort to be a happy one; but
nothing could cure the silent and devouring melancholy that had
entered into her very soul. She wasted away in a slow but hopeless
decline, and at length sunk into the grave, the victim of a broken
heart.
It was on her that Moore the distinguished Irish poet composed
the following lines.
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
   And lovers around her are sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps,
   For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
   Every note which he lov’d awaking—
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
   How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!
He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died;
   They were all that to life had entwin’d him—
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
   Nor long will his love stay behind him!
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
   When they promise a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west,

   From her own lov’d island of sorrow!4

 THE ART OF BOOK MAKING

If that severe doom of Synesius be true, “it is a greater o ence to steal dead
men’s labors, than their clothes,” what shall become of most writers?

BURTON’S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY1

I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press, and

how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which nature seemed
to have in icted the curse of barrenness, should teem with
voluminous productions. As a man travels on, however, in the
journey of life his objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is
continually nding out some very simple cause, for some great
matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations about
this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene which unfolded to me
some of the mysteries of the bookmaking craft, and at once put an
end to my astonishment.
I was one summer’s day loitering through the great saloons of the
British Museum, with that listlessness with which one is apt to
saunter about a museum in warm weather; sometimes lolling over
the glass cases of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on
an Egyptian Mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly equal
success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings on the lofty
ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this idle way my attention was
attracted to a distant door, at the end of a suite of apartments. It
was closed, but every now and then it would open and some strange
favoured being, generally clothed in black, would steal forth and
glide through the rooms without noticing any of the surrounding
objects. There was an air of mystery about this that piqued my
languid curiosity, and I determined to attempt the passage of that
strait and to explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded
to my hand, with that facility with which the portals of enchanted
castles yield to the adventurous Knight errant. I found myself in a
spacious chamber, surrounded with great cases of venerable books.
Above the cases, and just under the cornice, were arranged a great
number of black looking portraits of ancient authors. About the
room were placed long tables, with stands for reading and writing,
at which sat many pale, studious personages, poring intently over
dusty volumes, rummaging among mouldy manuscripts, and taking
copious notes of their contents. A hushed stillness reigned through
this mysterious apartment, excepting that you might hear the racing
of pens over sheets of paper; or occasionally the deep sigh of one of
these sages as he shifted his position to turn over the page of an old
folio;2 doubtless arising from that hollowness and atulency
incident to learned research.
Now and then one of these personages would write something on
a small slip of paper and ring a bell, whereupon a familiar would
appear, take the paper in profound silence, glide out of the room
and return shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the
other would fall, tooth and nail, with famished voracity. I had no
longer a doubt that I had happened upon a body of Magi,3 deeply
engaged in the study of occult sciences. The scene reminded me of
an old Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in an enchanted
library, in the bosom of a mountain, which opened only once a year;
where he made the spirits of the place bring him books of all kinds
of dark knowledge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic
portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued forth so
versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar above the heads of the
multitude, and to control the powers of nature.
My curiosity being now fully aroused I whispered to one of the
familiars, as he was about to leave the room, and begged an
interpretation of the strange scene before me. A few words were
su cient for the purpose. I found that these mysterious personages
whom I had mistaken for Magi, were principally authors and in the
very act of manufacturing books. I was, in fact, in the reading room
of the great British library, an immense collection of volumes of all
ages and languages, many of which are now forgotten, and most of
which are seldom read: one of these sequestered pools of obsolete
literature, to which modern authors repair, and draw buckets full of
classic lore, or “pure English unde led”4 wherewith to swell their
own scanty rills of thought.
Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a corner and
watched the process of this book manufactory. I noticed one lean,
bilious looking wight, who sought none but the most worm eaten
volumes, printed in black letter. He was evidently constructing some
work of profound erudition, that would be purchased by every man
who wished to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf
of his library, or laid open upon his table—but never read. I
observed him now and then draw a large fragment of biscuit out of
his pocket, and gnaw; whether it was his dinner, or whether he was
endeavouring to keep o that exhaustion of the stomach, produced
by much pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than
myself to determine.
There was one dapper little gentleman in bright coloured clothes,
with a chirping, gossipping expression of countenance, who had all
the appearance of an author on good terms with his bookseller.
After considering him attentively, I recognized in him a diligent
getter up of miscellaneous works, which bustled o well with the
trade. I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He made
more stir and show of business than any of the others; dipping into
various books, uttering over the leaves of manuscripts, taking a
morsel out of one, a morsel out of another, line upon line, precept
upon precept, here a little and there a little. The contents of his
book seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches’
cauldron in Macbeth. It was, here a nger and there a thumb; toe of
frog and blind worm’s sting, with his own gossip poured in like
“baboon’s blood,” to make the medley “slab and good.”
 After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition be
implanted in authors for wise purposes; may it not be the way in
which providence has taken care that the seeds of knowledge and
wisdom shall be preserved from age to age, in spite of the inevitable
decay of the works in which they were rst produced. We see that
nature has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the conveyance
of seeds from clime to clime in the maws of certain birds; so that
animals which in themselves are little better than carrion, and
apparently the lawless plunderers of the orchard and the corn eld,
are in fact nature’s carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings.
In like manner the beauties and ne thoughts of ancient and
obsolete writers, are caught up by these ights of predatory authors,
and cast forth again to ourish and bear fruit in a remote and
distant tract of time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of
metempsychosis and spring up under new forms. What was formerly
a ponderous history, revives in the shape of a romance—an old
legend changes into a modern play and a sober philosophical
treatise, furnishes the body for a whole series of bouncing and
sparkling essays. Thus it is in the clearing of our American
woodlands; where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny
of dwarf oaks start up in their place; and we never see the prostrate
trunk of a tree, mouldering into soil, but it gives birth to a whole
tribe of fungi.
Let us not then lament over the decay and oblivion into which
ancient writers descend; they do but submit to the great law of
nature, which declares that all sublunary shapes of matter shall be
limited in their duration, but which decrees also that their elements
shall never perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and
vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is transmitted to
posterity, and the species continues to ourish. Thus also do authors
beget authors, and having produced a numerous progeny, in a good
old age they sleep with their fathers; that is to say, with the authors
who preceded them—and from whom they had stolen.
Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies I had leaned my
head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether it was owing to the
sopori c emanations from these works, or to the profound quiet of
the room; or to the lassitude arising from much wandering, or to an
unlucky habit of napping at improper times and places, with which I
am grievously a icted, so it was that I fell into a doze. Still
however my imagination continued busy, and indeed the same
scene remained before my mind’s eye, only a little changed in some
of the details. I dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the
portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was encreased. The
long tables had disappeared and in place of the sage Magi I beheld a
ragged, thread bare throng, such as may be seen plying about the
great repository of cast o clothes Monmouth Street. Whenever they
seized upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or antique
fashion, with which they proceeded to equip themselves. I noticed,
however, that no one pretended to clothe himself from any
particular suit, but took a sleeve from one, a cape from another, a
skirt from a third, thus decking himself out piecemeal, while some
of his original rags would peep out from among his borrowed nery.
There was a portly, rosy, well fed parson whom I observed ogling
several mouldy polemical writers through an eye glass. He soon
contrived to slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers,
and having purloined the grey beard of another, endeavoured to
look exceeding wise, but the smirking commonplace of his
countenance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One sickly
looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very imsy garment
with gold thread drawn out of several old court dresses of the reign
of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed himself magni cently
from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom,
culled from “The Paradise of dainty Devices,”5 and having put Sir
Philip Sidney’s hat on one side of his head, strutted o with an
exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who was but of puny
dimensions, had bolstered himself out bravely with the spoils from
several obscure tracts of philosophy, so that he had a very imposing
front, but he was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that
he had patched his small clothes with scraps of parchment from a
Latin author.
There were some well dressed gentlemen, it is true, who only
helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled among their own
ornaments, without eclipsing them. Some too, seemed to
contemplate the costumes of the old writers merely to imbibe their
principles of taste, and catch their air and spirit; but I grieve to say
that too many were apt to array themselves from top to toe, in the
patch work manner I have mentioned. I should not omit to speak of
one genius in drab breeches and gaiters, and an arcadian hat,6 who
had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural wanderings
had been con ned to the classic haunts of Primrose hill7 and the
solitudes of the Regent’s Park. He had decked himself in wreaths
and ribbands from all the old pastoral poets, and hanging his head
on one side, went about with a fantastical, lack-a-daisical air,
“babbling about green elds” But the personage that most struck my
attention was a pragmatical old gentleman in clerical robes, with a
remarkably large and square, but bald head. He entered the room
wheezing and pu ng, elbowed his way through the throng with a
look of sturdy self con dence, and having laid hands upon a thick
Greek quarto,8 clapped it upon his head, and swept majestically
away in a formidable frizzled wig.
In the height of this literary masquerade a cry suddenly
resounded from every side of “Thieves! Thieves!” I looked, and lo
the portraits about the walls became animated! The old authors
thrust out rst a head, then a shoulder from the canvass, looked
down curiously for an instant upon the motley throng, and then
descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim their ri ed property.
The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued ba es all
description. The unhappy culprits endeavoured in vain to escape
with their plunder. On one side might be seen half a dozen old
monks stripping a modern professor—on another there was sad
devastation carried into the ranks of modern dramatic writers.
Beaumont and Fletcher9 side by side, raged round the eld like
Castor and Pollux,10 and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted more wonders
than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders.11 As to the dapper
little compiler of farragoes12 mentioned sometime since, he had
arrayed himself in as many patches and colours as a harlequin,13
and there was as erce a contention of claimants about him, as
about the dead body of Patroclus.14 I was grieved to see many men,
to whom I had been accustomed to look up with awe and reverence,
fain to steal o with scarce a rag to cover their nakedness. Just then
my eye was caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek
grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore a right with half a
score of authors in full cry after him. They were close upon his
haunches; in a twinkling o went his wig; at every turn some strip
of raiment was peeled away, until in a few moments, from his
domineering pomp, he shrunk into a little, pursy “chopped bald
shot,” and made his exit with only a few tags and rags uttering at
his back.
There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this
learned Theban that I burst into an immoderate t of laughter,
which broke the whole illusion. The tumult and the scu e were at
an end. The chamber resumed its usual appearance. The old authors
shrunk back into their picture frames and hung in shadowy
solemnity along the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in
my corner, with the whole assemblage of Bookworms gazing at me
with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had been real but my
burst of laughter, a sound never before heard in that grave
sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears of wisdom as to electrify the
fraternity.
The librarian now stepped up to me and demanded whether I had
a card of admission. At rst I did not comprehend him, but I soon
found that the library was a kind of literary “preserve,” subject to
game laws, and that no one must presume to hunt there without
special licence and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of being
an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipitate retreat, lest I
should have a whole pack of authors let loose upon me.
 A ROYAL POET

Though your body be con n’d,

   And soft love a prisoner bound,
Yet the beauty of your mind,
   Neither check nor chain hath found.
      Look out nobly, then, and dare
      Even the fetters that you wear.

FLETCHER1

On a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May, I made an

excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and poetical
associations. The very external aspect of the proud old pile is
enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular walls and
massive towers, like a mural crown, round the brow of a lofty ridge,
waves its royal banner in the clouds, and looks down, with a lordly
air, upon the surrounding world.
On this morning the weather was of that voluptuous vernal kind,
which calls forth all the latent romance of a man’s temperament,
lling his mind with music, and disposing him to quote poetry and
dream of beauty. In wandering through the magni cent saloons, and
long echoing galleries of the castle, I passed with indi erence by
whole rows of portraits of warriors and statesmen, but lingered in
the chamber, where hang the likenesses of the beauties that graced
the gay court of Charles the Second;2 and as I gazed upon them,
depicted with amorous, half dishevelled tresses, and the sleepy eye
of love, I blessed the pencil of Sir Peter Lely3 which had thus
enabled me to bask in the re ected rays of beauty. In traversing also
the “large green courts,” with sunshine beaming on the gray walls,
and glancing along the velvet turf, my mind was engrossed with the
image of the tender, the gallant, but hapless Surrey,4 and his
account of his loiterings about them in his stripling days when
enamoured of the Lady Geraldine—
“With eyes cast up unto the maiden’s tower,

With easie sighs, such as men draw in love”5

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient

Keep of the Castle, where James the First of Scotland,6 the pride and
theme of Scottish poets and historians, was for many years of his
youth detained a prisoner of state. It is a large gray tower, that has
stood the brunt of ages, and is still in good preservation. It stands on
a mound, which elevates it above the other parts of the castle, and a
great ight of steps leads to the interior. In the armoury, which is a
gothic hall furnished with weapons of various kinds and ages, I was
shown a coat of armour hanging against the wall, which had once
belonged to James. From hence I was conducted up a staircase to a
suite of apartments of faded magni cence, hung with storied
tapestry, which formed his prison, and the scene of that passionate
and fanciful amour, which has woven into the web of his story the
magical hues of poetry and ction.
The whole history of this amiable but unfortunate prince is highly
romantic. At the tender age of eleven he was sent from home by his
father, Robert III and destined for the French court, to be reared
under the eye of the French monarch, secure from the treachery and
danger that surrounded the royal house of Scotland. It was his
mishap in the course of his voyage to fall into the hands of the
English, and he was detained prisoner by Henry IV, notwithstanding
that a truce existed between the two countries.
The intelligence of his capture, coming in the train of many
sorrows and disasters, proved fatal to his unhappy father. “The
news,” we are told, “was brought to him while at supper, and did so
overwhelm him with grief, that he was almost ready to give up the
ghost into the hands of the servants that attended him. But being
carried to his bed chamber, he abstained from all food, and in three
days died of hunger and grief, at Rothesay”*
James was detained in captivity above eighteen years; but, though
deprived of personal liberty, he was treated with the respect due to
his rank. Care was taken to instruct him in all the branches of useful
knowledge cultivated at that period, and to give him those mental
and personal accomplishments deemed proper for a prince. Perhaps,
in this respect, his imprisonment was an advantage, as it enabled
him to apply himself the more exclusively to his improvement, and
quietly to imbibe that rich fund of knowledge, and to cherish those
elegant tastes, which have given such a lustre to his memory. The
picture drawn of him in early life, by the Scottish historians, is
highly captivating, and seems rather the description of a hero of
romance, than of a character in real history. He was well learnt, we
are told, “to ght with the sword, to joust, to tourney, to wrestle, to
sing and dance; he was an expert mediciner, right crafty in playing
both of lute and harp and sundry other instruments of music, and
was expert in grammar, oratory, and poetry”*
With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments,
tting him to shine both in active and elegant life, and calculated to
give him an intense relish for joyous existence, it must have been a
severe trial, in an age of bustle and chivalry, to pass the spring time
of his years in monotonous captivity. It was the good fortune of
James, however, to be gifted with a powerfully poetic fancy, and to
be visited in his prison by the choicest inspirations of the muse.
Some minds corrode and grow inactive, under the loss of personal
liberty; others grow morbid and irritable; but it is the nature of the
poet to become tender and imaginative in the loneliness of
con nement. He banquets upon the honey of his own thoughts, and,
like the captive bird, pours forth his soul in melody.
Have you not seen the nightingale
   A pilgrim coop’d into a cage,
 How doth she chant her wonted tale,
   In that her lonely hermitage!
Even there her charming melody doth prove
That all her boughs are trees, her cage a grove.†

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is

irrepressible, uncon nable. That when the real world is shut out, it
can create a world for itself, and with a necromantic power, can
conjure up glorious shapes and forms, and brilliant visions, to make
solitude populous, and irradiate the gloom of the dungeon. Such
was the world of pomp and pageant that lived round Tasso in his
dismal cell at Ferrara, when he conceived the splendid scenes of his
Jerusalem;10 and we may consider the “King’s Quair,” composed by
James during his captivity at Windsor, as another of those beautiful
breakings forth of the soul from the restraint and gloom of the
prison house.
The subject of the poem is his love for the Lady Jane Beaufort,
daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and a princess of the blood royal
of England, of whom he became enamoured in the course of his
captivity. What gives it peculiar value is, that it may be considered a
transcript of the royal bard’s true feelings, and the story of his real
loves and fortunes. It is not often that sovereigns write poetry, or
that poets deal in fact. It is gratifying to the pride of a common
man, to nd a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission into his
closet, and seeking to win his favour by administering to his
pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual
competition, which strips o all the trappings of factitious dignity,
brings the candidate down to a level with his fellow men, and
obliges him to depend on his own native powers for distinction. It is
curious, too, to get at the history of a monarch’s heart, and to nd
the simple a ections of human nature throbbing under the ermine.
But James had learnt to be a poet before he was a king: he was
schooled in adversity, and reared in the company of his own
thoughts. Monarchs have seldom time to parley with their hearts, or
meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been brought up
amidst the adulation and gaiety of a court, we should never, in all
probability, have had such a poem as the Quair.
I have been particularly interested by those parts of the poem
which breathe his immediate thoughts concerning his situation, or
which are connected with the apartment in the tower. They have
thus a personal and local charm, and are given with such
circumstantial truth, as to make the reader present with the captive
in his prison, and the companion of his meditations.
Such is the account which he gives of his weariness of spirit, and
of the incident which rst suggested the idea of writing the poem. It
was the still mid-watch of a clear moonlight night; the stars, he says,
were twinkling as re in the high vault of heaven; and “Cynthia
rinsing her golden locks in Aquarius” He lay in bed, wakeful and
restless, and took a book to beguile the tedious hours. The book he
chose was Boetius’ Consolations of Philosophy11 a work popular
among the writers of that day, and which had been translated by his
great prototype Chaucer. From the high eulogium in which he
indulges, it is evident this was one of his favourite volumes while in
prison; and indeed it is an admirable text book for meditation under
adversity. It is the legacy of a noble and enduring spirit, puri ed by
sorrow and su ering, bequeathing to its successors in calamity, the
maxims of sweet morality, and the trains of eloquent but simple
reasoning, by which it was enabled to bear up against the various
ills of life. It is a talisman, which the unfortunate may treasure up in
his bosom, or like the good King James, lay upon his nightly pillow.
After closing the volume, he turns its contents over in his mind,
and gradually falls into a t of musing on the ckleness of fortune,
the vicissitudes of his own life, and the evils that had overtaken him
even in his tender youth. Suddenly he hears the bell ringing to
matins;12 but its sound chiming in with his melancholy fancies,
seems to him like a voice exhorting him to write his story. In the
spirit of poetic errantry he determines to comply with this
intimation; he therefore takes pen in hand, makes with it a sign of
the cross to implore a benediction, and sallies forth into the fairy
land of poetry. There is something extremely fanciful in all this, and
it is interesting as furnishing a striking and beautiful instance of the
simple manner in which whole trains of poetical thought are
sometimes awakened, and literary enterprises suggested to the
mind.
In the course of his poem he more than once bewails the peculiar
hardness of his fate; thus doomed to lonely and inactive life, and
shut up from the freedom and pleasure of the world, in which the
meanest animal indulges unrestrained. There is a sweetness however
in his very complaints; they are the lamentations of an amiable and
social spirit at being denied the indulgence of its kind and generous
propensities; there is nothing in them harsh nor exaggerated; they
ow with a natural and touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered
more touching by their simple brevity. They contrast nely with
those elaborate and iterated repinings, which we sometimes meet
with, in poetry;—the e usions of morbid minds, sickening under
miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitterness upon an
uno ending world. James speaks of his privations with acute
sensibility, but having mentioned them passes on, as if his manly
mind disdained to brood over unavoidable calamities. When such a
spirit breaks forth into complaint, however brief, we are aware how
great must be the su ering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize
with James, a romantic, active, and accomplished prince, cut o in
the lustihood of youth from all the enterprise, the noble uses, and
vigorous delights of life; as we do with Milton, alive to all the
beauties of nature and glories of art, when he breathes forth brief,
but deep toned lamentations, over his perpetual blindness.13
Had not James evinced a de ciency of poetic arti ce, we might
almost have suspected that these lourings of gloomy re ection were
meant as preparative to the brightest scene of his story; and to
contrast with that refulgence of light and loveliness, that
exhilarating accompaniment of bird and song, and foliage and
ower, and all the revel of the year, with which he ushers in the
lady of his heart. It is this scene in particular, which throws all the
magic of romance about the old castle keep. He had risen, he says,
at day break, according to custom, to escape from the dreary
meditations of a sleepless pillow. “Bewailing in his chamber thus
alone,” despairing of all joy and remedy, “fortired of thought and
woebegone,” he had wandered to the window, to indulge the
captive’s miserable solace of gazing wistfully upon the world from
which he is excluded. The window looked forth upon a small garden
which lay at the foot of the tower. It was a quiet, sheltered spot,
adorned with arbours and green alleys, and protected from the
passing gaze by trees and hawthorn hedges.
Now was there made fast by the tower’s wall,
   A garden faire, and in the corners set,
An arbour green with wandis long and small
   Railed about, and so with leaves beset
Was all the place and hawthorn hedges knet,
   That lyf* was none, walkyng there forbye,
   That might within scarce any wight espye.
So thick the branches and the leves grene,
   Beshaded all the alleys that there were,
And midst of every arbour might be seen
   The sharpe, grene, sweet juniper,
Growing so fair, with branches here and there,
   That as it seemed to a lyf without,
   The boughs did spread the arbour all about.
And on the small grene twistis* set
   The lytel swete nightingales and sung
So loud and clere, the hymnis consecrate
   Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the garden and the wallis rung
Right of their song—

It was the month of May, when everything was in bloom; and he

interprets the song of the nightingale into the language of his
enamoured feeling:
 Worship all ye that lovers be this May,
   For of your bliss the kalends are begun,
And sing with us, away, winter away,
   Come, summer come, the sweet season and sun.

As he gazes on the scene, and listens to the notes of the birds, he

gradually lapses into one of those tender and unde nable reveries,
which ll the youthful bosom in this delicious season. He wonders
what this love may be, of which he has so often read, and which
thus seems breathed forth in the quickening breath of May, and
melting all nature into ecstacy and song. If it really be so great a
felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally dispensed to the most
insigni cant beings, why is he alone cut o from its enjoyments?
Oft would I think, O Lord, what, may this be
   That love is of such noble myght and kynde?
Loving his folk, and such prosperitee
Is it of him, as we in books do nd:
   May he oure hertes setten† and unbynd:
Hath he upon our hertes such maistrye?
Or is all this but feynit fantasye?
For gi he be of so grete excellence,
   That he of every wight hath care and charge,
What have I gilt* to him, or done o ense?
   That I am thral’d, and birdis go at large.

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he

beholds “the fairest and the freshest young oure,” that ever he had
seen. It is the lovely Lady Jane walking in the garden to enjoy the
beauty of that “fresh May morrowe” Breaking thus suddenly upon
his sight in the moment of loneliness and excited susceptibility, she
at once captivates the fancy of the romantic prince, and becomes the
object of his wandering wishes, the sovereign of his ideal world.
There is, in this charming scene, an evident resemblance to the
early part of Chaucer’s Knight’s Tale; where Palamon and Arcite fall
in love with Emilia, whom they see walking in the garden of their
prison. Perhaps the similarity of the actual fact to the incident
which he had read in Chaucer, may have induced James to dwell on
it in his poem. His description of the Lady Jane is given in the
picturesque and minute manner of his master; and being doubtless
taken from the life, is a perfect portrait of a beauty of that day. He
dwells, with the fondness of a lover, on every article of her apparel,
from the net of pearl, splendent with emeralds and sapphires, that
con ned her golden hair, even to the “goodly chaine of small
orfeverye†” about her neck, whereby there hung a ruby in shape of
a heart, that seemed, he says, like a spark of re burning upon her
white bosom. Her dress of white tissue was looped up to enable her
to walk with more freedom. She was accompanied by two female
attendants, and about her sported a little hound decorated with
bells; probably the small Italian hound of exquisite symmetry, which
was a parlour favourite and pet among the fashionable dames of
ancient times. James closes his description by a burst of general
eulogium.
In her was youth, beauty, with humble port,
   Bountee, richesse, and womanly feature;
God better knows than my pen can report,
   Wisdom, largesse,‡ estate,§ and cunning ¶ sure,
In every point so guided her mesure,
   In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,
   That nature might no more her child advance.

The departure of the Lady Jane from the garden, puts an end to this
transient riot of the heart. With her departs the amorous illusion
that had shed a temporary charm over the scene of his captivity,
and he relapses into loneliness, now rendered tenfold more
intolerable by this passing beam of unattainable beauty. Through
the long and weary day he repines at his unhappy lot, and when
evening approaches, and Phoebus,14 as he beautifully expresses it,
had “bad farewell to every leaf and ower,” he still lingers at the
window, and laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a
mingled ow of love and sorrow, until gradually lulled by the mute
melancholy of the twilight hour, he lapses “half sleeping, half
swoon,” into a vision which occupies the remainder of the poem,
and in which is allegorically shadowed out the history of his
passion.
When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony pillow,
and, pacing his apartment, full of dreary re ections, questions his
spirit whither it has been wandering; whether, indeed, all that has
passed before his dreaming fancy, has been conjured up by
preceding circumstances; or whether it is a vision, intended to
comfort and assure him in his despondency. If the latter, he prays
that some token may be sent to con rm the promise of happier
days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly a turtle dove, of the
purest whiteness, comes ying in at the window and alights upon
his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilli ower, on the
leaves of which is written, in letters of gold, the following sentence:
Awake! awake! I bring, lover, I bring
   The newis glad that blissful is, and sure
Of thy comfort; now laugh, and play, and sing,
   For in the heaven decretit is thy cure.

He receives the branch with mingled hope and dread; reads it

with rapture: and this, he says, was the rst token of his succeeding
happiness. Whether this is a mere poetic ction, or whether the
Lady Jane did actually send him a token of her favour in this
romantic way, remains to be determined according to the faith or
fancy of the reader. He concludes his poem, by intimating that the
promise conveyed in the vision and by the ower, is ful lled, by his
being restored to liberty, and made happy in the possession of the
sovereign of his heart.
Such is the poetical account given by James of his love adventures
in Windsor Castle. How much of it is absolute fact, and how much
the embellishment of fancy, it is fruitless to conjecture: let us not,
however, reject every romantic incident as incompatible with real
life; but let us sometimes take a poet at his word. I have noticed
merely those parts of the poem immediately connected with the
Tower, and have passed over a large part, written in the allegorical
vein, so much cultivated at that day. The language, of course, is
quaint and antiquated, so that the beauty of many of its golden
phrases will scarcely be perceived at the present day; but it is
impossible not to be charmed with the genuine sentiment, the
delightful artlessness and urbanity, which prevail throughout it. The
descriptions of nature, too, with which it is embellished, are given
with a truth, a discrimination, and a freshness, worthy of the most
cultivated periods of the art.
As an amatory poem it is edifying, in these days of coarser
thinking, to notice the nature, re nement, and exquisite delicacy
which pervade it; banishing every gross thought or immodest
expression, and presenting female loveliness, clothed in all its
chivalrous attributes of almost supernatural purity and grace.
James ourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower,15
and was evidently an admirer and studier of their writings. Indeed
in one of his stanzas he acknowledges them as his masters; and in
some parts of his poem we nd traces of similarity to their
productions, more especially to those of Chaucer. There are always,
however, general features of resemblance in the works of
contemporary authors, which are not so much borrowed from each
other as from the times. Writers, like bees, toll their sweets in the
wide world; they incorporate with their own conceptions the
anecdotes and thoughts current in society; and thus each generation
has some features in common, characteristic of the age in which it
lives.
James belongs to one of the most brilliant eras of our literary
history, and establishes the claims of his country to a participation
in its primitive honours. Whilst a small cluster of English writers are
constantly cited as the fathers of our verse, the name of their great
Scottish compeer is apt to be passed over in silence; but he is
evidently worthy of being enrolled in that little constellation of
remote but never failing luminaries, who shine in the highest
rmament of literature, and who, like morning stars, sang together
at the bright dawning of British poesy.
 Such of my readers as may not be familiar with Scottish history
(though the manner in which it has of late been woven with
captivating ction, has made it a universal study),16 may be curious
to learn something of the subsequent history of James, and the
fortunes of his love. His passion for the Lady Jane, as it was the
solace of his captivity, so it facilitated his release, it being imagined
by the court that a connection with the blood royal of England
would attach him to its interests. He was ultimately restored to his
liberty and crown, having previously espoused the Lady Jane, who
accompanied him to Scotland, and made him a most tender and
devoted wife.
He found his kingdom in great confusion, the feudal chieftains
having taken advantage of the troubles and irregularities of a long
interregnum to strengthen themselves in their possessions, and place
themselves above the power of the laws. James sought to found the
basis of his power in the a ections of his people. He attached the
lower orders to him by the reformation of abuses, the temperate and
equable administration of justice, the encouragement of the arts of
peace, and the promotion of everything that could di use comfort,
competency, and innocent enjoyment through the humblest ranks of
society. He mingled occasionally among the common people in
disguise; visited their re sides; entered into their cares, their
pursuits, and their amusements; informed himself of the mechanical
arts, and how they could best be patronized and improved; and was
thus an all pervading spirit, watching with a benevolent eye over
the meanest of his subjects. Having in this generous manner, made
himself strong in the hearts of the common people, he turned
himself to curb the power of the factious nobility; to strip them of
those dangerous immunities which they had usurped; to punish such
as had been guilty of agrant o ences; and to bring the whole into
proper obedience to the crown. For some time they bore this with
outward submission, but secret impatience and brooding
resentment. A conspiracy was at length formed against his life, at
the head of which was his own uncle, Robert Stewart Earl of Athol,
who, being too old himself for the perpetration of the deed of blood,
instigated his grandson Sir Robert Stewart, together with Sir Robert
Graham, and others of less note, to commit the deed. They broke
into his bed chamber at the Dominican Convent near Perth, where
he was residing, and barbarously murdered him by oft repeated
wounds. His faithful queen rushing to throw her tender body
between him and the sword, was twice wounded in the ine ectual
attempt to shield him from the assassin, and it was not until she had
been forcibly torn from his person, that the murder was
accomplished.
It was the recollection of this romantic tale of former times, and
of the golden little poem which had its birth place in this tower, that
made me visit the old pile with more than common interest. The
suit of armour hanging up in the hall, richly gilt and embellished as
if to gure in the tourney, brought the image of the gallant and
romantic prince vividly before my imagination. I paced the deserted
chambers where he had composed his poem; I leaned upon the
window and endeavoured to persuade myself it was the very one
where he had been visited by his vision; I looked out upon the spot
where he had rst seen the Lady Jane. It was the same genial and
joyous month; the birds were again vying with each other in strains
of liquid melody; everything was bursting into vegetation, and
budding forth the tender promise of the year. Time, which delights
to obliterate the sterner memorials of human pride, seems to have
passed lightly over this little scene of poetry and love, and to have
withheld his desolating hand. Several centuries have gone by, yet
the garden still ourishes at the foot of the tower. It occupies what
was once the moat of the keep; and though some parts have been
separated by dividing walls, yet others have still their arbours and
shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is sheltered,
blooming, and retired. There is a charm about a spot that has been
printed by the footsteps of departed beauty, and consecrated by the
inspirations of the poet, which is heightened, rather than impaired,
by the lapse of ages. It is, indeed, the gift of poetry to hallow every
place in which it moves; to breathe round nature an odour more
exquisite than the perfume of the rose, and to shed over it a tint
more magical than the blush of morning.
Others may dwell on the illustrious deeds of James as a warrior
and a legislator; but I have delighted to view him merely as the
companion of his fellow man, the benefactor of the human heart,
stooping from his high estate to sow the sweet owers of poetry and
song in the paths of common life. He was the rst to cultivate the
vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish genius, which has since become
so proli c of the most wholesome and highly avoured fruit. He
carried with him into the sterner regions of the north, all the
fertilizing arts of southern re nement. He did everything in his
power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle
arts, which soften and re ne the character of a people, and wreathe
a grace round the loftiness of a proud and warlike spirit. He wrote
many poems, which, unfortunately for the fullness of his fame, are
now lost to the world; one which is still preserved, called “Christ’s
Kirk of the Green,” shows how diligently he had made himself
acquainted with the rustic sports and pastimes, which constitute
such a source of kind and social feeling among the Scottish
peasantry; and with what simple and happy humour he could enter
into their enjoyments. He contributed greatly to improve the
national music; and traces of his tender sentiment, and elegant taste,
are said to exist in those witching airs, still piped among the wild
mountains and lonely glens of Scotland. He has thus connected his
image with whatever is most gracious and endearing in the national
character; he has embalmed his memory in song, and oated his
name to after ages in the rich stream of Scottish melody. The
recollection of these things was kindling at my heart, as I paced the
silent scene of his imprisonment. I have visited Vaucluse17 with as
much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto;18
but I have never felt more poetical devotion than when
contemplating the old tower and the little garden at Windsor, and
musing over the romantic loves of the Lady Jane and the Royal Poet
of Scotland.
*Buchanan.7

*Ballenden’s Translation of Hector Boyce.8

†Roger l’Estrange.9
*Lyf, person.
*Twistis, small boughs or twigs.
  Note.—The language of the quotations is generally modernized.
†Setten, incline.
*Gilt, what injury have I done, &c.
†Wrought gold.
‡Largesse, bounty.
§Estate, dignity.
¶Cunning, discretion.
 THE COUNTRY CHURCH

A gentleman?
What, o’the woolpack? or the sugar chest?
Or lists of velvet? which is’t pound, or yard,
You vend your gentry by?

BEGGAR’S BUSH1

There are few places more favourable to the study of character than
an English country church. I was once passing a few weeks at the
seat of a friend who resided in the vicinity of one the appearance of
which particularly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels
of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to English
landscape. It stood in the midst of a county lled with ancient
families, and contained within its cold and silent aisles, the
congregated dust of many noble generations. The interior walls were
encrusted with monuments of every age and style. The light
streamed through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly
emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the church were
tombs of knights and high born dames of gorgeous workmanship,
with their e gies in coloured marble. On every side the eye was
struck with some instance of aspiring mortality; some haughty
memorial which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in
this temple of the most humble of all religions.
The congregation was composed of the neighbouring people of
rank, who sat in pews sumptuously lined and cushioned, furnished
with richly gilded prayer books, and decorated with their arms upon
the pew doors;—the villagers and peasantry, who lled the back
seats, and a small gallery beside the organ, and the poor of the
parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles.
The service was performed by a snu ing well fed vicar, who had
a snug dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all the
tables of the neighbourhood and had been the keenest foxhunter in
the country, until age and good living had disabled him from doing
anything more than ride to see the hounds throw o , and make one
at the hunting dinner.
Under the ministry of such a pastor I found it impossible to get
into the train of thought suitable to the time and place, so having,
like many other feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience
by laying the sin of my own delinquency at another person’s
threshold, I occupied myself by making observations of my
neighbours.
I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to notice the
manners of its fashionable classes. I found, as usual, that there was
the least pretension where there was the most acknowledged title to
respect. I was particularly struck for instance, with the family of a
nobleman of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters.
Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their
appearance. They generally came to church in the plainest equipage,
and often on foot. The young ladies would stop and converse in the
kindest manner with the peasantry, caress the children, and listen to
the stories of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open,
beautifully fair, with an expression of high re nement, but at the
same time a frank cheerfulness and an engaging a ability. Their
brothers were tall and elegantly formed. They were dressed
fashionably but simply; with strict neatness and propriety, but
without any mannerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanour was
easy and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness, which
bespeak free born souls that have never been checked in their
growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a healthful hardiness
about real dignity, that never dreads contact and communion with
others, however humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and
sensitive and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see the
manner in which they would converse with the peasantry about
those rural concerns and eld sports, in which the gentlemen of this
country so much delight. In these conversations there was neither
haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the other; and you
were only reminded of the di erence of rank by the habitual respect
of the peasant.
In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, who had
amassed a vast fortune, and having purchased the estate and
mansion of a ruined nobleman in the neighbourhood, was
endeavouring to assume all the style and dignity of a hereditary lord
of the soil. The family always came to church en prince. They were
rolled majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. The
crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of the harness
where a crest could possibly be placed. A fat coachman in a three
cornered hat, richly laced, and a axen wig, curling close around his
rosy face, was seated on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside
him. Two footmen in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets and
gold headed canes lolled behind. The carriage rose and sunk on its
long springs with peculiar stateliness of motion. The very horses
champed their bits, arched their necks and glanced their eyes more
proudly than common horses, either because they had caught a little
of the family feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary.
I could not but admire the style with which this splendid pageant
was brought up to the gate of the church yard. There was a vast
e ect produced at the turning of an angle of the wall. A great
cracking of the whip—straining and scrambling of the horses—
glistering of harness and ashing of wheels through gravel. This was
the moment of triumph and vain glory to the Coachman. The horses
were urged and checked until they were fretted into a foam. They
threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about pebbles at
every step. The crowd of villagers sauntering quietly to church
opened precipitately to the right and left, gaping in vacant
admiration—On reaching the gate the horses were pulled up with a
suddenness that produced an immediate stop and almost threw
them on their haunches.
There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, open
the door, pull down the steps and prepare everything for the descent
on earth of this august family. The old citizen rst emerged his
round red face from out the door, looking about him with the
pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on change and shake the
stock market with a nod. His consort, a ne, eshy, comfortable
dame followed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride in
her composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, vulgar
enjoyment. The world went well with her—and she liked the world.
She had ne clothes, a ne house, a ne carriage, ne children,
everything was ne about her: it was nothing but driving about, and
visiting, and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual revel; it was one
long, lord mayor’s day.2
Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They certainly
were handsome but had a supercilious air, that chilled admiration
and disposed the spectator to be critical. They were ultra-
fashionables in dress, and though no one could deny the richness of
their decorations, yet their appropriateness might be questioned
amidst the simplicity of a country church. They descended loftily
from the carriage and moved up the line of peasantry, with a step
that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive
glance around that passed coldly over the burly faces of the
peasantry, until they met the eyes of the nobleman’s family, when
their countenances immediately brightened into smiles and they
made the most profound and elegant courtsies; which were returned
in a manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances.
I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, who came
to church in a dashing curricle with outriders.3 They were arrayed
in the extremity of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress, which
marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. They kept
entirely by themselves, eying everyone askance that came near
them; as if measuring his claims to respectability; yet they were
without conversation, except the exchange of an occasional cant
phrase. They even moved arti cially, for their bodies, in compliance
with the caprice of the day, had been disciplined into the absence of
all ease and freedom. Art had done everything to accomplish them
as men of fashion, but nature had denied the nameless grace. They
were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the common purposes of
life and had that air of supercilious assumption which is never seen
in the true gentleman.
I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of these two
families, because I considered them specimens of what is often to be
met within this country—the unpretending great and the arrogant
little. I have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accompanied by
true nobility of soul; but I have remarked, in all countries where
arti cial distinctions exist, the very highest classes are always the
most courteous and unassuming—Those who are well assured of
their own standing are least apt to trespass on that of others;
whereas nothing is so o ensive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which
thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbour.
As I have brought these families into contrast I must notice their
behaviour in church. That of the nobleman’s family was quiet,
serious and attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervour of
devotion but rather a respect for sacred things and sacred places,
inseparable from good breeding. The others on the contrary were in
a perpetual utter and whisper; they betrayed a continual
consciousness of nery and a sorry ambition of being the wonders of
a rural congregation.
The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to the
service. He took the whole burden of family devotion upon himself;
standing bolt upright and uttering the responses with a loud voice
that might be heard all over the church. It was evident that he was
one of those thorough Church and King men who connect the idea
of devotion and loyalty; who consider the deity somehow or other,
of the government party, and religion “a very excellent sort of thing
that ought to be countenanced and kept up.”
 When he joined so loudly in the service it seemed more by way of
example to the lower orders, to show them, that though so great and
wealthy, he was not above being religious, as I have seen a turtle
fed alderman4 swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking
his lips at every mouthful and pronouncing it “excellent food for the
poor.”
When the service was at an end I was curious to witness the
several exits of my groups. The young noblemen and their sisters as
the day was ne preferred strolling home across the elds, chatting
with the country people as they went. The others departed as they
came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages wheeled up to the
gate. There was again the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs
and the glittering of harness. The horses started o almost at a
bound; the villagers again hurried to right and left; the wheels
threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspiring family was rapt out of
sight in a whirlwind.
 THE WIDOW AND HER SON

Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires

Honour and reverence ever more have raign’d.

MARLOWE’S TAMBURLAINE1

Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have
noticed the pensive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The
clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the ail; the
din of the blacksmith’s hammer; the whistling of the plowman; the
rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are
suspended. The very farm dogs bark less frequently, being less
disturbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fancied
the winds sunk into quiet and that the sunny landscape, with its
fresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm.
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky.2

Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of

rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its
moral in uence; every restless passion is charmed down, and we
feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up within us.
For my part there are feelings that visit me, in a country church,
amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere
else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a better man on
Sunday than on any other day of the seven.
 During my recent residence in the country I used frequently to
attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles; its mouldering
monuments; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of
departed years, seemed to t it for the haunt of solemn meditation;
but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of
fashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt myself
continually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp
of the poor worms around me. The only being in the whole
congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel the humble and
prostrate piety of a true Christian, was a poor, decrepid old woman,
bending under the weight of years and in rmities. She bore the
traces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of
decent pride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect
too had been awarded her, for she did not take her seat among the
village poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to
have survived all love, all friendship, all society, and to have
nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly
rising and bending her aged form in prayer; habitually conning her
prayer book, which her palsied hand and failing eyes would not
permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart—I felt
persuaded that the faltering voice of that poor woman arose to
heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell of the organ
or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was so
delightfully situated that it frequently attracted me. It stood on a
knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend and then
wound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The
church was surrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval
with itself. Its tall gothic spire shot up lightly from among them,
with rooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there
one still sunny morning watching two labourers who were digging a
grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected
corners of the church yard, where, from the number of nameless
graves around, it would appear that the indigent and friendless were
huddled into the earth. I was told that the new made grave was for
the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating on the
distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very
dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral.
They were the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing
to do. A co n of the plainest materials, without pall or other
covering, was borne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked
before with an air of cold indi erence. There were no mock
mourners in the trappings of a ected woe, but there was one real
mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the aged
mother of the deceased—the poor old woman whom I had seen
seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported by a humble
friend, who was endeavouring to comfort her. A few of the
neighbouring poor had joined the train, and some children of the
village were running, hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking
mirth, and now pausing to gaze with childish curiosity on the grief
of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave the parson issued from
the church porch arrayed in the surplice, with prayer book in hand
and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of
charity. The deceased had been destitute and the survivor was
penniless. It was shu ed through, therefore, in form, but coldly and
unfeelingly. The well fed priest moved but a few steps from the
church door—his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave, and
never did I hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching
ceremony, turned into such a frigid mummery3 of words.
I approached the grave. The co n was placed on the ground. On
it were inscribed the name and age of the deceased. “George
Somers, aged 26 Years” The poor mother had been assisted to kneel
down at the head of it. Her withered hands were clasped as if in
prayer, but I could perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a
convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on the last
reliques of her son with the yearnings of a mother’s heart.
Preparations were made to deposit the co n in the earth. There
was that bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of
grief and a ection—directions given in the cold tones of business—
the striking of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the grave of
those we love, is of all sounds the most withering. The bustle
around seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched reverie. She
raised her glazed eyes, and looked about, with a faint wildness. As
the men approached with cords to lower the co n into the grave
she wrung her hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor
woman who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring to
raise her from the earth and to whisper something like consolation
—“Nay now—nay now—don’t take it so sorely to heart—” She
could only shake her head and wring her hands, as one not to be
comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth the creaking of the cords
seemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction
there was a justling of the co n, all the tenderness of the mother
burst forth; as if any harm could come to him, who was far beyond
the reach of worldly su ering.
I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat—my eyes
lled with tears—I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in
standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I
wandered to another part of the church yard where I remained until
the funeral train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave,
leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth,
and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her—
What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich!—they have friends to
soothe; pleasures to beguile; a world to divert and dissipate their
griefs—What are the sorrows of the young! Their growing minds
soon close above the wound—their elastic spirits soon rise beneath
the pressure—their green and ductile a ections soon twine around
new objects—But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward
appliances to soothe—the sorrows of the aged with whom life at
best is but a wintry day, and who can look for no aftergrowth of joy
—the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over
an only son the last solace of her years—these are indeed sorrows
which make us feel the impotency of consolation.
It was some time before I left the church yard—on my way
homeward I met with the woman who had acted as comforter: she
was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely
habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with the
a ecting scene I had witnessed.
The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from
childhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by
various rural occupations and the assistance of a small garden, had
supported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy
and a blameless life. They had one son who had grown up to be the
sta and pride of their age—“Oh sir!” said the good woman, “he
was such a likely lad; so sweet tempered; so kind to everyone round
him; so dutiful to his parents! It did one’s heart good to see him of a
Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery—
supporting his old mother to church—for she was always fonder of
leaning on George’s arm than on her good man’s—and, poor soul,
she might well be proud of him, for a ner lad, there was not in the
country round.”
Unfortunately the son was tempted during a year of scarcity and
agricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the small
craft that plied on a neighbouring river. He had not been long in
this employ when he was entrapped by a press gang and carried o
to sea.4 His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that
they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The
father who was already in rm, grew heartless and melancholy and
sunk into his grave. The widow left lonely in her age and feebleness
could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still
there was a kind feeling towards her throughout the village and a
certain respect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one
applied for the cottage in which she had passed so many happy
days, she was permitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and
almost helpless—The few wants of nature were chie y supplied
from the scanty productions of her little garden, which the
neighbours would now and then cultivate for her. It was but a few
days before the time at which these circumstances were told me,
that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when she
heard the cottage door which faced the garden suddenly opened. A
stranger came out and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly
around. He was dressed in seaman’s clothes, was emaciated and
ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness and
hardships. He saw her and hastened towards her, but his steps were
faint and faltering—he sank on his knees before her and sobbed like
a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacant and
wondering eye—“Oh my dear-dear mother! don’t you know your
son!—your poor boy George!” It was indeed the wreck of her once
noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign
imprisonment, had at length dragged his wasted limbs homeward to
repose among the scenes of his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting,
where joy and sorrow were so completely blended—Still he was
alive!—he was come home!—he might yet live to comfort and
cherish her old age!—Nature, however, was exhausted in him, and if
anything had been wanting to nish the work of fate, the desolation
of his native cottage would have been su cient. He stretched
himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother had passed
many a sleepless night, and he never rose from it again.
The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned,
crowded to see him, o ering every comfort and assistance that their
humble means a orded. He was too weak, however, to talk—he
could only look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant;
and he seemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of
manhood; that softens the heart and brings it back to the feelings of
infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness
and despondency—who that has pined on a weary bed in the
neglect and loneliness of a foreign land—but has thought on the
mother “that looked on his childhood,” that smoothed his pillow
and administered to his helplessness.—Oh! there is an enduring
tenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends all
other a ections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by sel shness
—nor daunted by danger—nor weakened by worthlessness—nor
sti ed by ingratitude. She will sacri ce every comfort to his
convenience—she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment—
she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity. And if
misfortune overtake him he will be the dearer to her from
misfortune—and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love
and cherish him in spite of his disgrace—and if all the world beside
cast him o , she will be all the world to him—
Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness and
none to soothe, lonely and in prison and none to visit him. He could
not endure his mother from his sight—if she moved away, his eye
would follow her. She would sit for hours by his bed watching him
as he slept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and
look anxiously up until he saw her bending over him, when he
would take her hand, lay it on his bosom and fall asleep with the
tranquility of a child—In this way he died.
My rst impulse on hearing this humble tale of a iction, was to
visit the cottage of the mourner and administer pecuniary
assistance, and, if possible comfort. I found, however, on enquiry,
that the good feelings of the villagers had prompted them to do
everything that the case admitted: and as the poor know best how to
console each other’s sorrows, I did not venture to intrude.
The next Sunday I was at the village church; when to my surprize,
I saw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her
accustomed seat on the steps of the altar.
She had made an e ort to put on something like mourning for her
son; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between
pious a ection and utter poverty—A black ribband, or so—a faded
black handkerchief—and one or two more such humble attempts to
express by outward signs that grief which passes show—When I
looked round upon the storied monuments—the stately hatchments5
—the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned
magni cently over departed pride; and turned to this poor widow
bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her god, and o ering
up the prayers and praises of a pious, though a broken heart, I felt
that this living monument of real grief was worth them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the
congregation and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves
to render her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her
a ictions. It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave.
In the course of a Sunday or two after she was missed from her
usual seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood I heard
with a feeling of satisfaction that she had quietly breathed her last,
and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow
is never known, and friends are never parted.
 A SUNDAY IN LONDON*

In a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the

country and its tranquilizing e ect upon the landscape; but where is
its sacred in uence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart
of that great Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic monster
is charmed into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week
are at an end. The shops are shut. The res of forges and
manufactories are extinguished; and the sun, no longer obscured by
murky clouds of smoke, pours down a sober yellow radiance into
the quiet streets. The few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying
forward with anxious countenances, move leisurely along; their
brows are smoothed from the wrinkles of business and care; they
have put on their Sunday looks, and Sunday manners, with their
Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as well as in person.
And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers
summons their several ocks to the fold. Forth issues from his
mansion the family of the decent tradesman; the small children in
the advance; then the citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the
grown up daughters, with small morocco bound prayerbooks laid in
the folds of their pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after
them from the window, admiring the nery of the family and
receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her young mistresses, at
whose toilette she has assisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city;
peradventure an Alderman or a Sheri ; and now the patter of many
feet announces a procession of charity scholars in uniforms of
antique cut, and each with a prayerbook under his arm.
The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage has
ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more: the ocks are folded
in ancient churches cramped up in bye lanes and corners of the
crowded city; where the vigilant beadle1 keeps watch, like the
shepherd’s dog, round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time
everything is hushed; but soon is heard the deep pervading sound of
the organ, rolling and vibrating through the empty lanes and courts;
and the sweet chanting of the choir making them resound with
melody and praise. Never have I been more sensible of the
sanctifying e ect of church music than when I have heard it thus
poured forth, like a river of joy through the inmost recesses of this
great metropolis, cleansing it, as it were, from all the sordid
pollutions of the week; and bearing the poor world worn soul on a
tide of triumphant harmony to heaven.
The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with
the congregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapse
into silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which to the city
tradesman, is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for
social enjoyment at the board. Members of the family can now
gather together, who are separated by the laborious occupations of
the week. A school boy may be permitted on that day to come to the
paternal home; an old friend of the family takes his accustomed
Sunday seat at the board, tells over his well known stories and
rejoices young and old with his well known jokes.
On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its legions to breathe
the fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs.
Satyrists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of a
London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful
in beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city
enabled thus to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the
green bosom of nature. He is like a child restored to the mother’s
breast; and they who rst spread out these noble parks and
magni cent pleasure grounds which surround this huge metropolis,
have done at least as much for its health and morality as if they had
expended the amount of cost in hospitals, prisons and penitentiaries.
* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.
 THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN, EAST CHEAP1
A Shakespearian Research

A tavern is the rendezvous, the Exchange, the staple of good fellows. I have
heard my great grandfather tell, how his great, great grandfather should
say, that it was an old proverb when his great grandfather was a child, that
“it was a good wind that blew a man to the wine.”

MOTHER BOMBIE2

It is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honour the

memory of saints, by votive lights burnt before their pictures. The
popularity of a saint, therefore, may be known by the number of
these o erings. One perhaps is left to moulder in the darkness of his
little chapel; another may have a solitary lamp to throw its blinking
rays athwart his e gy; while the whole blaze of adoration is
lavished at the shrine of some beati ed father of renown. The
wealthy devotee brings his huge luminary of wax, the eager zealot
his seven branched candlestick, and even the mendicant pilgrim is
by no means satis ed that su cient light is thrown upon the
deceased, unless he hang up his little lamp of smoking oil. The
consequence is, that in the eagerness to enlighten they are often apt
to obscure; and I have occasionally seen an unlucky saint, almost
smoked out of countenance by the o ciousness of his followers.
In like manner has it fared with the immortal Shakespeare. Every
writer considers it his bounden duty to light up some portion of his
character or works, and to rescue some merit from oblivion. The
commentator, opulent in words, produces vast tomes of
dissertations; the common herd of editors send up mists of obscurity
from their notes at the bottom of each page, and every casual
scribbler brings his farthing rush light3 of eulogy or research, to
swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.
As I honour all established usages of my brethren of the quill, I
thought it but proper to contribute my mite of homage to the
memory of the illustrious bard. I was for some time, however, sorely
puzzled in what way I should discharge this duty. I found myself
anticipated in every attempt at a new reading; every doubtful line
had been explained a dozen di erent ways and perplexed beyond
the reach of elucidation; and as to ne passages, they had all been
amply praised by previous admirers; nay, so completely had the
bard of late been over-larded with panegyric by a great German
critic, that it was di cult now to nd even a fault that had not been
argued into a beauty.
In this perplexity I was one morning turning over his pages, when
I casually opened upon the comic scenes of Henry the Fourth, and
was in a moment completely lost in the mad cap revelry of the
Boar’s head Tavern. So vividly and naturally are these scenes of
humour depicted, and with such force and consistency are the
characters sustained, that they become mingled up in the mind with
the facts and personages of real life. To few readers does it occur
that these are all ideal creations of a poet’s brain, and that, in sober
truth, no such knot of merry roysters ever enlivened the dull
neighbourhood of East Cheap.
For my part I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A
Hero of ction who never existed, is just as valuable to me as a hero
of history who existed a thousand years since; and, if I may be
excused such an insensibility to the common ties of human nature, I
would not give up fat Jack, for half the great men of ancient
chronicle. What have the heroes of yore done for me, or men like
me?—They have conquered countries of which I do not enjoy an
acre—or they have gained laurels of which I do not inherit a leaf—
or they have furnished examples of hairbrained prowess, which I
have neither the opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But old
Jack Falsta !—kind Jack Falsta !—sweet Jack Falsta !—has
enlarged the boundaries of human enjoyment; he has added vast
regions of wit and good humour, in which the poorest man may
revel; and has bequeathed a never failing inheritance of jolly
laughter to make mankind merrier and better to the latest posterity.
A thought suddenly struck me—“I will make a pilgrimage to East
Cheap,” said I, closing the book, “and see if the old Boar’s head
Tavern still exists. Who knows but I may light upon some legendary
traces of Dame Quickly and her guests; at any rate, there will be a
kindred pleasure in treading the halls once vocal with their mirth, to
that the toper4 enjoys, in smelling to the empty cask, once lled
with generous wine.”
The resolution was no sooner formed than put in execution. I
forbear to treat of the various adventures and wonders I
encountered in my travels—of the haunted regions of Cocklane—of
the faded glories of Little Britain and the parts adjacent; what perils
I ran in Cateaton Street and Old Jewry; of the renowned Guildhall
and its two stunted Giants, the pride and wonder of the city and the
terror of all unlucky urchins—and how I visited London Stone5 and
struck my sta upon it in imitation of that arch rebel Jack Cade.6
Let it su ce to say, that I at length arrived in merry East Cheap,
that ancient region of wit and wassail, where the very names of the
streets relished of good cheer, as Pudding Lane bears testimony even
at the present day. For East Cheap says old Stow,7 “was always
famous for its convivial doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef
rested, pies well baked and other victuals: there was clattering of
pewter pots, harpe, pipe and sawtrie” Alas! how sadly is the scene
changed since the roaring days of Falsta and old Stow. The mad
cap royster has given place to the plodding tradesman—the
clattering of pots and the sound of “harp and sawtry”8 to the din of
carts and the accursed dinging of the dustman’s bell; and no song is
heard save haply the strain of some syren from Billingsgate9
chanting the eulogy of deceased mackrel.
I sought in vain for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only
relique of it is a boar’s head carved in relief in stone, which formerly
served as the sign, but at present is built into the parting line of two
houses which stand on the site of the renowned old Tavern.
For the history of this little empire of good fellowship I was
referred to a Tallow chandler’s10 widow opposite, who had been
born and brought up on the spot, and was looked up to as the
indisputable chronicler of the neighbourhood. I found her seated in
a little back parlour, the window of which looked out upon a yard
about eight feet square, laid out as a ower garden; while a glass
door opposite a orded a distant peep of the street through a vista of
soap and tallow candles: the two views which comprised in all
probability her prospects of life, and the little world in which she
had lived, and moved, and had her being, for the better part of a
century.
To be versed in the history of East Cheap, great and little, from
London Stone even unto the Monument,11 was doubtless in her
opinion to be acquainted with the history of the universe. Yet with
all this she possessed the simplicity of true wisdom, and that liberal,
communicative disposition, which I have generally remarked in
intelligent old ladies, knowing in the concerns of their
neighbourhood.
Her information, however, did not extend far back into antiquity.
She could throw no light upon the history of the Boar’s head from
the time that Dame Quickly espoused the valiant Pistol,12 until the
great re of London, when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was
soon rebuilt, and continued to ourish under the old name and sign,
until a dying Landlord, struck with remorse for double scores, bad
measures, and other iniquities which are incident to the sinful race
of Publicans, endeavoured to make his peace with heaven by
bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael’s church, Crooked Lane,
towards the supporting of a chaplain. For some time the vestry
meetings were regularly held there, but it was observed that the old
Boar never held up his head under church government. He gradually
declined, and nally gave his last gasp about thirty years since. The
tavern was then turned into shops, but she informed me that a
picture of it was still preserved in St. Michael’s church, which stood
just in the rear. To get a sight of this picture was now my
determination, so having informed myself of the abode of the sexton
I took my leave of the venerable chronicler of East Cheap, my visit
having doubtless raised greatly her opinion of her legendary lore,
and furnished an important incident in the history of her life.
It cost me some di culty and much curious enquiry to ferret out
the humble hanger on to the church. I had to explore Crooked Lane
and divers little alleys and elbows and dark passages, with which
this old city is perforated, like an ancient cheese, or a worm eaten
chest of drawers. At length I traced him to a corner of a small court,
surrounded by lofty houses, where the inhabitants enjoy about as
much of the face of heaven, as a community of frogs at the bottom
of a well. The sexton was a meek acquiescing little man, of a bowing
lowly habit; yet he had a pleasant twinkle in his eye, and if
encouraged would now and then hazard a small pleasantry, such as
a man of his low estate might venture to make in the company of
high church wardens, and other mighty men of the earth. I found
him in company with the deputy organist, seated apart, like Milton’s
angels discoursing no doubt on high doctrinal points,13 and settling
the a airs of the church over a friendly pot of ale—for the lower
classes of English seldom deliberate on any weighty matter without
the assistance of a cool tankard to clear their understandings. I
arrived at the moment when they had nished their ale and their
argument, and were about to repair to the church to put it in order,
so having made known my wishes I received their gracious
permission to accompany them.
The church of St. Michael, Crooked Lane, standing a short
distance from Billingsgate, is enriched with the tombs of many
Fishmongers of renown, and as every profession has its galaxy of
glory and its constellation of great men, I presume the monument of
a mighty Fishmonger of the olden time, is regarded with as much
reverence by succeeding generations of the craft as poets feel on
contemplating the tomb of Virgil, or soldiers the monument of a
Marlborough or a Turenne.14
I cannot but turn aside, while thus speaking of illustrious men, to
observe that St. Michael’s Crooked Lane contains also the ashes of
that doughty champion William Walworth, knight, who so manfully
clove down the sturdy wight Wat Tyler in Smith eld, a hero worthy
of honorable blazon as almost the only Lord Mayor on record,
famous for deeds of arms:—the Sovereigns of Cockney15 being
generally renowned, as the most paci c of all potentates.*
Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the
back windows of what was once the Boar’s Head stands the tomb
stone of Robert Preston, whilom drawer16 at the Tavern. It is now
nearly a century since this trusty drawer of good liquor closed his
bustling career, and was thus quietly deposited within call of his
customers. As I was clearing away the weeds from his epitaph the
little sexton drew me on one side with a mysterious air, and
informed me in a low voice, that once upon a time on a dark wintry
night, when the wind was unruly, howling and whistling, banging
about doors and windows and twirling weather cocks so that the
living were frightened out of their beds and even the dead could not
sleep quietly in their graves, the ghost of honest Preston, which
happened to be airing itself in the church yard, was attracted by the
well known call of “waiter” from the Boar’s Head, and made its
sudden appearance in the midst of a roaring club, just as the parish
clerk was singing a stave17 from the “mirrie garland of captain
Death”—to the discom ture of sundry train-band captains18 and the
conversion of an in del attorney, who became a zealous Christian
on the spot and was never known to twist the truth afterwards
except in the way of business.
I beg it may be remembered that I do not pledge myself for the
authenticity of this anecdote, though it is well known that the
church yards and bye corners of this old metropolis are very much
infested with perturbed spirits and everyone must have heard of the
Cock Lane Ghost, and the apparition that guards the regalia in the
Tower, which has frightened so many bold sentinels almost out of
their wits.
Be all this as it may, this Robert Preston seems to have been a
worthy successor to the nimble tongued Francis who attended upon
the revels of Prince Hal, to have been equally prompt with his
“anon, anon, sir” and to have transcended his predecessor in
honesty, for Falsta , the veracity of whose taste no man will venture
to impeach, atly accuses Francis of putting lime in his sack:
whereas honest Preston’s epitaph lauds him for the sobriety of his
conduct, the soundness of his wine and the fairness of his measure.*
The worthy dignitaries of the church, however, did not appear much
captivated by the sober virtues of the Tapster; the deputy organist,
who had a moist look out of the eye, made some shrewd remark on
the abstemiousness of a man brought up among full hogsheads, and
the little sexton corroborated his opinion by a signi cant wink and a
dubious shake of the head.
Thus far my researches, though they threw much light on the
history of Tapsters, Fishmongers and Lord Mayors, yet disappointed
me in the great object of my quest, the picture of the Boar’s Head
Tavern. No such painting was to be found in the church of St.
Michael. “Marry and amen!” said I, “here endeth my research!” So I
was giving the matter up with the air of a ba ed antiquary, when
my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious in everything
relative to the old Tavern, o ered to show me the choice vessels of
the vestry, which had been handed down from remote times, when
the parish meetings were held at the Boar’s Head. These were
deposited in the Parish club room, which had been transferred, on
the decline of the ancient establishment, to a tavern in the
neighbourhood.
A few steps brought us to the house which stands No. 12. Miles
Lane, bearing the title of The Mason’s Arms, and is kept by Master
Edward Honeyball, the “bully Rock” of the establishment. It is one
of those little taverns which abound in the heart of the city and
form the centre of gossip and intelligence of the neighbourhood.
We entered the bar room, which was narrow and darkling; for in
these close lanes but few rays of re ected light are enabled to
struggle down to the inhabitants, whose broad day is at best but a
tolerable twilight. The room was partitioned into boxes, each
containing a table spread with a clean white cloth ready for dinner.
This showed that the guests were of the good old stamp, and divided
their day equally; for it was but just one o’clock. At the lower end of
the room was a clear coal re, before which a breast of lamb was
roasting. A row of bright brass candlesticks and pewter mugs
glistened along the mantle piece, and an old fashioned clock ticked
in one corner. There was something primitive in this medley of
Kitchen, Parlour and Hall, that carried me back to earlier times and
pleased me. The place indeed was humble, but everything had that
look of order and neatness which bespeaks the superintendance of a
notable English housewife. A group of amphibious looking beings,
who might be either shermen or sailors were regaling themselves
in one of the boxes. As I was a visitor of rather higher pretensions I
was ushered into a little misshapen back room having at least nine
corners. It was lighted by a sky light, furnished with antiquated
leathern chairs and ornamented with the portrait of a fat pig. It was
evidently appropriated to particular customers, and I found a
shabby gentleman, in a red nose and oil cloth hat, seated in one
corner, meditating on a half empty pot of porter.
The old sexton had taken the landlady aside and with an air of
profound importance imparted to her my errand. Dame Honeyball
was a likely, plump, bustling little woman, and no bad substitute for
that paragon of hostesses Dame Quickly. She seemed delighted with
an opportunity to oblige, and hurrying up stairs to the archives of
her house, where the precious vessels of the parish club were
deposited, she returned smiling and curtseying with them in her
hands.
The rst she presented me was a japanned20 iron tobacco box of
gigantic size, out of which I was told the vestry had smoked at their
stated meetings since time immemorial; and which was never
su ered to be profaned by vulgar hands or used on common
occasions. I received it with becoming reverence, but what was my
delight on beholding on its cover the identical painting of which I
was in quest. There was displayed the outside of the Boar’s Head
Tavern, and before the door was to be seen the whole convivial
group at table in full revel; pictured with that wonderful delity and
force, with which the portraits of renowned generals and
commodores are illustrated on tobacco boxes, for the bene t of
posterity. Lest, however, there should be any mistake, the cunning
limner21 had warily inscribed the names of Prince Hal and Falsta
on the bottoms of their chairs.
On the inside of the cover was an inscription, nearly obliterated,
recording that this box was the gift of Sir Richard Gore, for the use
of the vestry meetings at the Boar’s Head Tavern, and that it was
“repaired and beauti ed by his successor Mr. John Packard 1767”
Such is a faithful description of this august and venerable relique,
and I question whether the learned Scriblerius contemplated his
Roman shield,22 or the Knights of the Round Table the long sought
san-greal23 with more exultation.
While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame
Honeyball, who was highly grati ed by the interest it excited, put in
my hands a drinking cup or goblet, which also belonged to the
vestry, and was descended from the old Boar’s Head. It bore the
inscription of having been the gift of Francis Wythers, Knight, and
was held, she told me, in exceeding great value, being considered
very “antyke” This last opinion was strengthened by the shabby
gentleman in the red nose and oil cloth hat, and whom I strongly
suspected of being a lineal descendant from the valiant Bardolph.24
He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of porter, and
casting a knowing look at the goblet exclaimed—“Aye-aye, the head
don’t ache now, that made that there article”—
The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry
by modern church wardens, at rst puzzled me; but there is nothing
sharpens the apprehension so much as antiquarian research; for I
immediately perceived that this could be no other than the identical
“parcel-gilt goblet” on which Falsta made his loving but faithless
vow to Dame Quickly; and which would of course be treasured up
with care among the regalia of her domains, as a testimony of that
solemn contract.*
Mine hostess indeed gave me a long history how the goblet had
been handed down from generation to generation. She also
entertained me with many particulars concerning the worthy
vestrymen who have seated themselves thus quietly on the stools of
the ancient roysters25 of East Cheap, and, like so many
commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honour of Shakespeare.
These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as curious in
these matters as myself. Su ce it to say, the neighbours one and all
about East Cheap, believe that Falsta and his merry crew actually
lived and revelled there. Nay there are several legendary anecdotes
concerning him still extant among the oldest frequenters of the
Mason’s arms; which they give, as transmitted down from their
forefathers; and Mr. McKash, an Irish hair dresser, whose shop
stands on the site of the old Boar’s Head, has several dry jokes of Fat
Jack’s, not laid down in the books, with which he makes his
customers ready to die of laughter.
I now turned to my friend the sexton to make some further
enquiries, but I found him sunk in pensive meditation. His head had
declined a little on one side—a deep sigh heaved from the very
bottom of his stomach, and though I could not see a tear trembling
in his eye, yet a moisture was evidently stealing from a corner of his
mouth. I followed the direction of his eye through the door which
stood open and found it xed wistfully on the savoury breast of
lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the re.
I now called to mind, that in the eagerness of my recondite
investigation I was keeping the poor man from his dinner. My
bowels yearned with sympathy, and, putting in his hand a small
token of my gratitude and good will, I departed with a hearty
benediction on him, Dame Honeyball and the parish club of
Crooked Lane—not forgetting my shabby, but sententious friend, in
the oil cloth hat and copper nose.
Thus have I given a “tedious brief” account of this interesting
research, for which, if it prove too short and unsatisfactory, I can
only plead my inexperience in this branch of literature so deservedly
popular at the present day. I am aware that a more skillful
illustrator of the immortal bard would have swelled the materials I
have but touched upon, to a good merchantable bulk—comprizing
the biographies of William Walworth, Jack Straw and Robert
Preston—some notice of the Eminent Fishmongers of St. Michael’s—
the history of East Cheap, great and little—private anecdotes of
Dame Honeyball and her pretty daughter, whom I have not even
mentioned, to say nothing of a damsel tending the breast of lamb
(and whom, by the way, I remarked to be a comely lass, with a neat
foot and ancle)—the whole enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and
illuminated by the great re of London.
All this I leave as a rich mine to be worked by future
commentators; nor do I despair of seeing the tobacco box and the
“parcel-gilt goblet” which I have thus brought to light, the subjects
of future engravings and almost as fruitful of voluminous
dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles, or the far famed
Portland vase.26

* NOTE The following was the ancient inscription on the monument of this worthy
—which unhappily was destroyed in the great con agration—

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame

William Walworth callyd by name:
Fishmonger he was in Ly time here
And twise Lord Maior, as in Books appere;
Who with courage stout and manly myght
Slew Jackstraw in King Richards syght.
For which act done and trew Entent
The Kyng made him Knyght incontinent;
And gave him armes, as here you see,
 To declare his Fact and chivaldrie.
He left this Ly the yere of our God
Thirteen hondred fourscore and three odd.

An error in the foregoing inscription has been corrected by the venerable Stow
—“Whereas,” saith he, “it hath been far spread abroad by vulgar opinion, that the
rebel smitten down so manfully by Sir William Walworth, the then worthy Lord
Maior was named Jack Straw and not Wat Tyler, I thought good to reconcile this
rash conceived doubt by such testimony as I nd in ancient and good records. The
principal Leaders or captains of the commons were Wat Tyler as the rst man; the
second was John or Jack Straw &c &c” Stow’s London.
*NOTE. As this inscription is rife with excellent morality, I transcribe it for the
admonition of delinquent Tapsters. It is no doubt the production of some choice
spirit who once frequented the Boar’s Head.

“Bacchus19 to give the toping world surprize

Produced one sober son, and here he lies.
Though rear’d among full hogsheads he defy’d
The charms of wine, and every one beside.
O reader if to justice thou’rt inclin’d
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.
He drew good wine, took care to ll his pots
Had sundry virtues that excus’d his faults.
You that on Bacchus have the like dependance,
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.”

*NOTE. Thou didst swear to me, upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting in my Dolphin
chamber, at the round table, by a sea coal re, on Wednesday in Whitsunweek,
when the prince broke thy head for likening his father to a singing man of Windsor;
thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy wound, to marry me, and make

me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? IId. Part. Henry IV.
 THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE
A Colloquy in Westminster Abbey

   I know that all beneath the moon decays,

And what by mortals in this world is brought,
In time’s great period shall return to nought.
   I know that all the muses’ heavenly layes,
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought,
As idle sounds of few or none are sought,
   That there is nothing lighter than mere praise.

DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN1

There are certain half dreaming moods of mind, in which we

naturally steal away from noise and glare, and seek some quiet
haunt, where we may indulge our reveries and build our air castles
undisturbed. In such a mood I was loitering about the old gray
cloisters of Westminster Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering
thought which one is apt to dignify with the name of re ection,
when suddenly an irruption of madcap boys from Westminster
school playing at football broke in upon the monastic stillness of the
place, making the vaulted passages and mouldering tombs echo with
their merriment. I sought to take refuge from their noise by
penetrating still deeper into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to
one of the vergers2 for admission to the library. He conducted me
through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of former ages,
which opened upon a gloomy passage leading to the chapter house
and the chamber in which the doomsday book3 is deposited. Just
within the passage is a small door on the left. To this the verger
applied a key; it was double locked, and opened with some
di culty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark narrow
staircase, and passing through a second door, entered the library.
I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof supported by
massive joists of old English oak. It was soberly lighted by a row of
Gothic windows at a considerable height from the oor, and which
apparently opened upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture
of some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung over the
re place. Around the hall and in a small gallery were the books,
arranged in carved oaken cases. They consisted principally of old
polemical writers, and were much more worn by time than use. In
the centre of the library was a solitary table with two or three books
on it; an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long
disuse. The place seemed tted for quiet study and profound
meditation. It was buried deep among the massive walls of the
abbey, and shut up from the tumult of the world. I could only hear
now and then the shouts of the schoolboys faintly swelling from the
cloister, and the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly
along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of merriment
grew fainter and fainter, and at length died away. The bell ceased to
toll, and a profound silence reigned through the dusky hall.
I had taken down a little thick quarto,4 curiously bound in
parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the table in a
venerable elbow chair. Instead of reading, however, I was beguiled
by the solemn monastic air, and lifeless quiet of the place, into a
train of musing. As I looked around upon the old volumes in their
mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently
never disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the library
a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like mummies, are
piously entombed, and left to blacken and moulder in dusty
oblivion.
 How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now thrust aside
with such indi erence, cost some aching head; how many weary
days—how many sleepless nights. How have their authors buried
themselves in the solitude of cells and cloisters; shut themselves up
from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of nature, and
devoted themselves to painful research and intense re ection. And
all for what! to occupy an inch of dusty shelf—to have the title of
their works read now and then in a future age, by some drowsy
churchman, or casual straggler like myself; and in another age to be
lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount of this boasted
immortality.—A mere temporary rumour, a local sound, like the
tone of that bell which has just tolled among these towers, lling
the ear for a moment—lingering transiently in echo—and then
passing away, like a thing that was not!
While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these unpro table
speculations, with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming
with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally loosened
the clasps, when, to my utter astonishment, the little book gave two
or three yawns, like one awakening from a deep sleep; then a husky
hem, and at length began to talk. At rst its voice was very hoarse
and broken, being much troubled by a cobweb which some studious
spider had woven across it; and having probably contracted a cold
from long exposure to the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short
time, however, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an
exceedingly uent conversable little tome. Its language, to be sure,
was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pronunciation, what, in the
present day, would be deemed barbarous; but I shall endeavour, as
far as I am able, to render it in modern parlance.
It began with railings about the neglect of the world—about merit
being su ered to languish in obscurity, and other such common
place topics of literary repining, and complained bitterly that it had
not been opened for more than two centuries. That the Dean only
looked now and then into the library, sometimes took down a
volume or two, tri ed with them for a few moments, and then
returned them to their shelves. “What a plague do they mean,” said
the little quarto, which I began to perceive was somewhat choleric,
“what a plague do they mean by keeping several thousand volumes
of us shut up here, and watched by a set of old vergers like so many
beauties in a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the
Dean? Books were written to give pleasure and to be enjoyed; and I
would have a rule passed that the Dean should pay each of us a visit
at least once a year; or if he is not equal to the task, let them once in
a while turn loose the whole school of Westminster among us, that
at any rate we may now and then have an airing.”
“Softly, my worthy friend,” replied I, “you are not aware how
much better you are o than most books of your generation. By
being stored away in this ancient library, you are like the treasured
remains of those saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the
adjoining chapels, while the remains of your contemporary mortals,
left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since returned to
dust.”
“Sir,” said the little tome, ru ing his leaves and looking big, “I
was written for all the world, not for the bookworms of an abbey. I
was intended to circulate from hand to hand, like other great
contemporary works; but here have I been clasped up for more than
two centuries, and might have silently fallen a prey to these worms
that are playing the very vengeance with my intestines, if you had
not by chance given me an opportunity of uttering a few last words
before I go to pieces.”
“My good friend,” rejoined I, “had you been left to the circulation
of which you speak, you would long ere this have been no more. To
judge from your physiognomy, you are now well stricken in years:
very few of your contemporaries can be at present in existence; and
those few owe their longevity to being immured like yourself in old
libraries; which, su er me to add, instead of likening to harems, you
might more properly and gratefully have compared to those
in rmaries attached to religious establishments, for the bene t of
the old and decrepid, and where, by quiet fostering and no
employment, they often endure to an amazingly good for nothing
old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in circulation—where
do we meet with their works? what do we hear of Robert Grosteste
of Lincoln? No one could have toiled harder than he for
immortality. He is said to have written nearly two hundred volumes.
He built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his name: but,
alas! the pyramid has long since fallen, and only a few fragments
are scattered in various libraries, where they are scarcely disturbed
even by the antiquarian. What do we hear of Gyraldus Cambrensis,
the historian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet? He
declined two bishoprics that he might shut himself up and write for
posterity; but posterity never inquires after his labours. What of
Henry of Huntingdon, who, beside a learned history of England,
wrote a treatise on the contempt of the world, which the world has
revenged by forgetting him. What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter,
styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of his three
great heroic poems one is lost forever, excepting a mere fragment;
the others are known only to a few of the curious in literature, and
as to his love verses and epigrams, they have entirely disappeared.
What is in current use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired
the name of the tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury;—of Simeon
of Durham; of Benedict of Peterborough; of John Hanvill of St.
Albans; of—”5
“Prithee, friend,” cried the quarto in a testy tone, “how old do you
think me? You are talking of authors that lived long before my time,
and wrote either in Latin or French, so that they in a manner
expatriated themselves, and deserved to be forgotten;* but I, sir,
was ushered into the world from the press of the renowned Wynkyn
de Worde.6 I was written in my own native tongue at a time when
the language had become xed, and indeed I was considered a
model of pure and elegant English.”
(I should observe that these remarks were couched in such
intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had in nite di culty in
rendering them into modern phraseology.)
“I cry you mercy,” said I, “for mistaking your age; but it matters
little; almost all the writers of your time have likewise passed into
forgetfulness; and De Worde’s publications are mere literary rarities
among book collectors. The purity and stability of language, too, on
which you found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious
dependence of authors of every age, even back to the times of the
worthy Robert of Gloucester,7 who wrote his history in rhymes of
mongrel Saxon. † Even now, many talk of Spenser’s ‘well of pure
English unde led,’8 as if the language ever sprang from a well or
fountain head, and was not rather a mere con uence of various
tongues, perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is this
which has made English literature so extremely mutable, and the
reputation built upon it so eeting. Unless thought can be
committed to something more permanent and unchangeable than
such a medium, even thought must share the fate of everything else,
and fall into decay. This should serve as a check upon the vanity
and exultation of the most popular writer. He nds the language in
which he has embarked his fame gradually altering, and subject to
the dilapidations of time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back
and beholds the early authors of his country, once the favourites of
their day, supplanted by modern writers. A few short ages have
covered them with obscurity, and their merits can only be relished
by the quaint taste of the bookworm. And such, he anticipates, will
be the fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired in
its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the course of years
grow antiquated and obsolete, until it shall become almost as
unintelligible in its native land as an Egyptian obelisk, or one of
those Runic inscriptions said to exist in the deserts of Tartary I
declare,” added I with some emotion, “when I contemplate a
modern library, lled with new works in all the bravery of rich
gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and weep, like the
good Xerxes11 when he surveyed his army, pranked out in all the
splendour of military array, and re ected that in one hundred years
not one of them would be in existence!”
“Ah,” said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, “I see how it is;
these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I
suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia,
Sackville’s stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the ne spun
euphuisms of the “unparalelled John Lyly”12
“There you are again mistaken,” said I, “the writers whom you
suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were
last in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip Sidney’s
Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by his
admirers,* and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate
images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely ever
mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; and even Lyly,
though his writings were once the delight of a court, and apparently
perpetuated by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name. A
whole crowd of authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have
likewise gone down with all their writings and their controversies.
Wave after wave of succeeding literature has rolled over them, until
they are buried so deep, that it is only now and then that some
industrious diver after the fragments of antiquity brings up a
specimen for the grati cation of the curious.
“For my part,” I continued, “I consider this mutability of language
a wise precaution of Providence for the bene t of the world at large,
and of authors in particular. To reason from analogy, we daily
behold the varied and beautiful tribes of vegetables springing up,
ourishing, adorning the elds for a short time, and then fading into
dust, to make way for their successors. Were not this the case, the
fecundity of nature would be a grievance instead of a blessing. The
earth would groan with rank and excessive vegetation, and its
surface become a tangled wilderness. In like manner, the works of
genius and learning decline and make way for subsequent
productions. Language gradually varies, and with it fade away the
writings of authors who have ourished their allotted time;
otherwise the creative powers of genius would overstock the world,
and the mind would be completely bewildered in the endless mazes
of literature. Formerly there were some restraints on this excessive
multiplication. Works had to be transcribed by hand, which was a
slow and laborious operation; they were written either on
parchment, which was expensive, so that one work was often erased
to make way for another; or on papyrus, which was fragile and
extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and unpro table
craft, and pursued chie y by monks in the leisure and solitude of
their cloisters. The accumulation of manuscripts was slow and
costly, and con ned almost entirely to monasteries. To these
circumstances it may in some measure be owing that we have not
been inundated by the intellect of antiquity; that the fountains of
thought have not been broken up, and modern genius drowned in
the deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have put an
end to all these restraints. They have made everyone a writer, and
enabled every mind to pour itself into print, and di use itself over
the whole intellectual world. The consequences are alarming. The
stream of literature has swollen into a torrent—augmented into a
river—expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, ve or six
hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but what would
you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing three and four
hundred thousand volumes; legions of authors at the same time
busy, and the press going on with fearfully increasing activity, to
double and quadruple the number? Unless some unforeseen
mortality should break out among the progeny of the muse, now
that she has become so proli c, I tremble for posterity. I fear the
mere uctuation of language will not be su cient. Criticism may do
much; it increases with the increase of literature, and resembles one
of those salutary checks on population spoken of by economists.15
All possible encouragement, therefore, should be given to the
growth of critics, good or bad. But I fear all will be in vain; let
criticism do what it may, writers will write, printers will print, and
the world will inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will
soon be the employment of a life time merely to learn their names.
Many a man of passable information at the present day reads scarce
anything but reviews, and before long a man of erudition will be
little better than a mere walking catalogue.”
“My very good sir,” said the little quarto, yawning most drearily
in my face, “excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are
rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who was
making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation, however,
was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at
him, for he was a poor half educated varlet, that knew little of Latin,
and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to run the country for
deer stealing. I think his name was Shakspeare. I presume he soon
sunk into oblivion.”
“On the contrary,” said I, “it is owing to that very man that the
literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the
ordinary term of English literature. There arise authors now and
then, who seem proof against the mutability of language, because
they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of human
nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on the
banks of a stream; which, by their vast and deep roots, penetrating
through the mere surface, and laying hold on the very foundations
of the earth, preserve the soil around them from being swept away
by the ever owing current, and hold up many a neighbouring plant,
and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with
Shakspeare, whom we behold, defying the encroachments of time,
retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day, and
giving duration to many an indi erent author, merely from having
ourished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is gradually
assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is overrun by a
profusion of commentators, who, like clambering vines and
creepers, almost bury the noble plant that upholds them.”
Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until
at length he broke out into a short plethoric t of laughter that had
well nigh choked him, by reason of his excessive corpulency.
“Mighty well!” cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, “mighty
well! and so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is
to be perpetuated by a vagabond deer stealer! by a man without
learning! by a poet, forsooth—a poet!” And here he wheezed forth
another t of laughter.
I confess I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however,
I pardoned on account of his having ourished in a less polished
age. I determined, nevertheless, not to give up my point.
 “Yes,” resumed I positively, “a poet; for of all writers he has the
best chance for immortality. Others may write from the head, but he
writes from the heart, and the heart will always understand him. He
is the faithful portrayer of nature, whose features are always the
same, and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and
unwieldy; their pages are crowded with common places, and their
thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with the true poet
everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. He gives the choicest
thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by everything
that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by
pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings,
therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may use the phrase, of
the age in which he lives. They are caskets which inclose within a
small compass the wealth of the language—its family jewels, which
are thus transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting may
occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then to be
renewed, as in the case of Chaucer; but the brilliancy and intrinsic
value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast a look back over the long
reach of literary history. What vast valleys of dulness, lled with
monkish legends and academical controversies. What bogs of
theological speculations; what dreary wastes of metaphysics. Here
and there only do we behold the heaven illumined bards, elevated
like beacons on their widely separated heights, to transmit the pure
light of poetical intelligence from age to age”*
I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon the poets of
the day, when the sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my
head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to
close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto,
but the worthy little tome was silent; the clasps were closed, and it
looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to
the library two or three times since, and have endeavoured to draw
it into farther conversation, but in vain. And whether all this
rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of
those odd day dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this
moment, been able to discover.
* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great delyte to endite, and
have many noble thinges ful lde, but certes there ben some that speaken their
poisye in French, of which speche the French men have as good a fantasye as we

have in heryng of Frenchemen’s Englishe. Chaucer’s Testament of Love.9

† Holinshed, in his Chronicle,10 observes, “afterward, also, by diligent travell of

Ge ray Chaucer and John Gowre, in the time of Richard the second, and after them
of John Scogan and John Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to
an excellent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of perfection
until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, Bishop of Sarum, John Fox,
and sundrie learned and excellent writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of
the same, to their great praise and immortal commendation.”
* Live ever sweete booke; the silver image of his gentle witt, and the golden pillar of
his noble courage; and ever notify unto the world that thy writer was the secretary
of eloquence, the breath of the muses, the honey bee of the dayntiest owers of witt
and arte, the pith of morale and intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the eld,

the tongue of Suada in the chamber,13 the spirite of Practise in esse, and the

paragon of excellency in print. Harvey’s Pierce’s Supererogation.14

*

Thorow earth, and waters deepe,

   The pen by skill doth passe:
And featly nyps the worldes abuse,
   And shoes us in a glasse,
The vertu and the vice
   Of every wight alyve;
The honey combe that bee doth make,
   Is not so sweete in hyve,
As are the golden leves
   That drop from poets head:
Which doth surmount our common talke
   As farre as dros doth lead.

CHURCHYARD16
 RURAL FUNERALS

Here’s a few owers; but about midnight more:

The herbs that have on them cold dew o’ the night
Are strewings tt’st for graves.—
You were as owers now wither’d: even so
These herb’lets shall, which we upon you strow.

CYMBELINE1

Among the beautiful and simple hearted customs of rural life which
still linger in some parts of England, are those of strewing owers
before the funerals, and planting them at the graves, of departed
friends. These, it is said, are the remains of some of the rites of the
primitive church; but they are of still higher antiquity, having been
observed among the Greeks and Romans, and frequently mentioned
by their writers, and were no doubt the spontaneous tributes of
unlettered a ection, originating long before art had tasked itself to
modulate sorrow into song, or story it on the monument. They are
now only to be met with in the most distant and retired places of
the kingdom, where fashion and innovation have not been able to
throng in, and trample out all the curious and interesting traces of
the olden time.
In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse lies,
is covered with owers, a custom alluded to in one of the wild and
plaintive ditties of Ophelia:
 White his shroud as the mountain snow
   Larded all with sweet owers;
Which be-wept to the grave did go,

   With true-love showers.2

There is also a most delicate and beautiful rite observed in some

of the remote villages of the south, at the funeral of a female who
has died young and unmarried. A chaplet3 of white owers is borne
before the corpse by a young girl nearest in age, size, and
resemblance, and is afterwards hung up in the church over the
accustomed seat of the deceased. These chaplets are sometimes
made of white paper, in imitation of owers, and inside of them is
generally a pair of white gloves. They are intended as emblems of
the purity of the deceased, and the crown of glory which she has
received in heaven.
In some parts of the country, also, the dead are carried to the
grave with the singing of psalms and hymns: a kind of triumph, “to
show,” says Bourne, “that they have nished their course with joy
and are become conquerors”4 This, I am informed, is observed in
some of the northern counties, particularly in Northumberland, and
it has a pleasing, though melancholy e ect, to hear, of a still
evening, in some lonely country scene, the mournful melody of a
funeral dirge swelling from a distance, and to see the train slowly
moving along the landscape.
Thus, thus, and thus, we compass round
Thy harmlesse and unhaunted ground,
And as we sing thy dirge, we will
       The Da odill,
And other owers lay upon

The altar of our love, thy stone.*5

There is also a solemn respect paid by the traveller to the passing

funeral in these sequestered places, for such spectacles, occurring
among the quiet abodes of nature, sink deep into the soul. As the
mourning train approaches, he pauses, uncovered, to let it go by; he
then follows silently in the rear; sometimes quite to the grave, at
other times for a few hundred yards, and having paid this tribute of
respect to the deceased, turns and resumes his journey.
The rich vein of melancholy which runs through the English
character, and gives it some of its most touching and ennobling
graces, is nely evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the
solicitude shown by the common people for an honoured and a
peaceful grave. The humblest peasant, whatever may be his lowly
lot while living, is anxious that some little respect may be paid to
his remains. Sir Thomas Overbury6 describing the “faire and happy
milkmaid,” observes, “thus lives she, and all her care is, that she
may die in the spring time, to have store of owers stucke upon her
winding sheet” The poets, too, who always breathe the feeling of a
nation, continually advert to this fond solicitude about the grave. In
“The Maid’s Tragedy,” by Beaumont and Fletcher,7 there is a
beautiful instance of the kind, describing the capricious melancholy
of a broken hearted girl:
       When she sees a bank
Stuck full of owers, she, with a sigh, will tell
Her servants, what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in; and make her maids
Pluck ’em, and strew her over like a corse.

The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent:

osiers8 were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured,
and about them were planted evergreens and owers. “We adorn
their graves,” says Evelyn, in his Sylva,9 “with owers and redolent
plants, just emblems of the life of man, which has been compared in
holy scriptures to those fading beauties, whose roots being buried in
dishonour, rise again in glory” This usage has now become
extremely rare in England; but it may still be met within the church
yards of retired villages, among the Welsh mountains; and I
recollect an instance of it at the small town of Ruthen, which lies at
the head of the beautiful vale of Clewyd. I have been told also by a
friend, who was present at the funeral of a young girl in
Glamorganshire, that the female attendants had their aprons full of
owers, which, as soon as the body was interred, they stuck about
the grave. He noticed several graves which had been decorated in
the same manner. As the owers had been merely stuck in the
ground, and not planted, they had soon withered, and might be seen
in various states of decay; some drooping others quite perished.
They were afterwards to be supplanted by holly, rosemary, and
other evergreens; which on some graves had grown to great
luxuriance, and overshadowed the tomb stones.
There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement
of these rustic o erings that had something in it truly poetical. The
rose was sometimes blended with the lily, to form a general emblem
of frail mortality. “This sweet ower,” says Evelyn, “borne on a
branch set with thorns, and accompanied with the lily, are natural
hieroglyphics of our fugitive, umbratile, anxious, and transitory life,
which, making so fair a show for a time, is not yet without its thorns
and crosses” The nature and colour of the owers, and of the
ribbands with which they were tied, had often a particular reference
to the qualities or story of the deceased, or were expressive of the
feelings of the mourner. In an old poem, entitled “Corydon’s Doleful
Knell,” a lover speci es the decorations he intends to use:
A garland shall be framed
   By art and nature’s skill,
Of sundry-coloured owers,
   In token of good will.
And sundry-coloured ribbands
   On it I will bestow;
But chie y blacke and yellowe
   With her to grave shall go.
I’ll deck her tomb with owers
   The rarest ever seen;
 And with my tears as showers
   I’ll keepe them fresh and green.

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin;
her chaplet was tied with white ribbands, in token of her spotless
innocence, though sometimes black ribbands were intermingled, to
bespeak the grief of the survivors. The red rose was occasionally
used in remembrance of such as had been remarkable for
benevolence; but roses in general were appropriated to the graves of
lovers. Evelyn tells us that the custom was not altogether extinct in
his time, near his dwelling in the county of Surrey, “where the
maidens yearly planted and decked the graves of their defunct
sweethearts with rose-bushes” And Camden, likewise, remarks in his
Britannia: “Here is also a certain custom, observed time out of mind,
of planting rose trees upon the graves, especially by the young men
and maids who have lost their loves; so that this church yard is now
full of them”10
When the deceased had been unhappy in their loves, emblems of
a more gloomy character were used, such as the yew and cypress;
and if owers were strewn they were of the most melancholy
colours. Thus, in poems by Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in
1651) is the following stanza:
    Yet strew
Upon my dismall grave
Such o erings as you have,
    Forsaken cypresse and sad yewe;
For kinder owers can take no birth
Or growth from such unhappy earth.

In “The Maid’s Tragedy,” a pathetic little air is introduced,

illustrative of this mode of decorating the funerals of females who
had been disappointed in love:
Lay a garland on my hearse
   Of the dismall yew,
 Maidens willow branches wear,
   Say I died true.
My love was false, but I was rm
   From my hour of birth,
Upon my buried body lie
   Lightly, gentle earth.

The natural e ect of sorrow over the dead is to re ne and elevate

the mind, and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and
the una ected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of
these funereal observances. Thus, it was an especial precaution, that
none but sweet scented evergreens and owers should be employed.
The intention seems to have been to soften the horrors of the tomb,
to beguile the mind from brooding over the disgraces of perishing
mortality, and to associate the memory of the deceased with the
most delicate and beautiful objects in nature. There is a dismal
process going on in the grave, ere dust can return to its kindred
dust, which the imagination shrinks from contemplating; and we
seek still to think of the form we have loved, with those re ned
associations which it awakened when blooming before us in youth
and beauty. “Lay her i’ the earth,” says Laertes of his virgin sister,
And from her fair and unpolluted esh

May violets spring!11

Herrick, also, in his “Dirge of Jeptha,” pours forth a fragrant ow

of poetical thought and image, which in a manner embalms the
dead in the recollections of the living.
Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
And make this place all Paradise:
May sweets grow here! and smoke from hence,
      Fat frankinscence.
Let balme and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden monument.

*  *  *  *  *  *
 May all shie maids at wonted hours
Come forth to strew thy tombe with owers;
May virgins when they come to mourn,
      Male incense burn
Upon thine altar! then return
And leave thee sleeping in thine urn.

I might crowd my pages with extracts from the older British poets,
who wrote when these rites were more prevalent, and delighted
frequently to allude to them; but I have already quoted more than is
necessary. I cannot however refrain from giving a passage from
Shakspeare, even though it should appear trite, which illustrates the
emblematical meaning often conveyed in these oral tributes, and at
the same time possesses that magic of language and appositeness of
imagery for which he stands pre-eminent:
      With fairest owers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack
The ower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azur’d harebell like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander,

Outsweetened not thy breath.12

There is certainly something more a ecting in these prompt and

spontaneous o erings of nature, than in the most costly monuments
of art; the hand strews the ower while the heart is warm, and the
tear falls on the grave as a ection is binding the osier around the
sod; but pathos expires under the slow labour of the chisel, and is
chilled among the cold conceits of sculptured marble.
It is greatly to be regretted, that a custom so truly elegant and
touching has disappeared from general use, and exists only in the
most remote and insigni cant villages. But it seems as if poetical
custom always shuns the walks of cultivated society. In proportion
as people grow polite they cease to be poetical. They talk of poetry,
but they have learnt to check its free impulses, to distrust its
sallying emotions, and to supply its most a ecting and picturesque
usages, by studied form and pompous ceremonial. Few pageants can
be more stately and frigid than an English funeral in town. It is
made up of show and gloomy parade: mourning carriages, mourning
horses, mourning plumes, and hireling mourners, who make a
mockery of grief. “There is a grave digged,” says Jeremy Taylor,
“and a solemn mourning, and a great talk in the neighbourhood,
and when the daies are nished, they shall be, and they shall be
remembered no more”13 The associate in the gay and crowded city
is soon forgotten; the hurrying succession of new intimates and new
pleasures e aces him from our minds, and the very scenes and
circles in which he moved are incessantly uctuating. But funerals
in the country are solemnly impressive. The stroke of death makes a
wider space in the village circle, and is an awful event in the
tranquil uniformity of rural life. The passing bell tolls its knell in
every ear; it steals with its pervading melancholy over hill and vale,
and saddens all the landscape.
The xed and unchanging features of the country also, perpetuate
the memory of the friend with whom we once enjoyed them, who
was the companion of our most retired walks, and gave animation
to every lonely scene. His idea is associated with every charm of
nature; we hear his voice in the echo which he once delighted to
awaken; his spirit haunts the grove which he once frequented; we
think of him in the wild upland solitude, or amidst the pensive
beauty of the valley. In the freshness of joyous morning, we
remember his beaming smiles and bounding gayety; and when sober
evening returns with its gathering shadows and subduing quiet, we
call to mind many a twilight hour of gentle talk and sweet souled
melancholy.
Each lonely place shall him restore,
   For him the tear be duly shed,
Belov’d till life can charm no more,

   And mourn’d, till pity’s self be dead.14

 Another cause that perpetuates the memory of the deceased in the
country, is, that the grave is more immediately in sight of the
survivors. They pass it on their way to prayer; it meets their eyes
when their hearts are softened by the exercises of devotion; they
linger about it on the sabbath, when the mind is disengaged from
worldly cares, and most disposed to turn aside from present
pleasures and present loves, and to sit down among the solemn
mementos of the past. In North Wales the peasantry kneel and pray
over the graves of their deceased friends for several Sundays after
the interment; and where the tender rite of strewing and planting
owers is still practised, it is always renewed on Easter,
Whitsuntide,15 and other festivals, when the season brings the
companion of former festivity more vividly to mind. It is also
invariably performed by the nearest relatives and friends; no
menials nor hirelings are employed, and if a neighbour yields
assistance, it would be deemed an insult to o er compensation.
I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because, as it is one
of the last, so is it one of the holiest o ces of love. The grave is the
ordeal of true a ection. It is there that the divine passion of the soul
manifests its superiority to the instinctive impulse of mere animal
attachment. The latter must be continually refreshed and kept alive
by the presence of its object, but the love that is seated in the soul
can live on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of sense
languish and decline with the charms which excited them, and turn
with shuddering disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb; but
it is thence that truly spiritual a ection rises puri ed from every
sensual desire, and returns, like a holy ame, to illumine and
sanctify the heart of the survivor.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse
to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal—every other
a iction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep
open—this a iction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where
is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished
like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang?
Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of
parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the
hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who,
even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most
loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of
its portal, would accept of consolation that must be bought by
forgetfulness?—No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the
noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its
delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into
the gentle tear of recollection; when the sudden anguish and the
convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is
softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days
of its loveliness—who would root out such a sorrow from the heart?
Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright
hour of gayety; or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom;
yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the
burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than
song. There is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even
from the charms of the living. Oh the grave!—the grave!—It buries
every error—covers every defect—extinguishes every resentment.
From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender
recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy,
and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred
with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him!
But the grave of those we loved—what a place for meditation!
There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue
and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us
almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy;—there it is
that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of
the parting scene—the bed of death, with all its sti ed griefs, its
noiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assiduities—the last
testimonies of expiring love—the feeble, uttering, thrilling, oh!
how thrilling! pressure of the hand—the faint, faltering accents
struggling in death to give one more assurance of a ection—the last
fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the
threshold of existence!
 Aye, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the
account with thy conscience for every past bene t unrequited—
every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can
never—never—never return to be soothed by thy contrition!
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a
furrow to the silvered brow of an a ectionate parent—if thou art a
husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its
whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt one moment of thy kindness
or thy truth—if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in
thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously con ded in
thee—if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to
that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;—then
be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every
ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and
knocking dolefully at thy soul—then be sure that thou wilt lie down
sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan,
and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because
unheard and unavailing.
Then weave thy chaplet of owers, and strew the beauties of
nature about the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with
these tender, yet futile tributes of regret;—but take warning by the
bitterness of this thy contrite a iction over the dead, and
henceforth be more faithful and a ectionate in the discharge of thy
duties to the living.

In writing the preceding article, it was not intended to give a full

detail of the funeral customs of the English peasantry, but merely to
furnish a few hints and quotations illustrative of particular rites; to
be appended, by way of note, to another paper, which has been
withheld. The article swelled insensibly into its present form, and
this is mentioned as an apology for so brief and casual a notice of
these usages, after they have been amply and learnedly investigated
in other works.
 I must observe, also, that I am well aware that this custom of
adorning graves with owers prevails in other countries besides
England. Indeed, in some it is much more general, and is observed
even by the rich and fashionable, but it is then apt to lose its
simplicity, and to degenerate into a ectation. Bright, in his travels
in Lower Hungary16 tells of monuments of marble, with recesses
formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers of green
house plants; and that the graves generally are covered with the
gayest owers of the season. He gives a casual picture of lial piety,
which I cannot but transcribe; for I trust it is as useful as it is
delightful to illustrate the amiable virtues of the sex. “When I was at
Berlin,” says he, “I followed the celebrated I and17 to the grave.
Mingled with some pomp, you might trace much real feeling. In the
midst of the ceremony, my attention was attracted by a young
woman who stood on a mound of earth, newly covered with turf,
which she anxiously protected from the feet of the passing crowd. It
was the tomb of her parent; and the gure of this a ectionate
daughter presented a monument more striking than the most costly
work of art.”
I will barely add an instance of sepulchral decoration that I once
met with among the mountains of Switzerland. It was at the village
of Gersau, which stands on the borders of the lake of Lucerne, at the
foot of Mount Rigi. It was once the capital of a miniature republic,
shut up between the Alps and the lake, and accessible on the land
side only by foot paths. The whole force of the republic did not
exceed six hundred ghting men; and a few miles of circumference,
scooped out as it were from the bosom of the mountains, comprised
its territory. The village of Gersau seemed separated from the rest of
the world, and retained the golden simplicity of a purer age. It had a
small church, with a burying ground adjoining. At the heads of the
graves were placed crosses of wood or iron. On some were a xed
miniatures, rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses of
the deceased. On the crosses were hung chaplets of owers, some
withering, others fresh, as if occasionally renewed. I paused with
interest at this scene; I felt that I was at the source of poetical
description, for these were the beautiful but una ected o erings of
the heart which poets are fain to record. In a gayer and more
populous place, I should have suspected them to have been
suggested by factitious sentiment, derived from books; but the good
people of Gersau knew little of books; there was not a novel nor a
love poem in the village; and I question whether any peasant of the
place dreamt, while he was twining a fresh chaplet for the grave of
his mistress, that he was ful lling one of the most fanciful rites of
poetical devotion, and that he was practically a poet.

*Herrick
 THE INN KITCHEN

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?

FALSTAFF1

During a journey that I once made through the Netherlands, I had

arrived one evening at the Pomme d’Or, the principal inn of a small
Flemish village. It was after the hour of the table d’hote, so that I was
obliged to make a solitary supper from the reliques of its ampler
board. The weather was chilly; I was seated alone in one end of a
great gloomy dining room, and my repast being over, I had the
prospect before me of a long dull evening, without any visible
means of enlivening it. I summoned mine host, and requested
something to read; he brought me the whole literary stock of his
household, a Dutch family Bible, an almanack in the same language,
and a number of old Paris newspapers. As I sat dozing over one of
the latter, reading old news and stale criticisms, my ear was now
and then struck with bursts of laughter which seemed to proceed
from the kitchen. Everyone that has travelled on the continent, must
know how favourite a resort the kitchen of a country inn is to the
middle and inferior order of travellers, particularly in that equivocal
kind of weather, when a re becomes agreeable toward evening. I
threw aside the newspaper, and explored my way to the kitchen, to
take a peep at the group that appeared to be so merry. It was
composed partly of travellers who had arrived some hours before in
a diligence, and partly of the usual attendants and hangers on of
inns. They were seated around a great burnished stove, that might
have been mistaken for an altar, at which they were worshipping. It
was covered with various kitchen vessels of resplendent brightness;
among which steamed and hissed a huge copper tea kettle. A large
lamp threw a strong mass of light upon the group, bringing out
many odd features in strong relief. Its yellow rays partially
illumined the spacious kitchen, dying duskily away into remote
corners, except where they settled in mellow radiance on the broad
side of a itch of bacon, or were re ected back from well scoured
utensils, that gleamed from the midst of obscurity. A strapping
Flemish lass, with long golden pendants in her ears, and a necklace
with a golden heart suspended to it, was the presiding priestess of
the temple.
Many of the company were furnished with pipes, and most of
them with some kind of evening potation. I found their mirth was
occasioned by anecdotes which a little swarthy Frenchman, with a
dry weazen face and large whiskers, was giving of his love
adventures; at the end of each of which there was one of those
bursts of honest unceremonious laughter, in which a man indulges
in that temple of true liberty, an Inn.
As I had no better mode of getting through a tedious blustering
evening, I took my seat near the stove, and listened to a variety of
travellers’ tales, some very extravagant, and most very dull. All of
them, however, have faded from my treacherous memory except
one, which I will endeavour to relate. I fear, however, it derived its
chief zest from the manner in which it was told, and the peculiar air
and appearance of the narrator. He was a corpulent old Swiss, who
had the look of a veteran traveller. He was dressed in a tarnished
green travelling jacket, with a broad belt round his waist, and a pair
of overalls, with buttons from the hips to the ankles. He was of a
full, rubicund countenance, with a double chin, aquiline nose, and a
pleasant twinkling eye. His hair was light, and curled from under an
old green velvet travelling cap stuck on one side of his head. He was
interrupted more than once by the arrival of guests, or the remarks
of his auditors; and paused now and then to replenish his pipe; at
which times he had generally a roguish leer, and a sly joke for the
buxom kitchen maid.
I wish my readers could imagine the old fellow lolling in a huge
arm chair, one arm akimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted
tobacco pipe, formed of genuine écume de mer2 decorated with silver
chain and silken tassel—his head cocked on one side, and a
whimsical cut of the eye occasionally, as he related the following
story.
 THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM
A Traveller’s Tale*

He that supper for is dight,

He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
Yestreen to chamber I him led,
This night Gray-steel has made his bed!
SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, AND SIR GRAY-STEEL

On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald,1 a wild and

romantic tract of upper Germany, that lies not far from the
con uence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many
years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite
fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark rs,
above which, however, its old watch tower may still be seen
struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a
high head, and look down upon the neighbouring country.
The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of
Katzenellenbogen,† and inherited the reliques of the property, and
all the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of his
predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the
Baron still endeavoured to keep up some show of former state. The
times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had
abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles’ nests
among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in
the valleys: still the Baron remained proudly drawn up in his little
fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy, all the old family
feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest
neighbours, on account of disputes that had happened between their
great great grandfathers.
The Baron had but one child, a daughter; but nature, when she
grants but one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy;
and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gossips,
and country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal
for beauty in all Germany; and who should know better than they.
She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under the
superintendance of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of
their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in
all the branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a ne
lady. Under their instructions, she became a miracle of
accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen she could embroider
to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in
tapestry, with such strength of expression in their countenances,
that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read
without great di culty, and had spelled her way through several
church legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the
Heldenbuch.2 She had even made considerable pro ciency in
writing, could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so
legibly, that her aunts could read it without spectacles. She excelled
in making little elegant good for nothing lady like nicknacks of all
kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a
number of airs on the harp and guitar; and knew all the tender
ballads of the Minne-lieders3 by heart.
Her aunts, too, having been great irts and coquettes in their
younger days, were admirably calculated to be vigilant guardians
and strict censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is no
duenna4 so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a
superannuated coquette. She was rarely su ered out of their sight;
never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended,
or rather, well watched; had continual lectures read to her about
strict decorum and implicit obedience; and, as to the men—pah!—
she was taught to hold them at such distance and in such absolute
distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she would not have cast a
glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if he
were even dying at her feet!
The good e ects of this system were wonderfully apparent. The
young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others
were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to
be plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was coyly
blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood under the protection of
those immaculate spinsters, like a rose bud blushing forth among
guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and
exultation, and vaunted that though all the other young ladies in the
world might go astray, yet thank heaven, nothing of the kind could
happen to the heiress of Katzenellenbogen.
But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort might be provided
with children, his household was by no means a small one, for
providence had enriched him with abundance of poor relations.
They, one and all, possessed the a ectionate disposition common to
humble relatives: were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and took
every possible occasion to come in swarms and enliven the castle.
All family festivals were commemorated by these good people at the
Baron’s expense; and when they were lled with good cheer, they
would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these
family meetings, these jubilees of the heart.
The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled
with satisfaction at the consciousness of being the greatest man in
the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the
stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the
walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at
his expense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a rm
believer in all those supernatural tales with which every mountain
and valley in Germany abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded
even his own: they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes
and mouth, and never failed to be astonished, even though repeated
for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the
oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little territory, and
happy above all things, in the persuasion that he was the wisest man
of the age.
At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family
gathering at the castle, on an a air of the utmost importance. It was
to receive the destined bridegroom of the Baron’s daughter. A
negotiation had been carried on between the father, and an old
nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the
marriage of their children. The preliminaries had been conducted
with proper punctilio.5 The young people were betrothed without
seeing each other, and the time was appointed for the marriage
ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been recalled from
the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the
Baron’s to receive his bride. Missives had even been received from
him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained,
mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive.
The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give him a suitable
welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care.
The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the
whole morning about every article of her dress. The young lady had
taken advantage of their contest to follow the bent of her own taste;
and fortunately it was a good one. She looked as lovely as a
youthful bridegroom could desire; and the utter of expectation
heightened the lustre of her charms.
The su usions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving
of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the
soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were
continually hovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt to take
great interest in a airs of this nature. They were giving her a world
of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in what
manner to receive the expected lover.
The Baron was no less busied in preparations. He had, in truth,
nothing exactly to do; but he was naturally a fuming, bustling little
man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a
hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle, with an air of
in nite anxiety; he continually called the servants from their work
to exhort them to be diligent, and buzzed about every hall and
chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue bottle y of a
warm summer’s day.
In the meantime, the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had
rung with the clamour of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded
with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-
wein and Ferne-wein, and even the great Heidelberg tun had been
laid under contribution.6 Everything was ready to receive the
distinguished guest with Saus und Braus7 in the true spirit of German
hospitality—but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour
rolled after hour. The sun that had poured his downward rays upon
the rich forests of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the
summits of the mountains. The Baron mounted the highest tower,
and strained his eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the
Count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them; the
sound of horns came oating from the valley, prolonged by the
mountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below,
slowly advancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached
the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck o in a di erent
direction. The last ray of sunshine departed—the bats began to it
by in the twilight—the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view;
and nothing appeared stirring in it, but now and then a peasant
lagging homeward from his labour.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity, a
very interesting scene was transacting in a di erent part of the
Odenwald.
The young Count Von Altenburg was tranquilly pursuing his route
in that sober jog trot way in which a man travels towards
matrimony, when his friends have taken all the trouble and
uncertainty of courtship o his hands, and a bride is waiting for
him, as—certainly as a dinner, at the end of his journey He had
encountered, at Wurtzburg, a youthful companion in arms, with
whom he had seen some service on the frontiers; Herman Von
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands, and worthiest hearts, of
German chivalry, who was now returning from the army. His
father’s castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort,
although an hereditary feud rendered the families hostile, and
strangers to each other.
In the warm hearted moment of recognition, the young friends
related all their past adventures and fortunes, and the count gave
the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom
he had never seen, but of whose charms he had received the most
enrapturing descriptions.
As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed
to perform the rest of their journey together; and that they might do
it the more leisurely, set o from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the
count having given directions for his retinue to follow and overtake
him.
They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of their military
scenes and adventures; but the count was apt to be a little tedious,
now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the
felicity that awaited him.
In this way they had entered among the mountains of the
Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most lonely and thickly
wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have
always been as much infested by robbers as its castles by spectres;
and, at this time, the former were particularly numerous from the
hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. It will
not appear extraordinary, therefore, that the cavaliers were attacked
by a gang of these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They
defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly overpowered,
when the count’s retinue arrived to their assistance. At sight of them
the robbers ed, but not until the count had received a mortal
wound. He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the city of
Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a neighbouring convent,
who was famous for his skill in administering to both soul and body.
But half of his skill was super uous; the moments of the unfortunate
count were numbered.
With his dying breath he entreated his friend to repair instantly to
the castle of Landshort, and explain the fatal cause of his not
keeping his appointment with his bride. Though not the most ardent
of lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men; and appeared
earnestly solicitous that this mission should be speedily and
courteously executed. “Unless this is done,” said he, “I shall not
sleep quietly in my grave!” He repeated these last words with
peculiar solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, admitted
no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavoured to soothe him to calmness,
promised faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his hand in
solemn pledge. The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but
soon lapsed into delirium—raved about his bride—his engagement
—his plighted word; ordered his horse, that he might ride to the
castle of Landshort, and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into
the saddle.
Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh, and a soldier’s tear, on the untimely
fate of his comrade; and then pondered on the awkward mission he
had undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he
was to present himself an unbidden guest among hostile people, and
to damp their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. Still there
were certain whisperings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far
famed beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from the
world; for he was a passionate admirer of the sex, and there was a
dash of eccentricity and enterprize in his character that made him
fond of all singular adventure.
Previous to his departure, he made all due arrangements with the
holy fraternity of the convent for the funeral solemnities of his
friend, who was to be buried in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near
some of his illustrious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the
count took charge of his remains.
It is now high time that we should return to the ancient family of
Katzenellenbogen, who were impatient for their guest, and still
more for their dinner; and to the worthy little Baron, whom we left
airing himself on the watch tower.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The Baron descended
from the tower in despair. The banquet, which had been delayed
from hour to hour could no longer be postponed. The meats were
already overdone; the cook in an agony; and the whole household
had the look of a garrison that had been reduced by famine. The
Baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for the feast without
the presence of the guest. All were seated at table, and just on the
point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from without the
gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. Another long blast
lled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered
by the warder from the walls. The Baron hastened to receive his
future son in law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before
the gate. He was a tall gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed.
His countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and
an air of stately melancholy. The Baron was a little morti ed that he
should have come in this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a
moment was ru ed, and he felt disposed to consider it a want of
proper respect for the important occasion, and the important family
with which he was to be connected. He, however, paci ed himself
with the conclusion that it must have been youthful impatience
which had induced him thus to spur on sooner than his attendants.
“I am sorry,” said the stranger, “to break in upon you thus
unseasonably—”
Here the Baron interrupted him with a world of compliments and
greetings; for, to tell the truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy
and his eloquence. The stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem
the torrent of words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and su ered
it to ow on. By the time the Baron had come to a pause, they had
reached the inner court of the castle; and the stranger was again
about to speak, when he was once more interrupted by the
appearance of the female part of the family, leading forth the
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for a moment as one
entranced; it seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze,
and rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden aunts
whispered something in her ear; she made an e ort to speak; her
moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on
the stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The words died
away; but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft
dimpling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not been
unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the fond age of
eighteen, highly predisposed for love and matrimony, not to be
pleased with so gallant a cavalier.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived, left no time for
parley. The Baron was peremptory, and deferred all particular
conversation until the morning, and led the way to the untasted
banquet.
It was served up in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls
hung the hard favoured portraits of the heroes of the house of
Katzenellenbogen, and the trophies which they had gained in the
eld and in the chase. Hacked corslets;8 splintered jousting spears,
and tattered banners, were mingled with the spoils of sylvan
warfare: the jaws of the wolf, and the tusks of the boar, grinned
horribly among cross bows and battle axes, and a huge pair of
antlers branched immediately over the head of the youthful
bridegroom.
The cavalier took but little notice of the company, or the
entertainment. He scarce tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed
in admiration of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that could
not be overheard—for the language of love is never loud; but where
is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the softest whisper of
the lover? There was a mingled tenderness and gravity in his
manner, that appeared to have a powerful e ect upon the young
lady. Her colour came and went as she listened with deep attention.
Now and then she made some blushing reply, and when his eye was
turned away, she would steal a side long glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was
evident that the young couple were completely enamoured. The
aunts, who were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart,
declared that they had fallen in love with each other at rst sight.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were
all blessed with those keen appetites that attend upon light purses
and mountain air. The Baron told his best and longest stories, and
never had he told them so well, or with such great e ect. If there
was anything marvellous, his auditors were lost in astonishment;
and if anything facetious, they were sure to laugh exactly in the
right place. The Baron, it is true, like most great men, was too
digni ed to utter any joke but a dull one; it was always enforced,
however, by a bumper of excellent Hoch-heimer;9 and even a dull
joke at one’s own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irresistible.
Many good things were said by poorer and keener wits, that would
not bear repeating, except on similar occasions; many sly speeches
whispered in ladies’ ears, that almost convulsed them with
suppressed laughter; and a song or two roared out by a poor, but
merry and broad faced cousin of the Baron, that absolutely made
the maiden aunts hold up their fans.
Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest maintained a most
singular and unseasonable gravity. His countenance assumed a
deeper cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, strange as it
may appear, even the Baron’s jokes seemed only to render him the
more melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at times
there was a perturbed and restless wandering of the eye that
bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His conversations with the bride
became more and more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds
began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, and tremors to run
through her tender frame.
All this could not escape the notice of the company. Their gayety
was chilled by the unaccountable gloom of the bridegroom; their
spirits were infected; whispers and glances were interchanged,
accompanied by shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song
and the laugh grew less and less frequent; there were dreary pauses
in the conversation, which were at length succeeded by wild tales,
and supernatural legends. One dismal story produced another still
more dismal, and the Baron nearly frightened some of the ladies
into hysterics with the history of the goblin horseman that carried
away the fair Leonora;10 a dreadful, but true story, which has since
been put into excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the
world.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound attention. He
kept his eyes steadily xed on the Baron, and as the story drew to a
close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and
taller, until, in the Baron’s entranced eye, he seemed almost to
tower into a giant. The moment the tale was nished, he heaved a
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were
all amazement. The Baron was perfectly thunderstruck.
“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? why, everything
was prepared for his reception: a chamber was ready for him if he
wished to retire.”
The stranger shook his head mournfully and mysteriously; “I must
lay my head in a di erent chamber tonight!”
There was something in this reply, and the tone in which it was
uttered, that made the Baron’s heart misgive him; but he rallied his
forces and repeated his hospitable entreaties.
The stranger shook his head silently, but positively, at every o er,
and waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the
hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petri ed—the bride hung
her head, and a tear stole to her eye.
The Baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle,
where the black charger stood pawing the earth, and snorting with
impatience. When they had reached the portal, whose deep archway
was dimly lighted by a cresset,11 the stranger paused, and addressed
the Baron in a hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof rendered
still more sepulchral.
“Now that we are alone,” said he, “I will impart to you the reason
of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable engagement—”
“Why,” said the Baron, “cannot you send someone in your place?”
 “It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in person—I must
away to Wurtzburg cathedral—”
“Aye,” said the Baron, plucking up spirit, “but not until tomorrow
—tomorrow you shall take your bride there.”
“No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold solemnity, “my
engagement is with no bride—the worms! the worms expect me! I
am a dead man—I have been slain by robbers—my body lies at
Wurtzburg—at midnight I am to be buried—the grave is waiting for
me—I must keep my appointment!”
He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and
the clattering of his horse’s hoofs was lost in the whistling of the
night blast.
The Baron returned to the hall in the utmost consternation, and
related what had passed. Two ladies fainted outright, others
sickened at the idea of having banquetted with a spectre. It was the
opinion of some, that this might be the wild huntsman famous in
German legend.12 Some talked of mountain sprites, of wood
demons, and of other supernatural beings, with which the good
people of Germany have been so grievously harassed since time
immemorial. One of the poor relations ventured to suggest that it
might be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and that the
very gloominess of the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy
a personage. This, however, drew on him the indignation of the
whole company, and especially of the Baron, who looked upon him
as little better than an in del; so that he was fain to abjure his
heresy as speedily as possible, and come into the faith of the true
believers.
But, whatever may have been the doubts entertained, they were
completely put to an end by the arrival, next day, of regular
missives, con rming the intelligence of the young Count’s murder,
and his interment in Wurtzburg cathedral.
The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. The Baron shut
himself up in his chamber. The guests who had come to rejoice with
him, could not think of abandoning him in his distress. They
wandered about the courts, or collected in groups in the hall,
shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders, at the troubles of
so good a man; and sat longer than ever at table, and ate and drank
more stoutly than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the
situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. To have lost a
husband before she had even embraced him—and such a husband!
if the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, what must have
been the living man! She lled the house with lamentations.
On the night of the second day of her widowhood she had retired
to her chamber, accompanied by one of her aunts, who insisted on
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost
stories in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her longest,
and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The chamber was
remote, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay pensively
gazing at the beams of the rising moon, as they trembled on the
leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The castle clock had just
tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole up from the
garden. She rose hastily from her bed, and stepped lightly to the
window. A tall gure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it
raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon the countenance.
Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bridegroom! A loud shriek
at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been
awakened by the music, and had followed her silently to the
window, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the spectre had
disappeared.
Of the two females, the aunt now required the most soothing, for
she was perfectly beside herself with terror. As to the young lady,
there was something, even in the spectre of her lover, that seemed
endearing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; and
though the shadow of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the
a ections of a love sick girl, yet, where the substance is not to be
had, even that is consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep
in that chamber again; the niece, for once, was refractory, and
declared as strongly that she would sleep in no other in the castle:
the consequence was, that she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew
a promise from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, lest
she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure left her on earth
—that of inhabiting the chamber over which the guardian shade of
her lover kept its nightly vigils.
How long the good old lady would have observed this promise is
uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk of the marvellous, and there
is a triumph in being the rst to tell a frightful story; it is, however,
still quoted in the neighbourhood, as a memorable instance of
female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a whole week, when
she was suddenly absolved from all further restraint, by intelligence
brought to the breakfast table one morning, that the young lady was
not to be found. Her room was empty—the bed had not been slept
in—the window was open, and the bird had own!
The astonishment and concern with which the intelligence was
received, can only be imagined by those who have witnessed the
agitation which the mishaps of a great man cause among his friends.
Even the poor relations paused for a moment from the indefatigable
labours of the trencher;13 when the aunt, who had at rst been
struck speechless, wrung her hands, and shrieked out, “the goblin!
the goblin! she’s carried away by the goblin!”
In a few words, she related the fearful scene of the garden, and
concluded that the spectre must have carried o his bride. Two of
the domestics corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the
clattering of a horse’s hoofs down the mountain about midnight,
and had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black charger,
bearing her away to the tomb. All present were struck with the
direful probability; for events of the kind are extremely common in
Germany, as many well authenticated histories bear witness.
What a lamentable situation was that of the poor Baron! What a
heartrending dilemma for a fond father, and a member of the great
family of Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt
away to the grave, or he was to have some wood demon for a son in
law, and, perchance, a troop of goblin grand children. As usual, he
was completely bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men
were ordered to take horse, and to scour every road, and path, and
glen of the Odenwald. The Baron himself had just drawn on his jack
boots, girded on his sword, and was about to mount his steed to
sally forth on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause
by a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the castle,
mounted on a palfrey,14 attended by a cavalier on horseback. She
galloped up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and falling at the
Baron’s feet, embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and her
companion—the Spectre Bridegroom! The Baron was astounded. He
looked at his daughter, then at the Spectre, and almost doubted the
evidence of his senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in
his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. His dress was
splendid, and set o a noble gure of manly symmetry. He was no
longer pale and melancholy. His ne countenance was ushed with
the glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eye.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for in truth, as
you must have known all the while, he was no goblin) announced
himself as Sir Herman Von Starkenfaust. He related his adventure
with the young Count. He told how he had hastened to the castle to
deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the eloquence of the Baron
had interrupted him in every attempt to tell his tale. How the sight
of the bride had completely captivated him, and that to pass a few
hours near her, he had tacitly su ered the mistake to continue. How
he had been sorely perplexed in what way to make a decent retreat,
until the Baron’s goblin stories had suggested his eccentric exit.
How, fearing the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his
visits by stealth—had haunted the garden beneath the young lady’s
window—had wooed—had won—had borne away in triumph—and,
in a word, had wedded the fair.
Under any other circumstances, the Baron would have been
in exible, for he was tenacious of paternal authority, and devoutly
obstinate in all family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he had
lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to nd her still alive; and, though
her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank heaven, he was not a
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowledged, that did not
exactly accord with his notions of strict veracity, in the joke the
knight had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several
old friends present, who had served in the wars, assured him that
every stratagem was excusable in love, and that the cavalier was
entitled to especial privilege, having lately served as a trooper.
Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The Baron pardoned
the young couple on the spot. The revels at the castle were resumed.
The poor relations overwhelmed this new member of the family
with loving kindness; he was so gallant, so generous, and so rich.
The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scandalized that their system of
strict seclusion, and passive obedience, should be so badly
exempli ed, but attributed it all to their negligence in not having
the windows grated. One of them was particularly morti ed at
having her marvellous story marred, and that the only spectre she
had ever seen should turn out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed
perfectly happy at having found him substantial esh and blood—
and so the story ends.

* The erudite reader, well versed in good for nothing lore, will perceive that the
above tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, of
a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris.
† i.e. CATSELBOW The name of a family of those parts very powerful in former
times. The appellation, we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of
the family celebrated for a ne arm.
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY

When I behold, with deepe astonishment,

To famous Westminster how there resorte,
Living in brasse or stoney monyment,
The princes and the worthies of all sorte:
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie,
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation,
And looke upon o enselesse majesty,
Naked of pompe or earthly domination?
And how a play-game of a painted stone,
Contents the quiet now and silent sprites,
Whome all the world which late they stood upon,
Could not content nor quench their appetites.
   Life is a froste of cold felicitie
   And death the thaw of all our vanitie.

CHRISTOLERO’S EPIGRAMS, BY T. B. 15981

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in the latter part
of Autumn, when the shadows of morning and evening almost
mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I
passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. There
was something congenial to the season in the mournful
magni cence of the old pile; and as I passed its threshold, it seemed
like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself
among the shades of former ages.
 I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, through a
long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost subterranean look,
being dimly lighted in one part by circular perforations in the massy
walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters,
with the gure of an old verger,2 in his black gown, moving along
their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre from one of the
neighbouring tombs. The approach to the abbey through these
gloomy monastic remains prepares the mind for its solemn
contemplation. The cloisters still retain something of the quiet and
seclusion of former days. The grey walls are discoloured by damps,
and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the
inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death’s
heads, and other funereal emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel
are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses which
adorned the key stones have lost their leafy beauty; everything
bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has
something touching and pleasing in its very decay.
The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray into the square
of the cloisters; beaming upon a scanty plot of grass in the centre,
and lighting up an angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty
splendour. From between the arcades the eye glanced up to a bit of
blue sky or a passing cloud; and beheld the sun gilt pinnacles of the
abbey towering into the azure heaven.
As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled
picture of glory and decay, and sometimes endeavouring to decipher
the inscriptions on the tombstones, which formed the pavement
beneath my feet, my eye was attracted to three gures, rudely
carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many
generations. They were the e gies of three of the early abbots; the
epitaphs were entirely e aced; the names alone remained, having
no doubt been renewed in later times (Vitalis. Abbas. 1082, and
Gislebertus Crispinus. Abbas. 1114, and Laurentius. Abbas. 1176). I
remained some little while, musing over these casual reliques of
antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of time,
telling no tale but that such beings had been, and had perished;
teaching no moral but the futility of that pride which hopes still to
exact homage in its ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little
longer and even these faint records will be obliterated, and the
monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking
down upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the
abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and echoing
among the cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning of
departed time sounding among the tombs, and telling the lapse of
the hour, which like a billow has rolled us onward towards the
grave.
I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior of
the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the building breaks
fully upon the mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. The
eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns of gigantic dimensions,
with arches springing from them to such an amazing height; and
man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insigni cance in
comparison with his own handywork. The spaciousness and gloom
of this vast edi ce produce a profound and mysterious awe. We step
cautiously and softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed
silence of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the walls,
and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more sensible of the
quiet we have interrupted.
It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down upon the
soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless reverence. We feel that
we are surrounded by the congregated bones of the great men of
past times; who have lled history with their deeds, and the earth
with their renown. And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity
of human ambition, to see how they are crowded together and
justled in the dust: what parsimony is observed in doling out a
scanty nook; a gloomy corner; a little portion of earth, to those,
whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy: and how many
shapes, and forms and arti ces, are devised to catch the casual
notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness, for a few short
years, a name which once aspired to occupy ages of the world’s
thought and admiration.
 I passed some time in Poets’ Corner, which occupies an end of one
of the transepts or cross aisles of the Abbey. The monuments are
generally simple; for the lives of literary men a ord no striking
themes for the sculptor. Shakespeare and Addison3 have statues
erected to their memories; but the greater part have busts,
medallions, and sometimes mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the
simplicity of these memorials, I have always observed that the
visitors to the abbey remain longest about them. A kinder and
fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague admiration
with which they gaze on the splendid monuments of the great and
the heroic. They linger about these as about the tombs of friends
and companions; for indeed there is something of companionship
between the author and the reader. Other men are known to
posterity only through the medium of history, which is continually
growing faint and obscure; but the intercourse between the author
and his fellow men is ever new, active and immediate. He has lived
for them more than for himself; he has sacri ced surrounding
enjoyments, and shut himself up from the delights of social life, that
he might the more intimately commune with distant minds and
distant ages. Well may the world cherish his renown; for it has been
purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but by the diligent
dispensation of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his
memory; for he has left it an inheritance, not of empty names and
sounding actions, but whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of
thought, and golden veins of language.
From Poets’ Corner I continued my stroll towards that part of the
abbey which contains the sepulchres of the kings. I wandered
among what once were chapels, but which are now occupied by the
tombs and monuments of the great. At every turn I met with some
illustrious name; or the cognizance of some powerful house
renowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky chambers of
death, it catches glimpses of quaint e gies; some kneeling in
niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with
hands piously pressed together; warriors in armour, as if reposing
after battle; prelates with croziers4 and mitres; and nobles in robes
and coronets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this scene, so
strangely populous, yet where every form is so still and silent, it
seems almost as if we were treading a mansion of that fabled city,
where every being had been suddenly transmuted into stone.
I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the e gy of a
knight in complete armour. A large buckler was on one arm; the
hands were pressed together in supplication upon the breast; the
face was almost covered by the morion;5 the legs were crossed in
token of the warrior’s having been engaged in the holy war. It was
the tomb of a crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts, who so
strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose exploits form
the connecting link between fact and ction; between the history
and the fairy tale. There is something extremely picturesque in the
tombs of these adventurers, decorated as they are with rude
armorial bearings and gothic sculpture. They comport with the
antiquated chapels in which they are generally found; and in
considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the
legendary associations, the romantic ctions, the chivalrous pomp
and pageantry which poetry has spread over the wars for the
Sepulchre of Christ. They are the reliques of times utterly gone by;
of beings passed from recollection; of customs and manners with
which ours have no a nity. They are like objects from some strange
and distant land, of which we have no certain knowledge, and about
which all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is
something extremely solemn and awful in those e gies on gothic
tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or in the supplication of
the dying hour. They have an e ect in nitely more impressive on
my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits,
and allegorical groups, which abound on modern monuments. I
have been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the old
sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in former times, of
saying things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and I do not
know an epitaph that breathes a loftier consciousness of family
worth and honourable lineage, than one which a rms, of a noble
house, that “all the brothers were brave, and all the sisters
virtuous.”
In the opposite transept to Poets’ Corner stands a monument
which is among the most renowned achievements of modern art; but
which, to me, appears horrible rather than sublime. It is the tomb of
Mrs. Nightingale, by Roubillac.6 The bottom of the monument is
represented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted
skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from his eshless
frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into her
a righted husband’s arms, who strives, with vain and frantic e ort,
to avert the blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and
spirit; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph,
bursting from the distended jaws of the spectre.—But why should
we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary terrors, and to spread
horrors round the tomb of those we love? The grave should be
surrounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and
veneration for the dead; or that might win the living to virtue. It is
the place, not of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation.
While wandering about these gloomy vaults and silent aisles,
studying the records of the dead, the sound of busy existence from
without occasionally reaches the ear;—the rumbling of the passing
equipage; the murmur of the multitude; or perhaps the light laugh
of pleasure. The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose
around: and it has a strange e ect upon the feelings, thus to hear
the surges of active life hurrying along and beating against the very
walls of the sepulchre.
I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, and from
chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wearing away; the distant
tread of loiterers about the abbey grew less and less frequent; the
sweet tongued bell was summoning to evening prayers; and I saw at
a distance the choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle
and entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry the
Seventh’s chapel.7 A ight of steps leads up to it, through a deep
and gloomy, but magni cent arch. Great gates of brass, richly and
delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their hinges, as if proudly
reluctant to admit the feet of common mortals into this most
gorgeous of sepulchres.
On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of architecture,
and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. The very walls are
wrought into universal ornament, encrusted with tracery, and
scooped into niches, crowded with the statues of saints and martyrs.
Stone seems, by the cunning labour of the chisel, to have been
robbed of its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic,
and the fretted roof achieved with the wonderful minuteness and
airy security of a cobweb.
Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls of the Knights of
the Bath,8 richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque
decorations of gothic architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are
a xed the helmets and crests of the knights, with their scarfs and
swords; and above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned
with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendour of gold and
purple and crimson, with the cold grey fretwork of the roof. In the
midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its founder,
—his e gy, with that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb,
and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing.
There is a sad dreariness in this magni cence; this strange
mixture of tombs and trophies; these emblems of living and aspiring
ambition, close beside mementos which show the dust and oblivion
in which all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing impresses the
mind with a deeper feeling of loneliness, than to tread the silent and
deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On looking round on
the vacant stalls of the knights and their esquires; and on the rows
of dusty but gorgeous banners that were once borne before them,
my imagination conjured up the scene when this hall was bright
with the valour and beauty of the land; glittering with the splendour
of jewelled rank and military array; alive with the tread of many
feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. All had passed away:
the silence of death had settled again upon the place; interrupted
only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found their way into
the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes and pendants—
sure signs of solitariness and desertion.
When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they were those
of men scattered far and wide about the world; some tossing upon
distant seas; some under arms in distant lands; some mingling in the
busy intrigues of courts and cabinets: all seeking to deserve one
more distinction in this mansion of shadowy honours; the
melancholy reward of a monument.
Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a touching
instance of the equality of the grave; which brings down the
oppressor to a level with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the
bitterest enemies together. In one is the sepulchre of the haughty
Elizabeth, in the other is that of her victim, the lovely and
unfortunate Mary.9 Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of
pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation
at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth’s sepulchre continually echo
with the sighs of sympathy heaved at the grave of her rival.
A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where Mary lies
buried. The light struggles dimly through windows darkened by
dust. The greater part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls
are stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble gure of Mary
is stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, much
corroded, bearing her national emblem the thistle. I was weary with
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monument, revolving
in my mind the chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary.
The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the abbey. I could
only hear, now and then, the distant voice of the priest repeating
the evening service, and the faint responses of the choir; these
paused for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion
and obscurity that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper
and more solemn interest to the place:
For in the silent grave no conversation,
No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers,
No careful father’s counsel—nothing’s heard,
 For nothing is, but all oblivion,

Dust and an endless darkness.10

Suddenly the notes of the deep labouring organ burst upon the
ear, falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it
were, huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and
grandeur accord with this mighty building! With what pomp do
they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony
through these caves of death, and make the silent sepulchre vocal!—
And now they rise in triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and
higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on sound.—And now
they pause, and the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet
gushes of melody; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, and
seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure airs of heaven.
Again the pealing organ heaves its thrilling thunders, compressing
air into music, and rolling it forth upon the soul. What long drawn
cadences! What solemn sweeping concords! It grows more and more
dense and powerful—it lls the vast pile, and seems to jar the very
walls—the ear is stunned—the senses are overwhelmed. And now it
is winding up in full jubilee—it is rising from the earth to heaven—
the very soul seems rapt away and oated upwards on this swelling
tide of harmony!
I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which a strain of
music is apt sometimes to inspire: the shadows of evening were
gradually thickening around me; the monuments began to cast
deeper and deeper gloom; and the distant clock again gave token of
the slowly waning day.
I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I descended the ight
of steps which lead into the body of the building, my eye was
caught by the shrine of Edward the Confessor,11 and I ascended the
small staircase that conducts to it, to take from thence a general
survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon a
kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres of various
kings and queens. From this eminence the eye looks down between
pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and chambers below,
crowded with tombs; where warriors, prelates, courtiers and
statesmen lie mouldering in their “beds of darkness” Close by me
stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the
barbarous taste of a remote and gothic age. The scene seemed
almost as if contrived, with theatrical arti ce, to produce an e ect
upon the beholder. Here was a type of the beginning and the end of
human pomp and power; here it was literally but a step from the
throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that these incongruous
mementos had been gathered together as a lesson to living
greatness?—to show it, even in the moment of its proudest
exaltation, the neglect and dishonour to which it must soon arrive;
how soon that crown which encircles its brow must pass away; and
it must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, and be
trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the multitude. For,
strange to tell, even the grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is
a shocking levity in some natures, which leads them to sport with
awful and hallowed things; and there are base minds, which delight
to revenge on the illustrious dead the abject homage and grovelling
servility which they pay to the living. The co n of Edward the
Confessor has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their
funeral ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the
imperious Elizabeth, and the e gy of Henry the Fifth lies headless.
Not a royal monument but bears some proof how false and fugitive
is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered; some mutilated;
some covered with ribaldry and insult—all more or less outraged
and dishonoured!
The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the
painted windows in the high vaults above me: the lower parts of the
abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The
chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The e gies of the kings
faded into shadows; the marble gures of the monuments assumed
strange shapes in the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept
through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave; and even the
distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poets’ Corner, had
something strange and dreary in its sound. I slowly retraced my
morning’s walk, and as I passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the
door, closing with a jarring noise behind me, lled the whole
building with echoes.
I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind of the
objects I had been contemplating, but found they were already
falling into indistinctness and confusion. Names, inscriptions,
trophies, had all become confounded in my recollection, though I
had scarcely taken my foot from o the threshold. What, thought I,
is this vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humiliation; a
huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness of renown, and the
certainty of oblivion! It is, indeed, the empire of death; his great
shadowy palace; where he sits in state, mocking at the reliques of
human glory, and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the
monuments of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality
of a name! Time is ever silently turning over his pages; we are too
much engrossed by the story of the present, to think of the
characters and anecdotes that gave interest to the past; and each age
is a volume thrown aside to be speedily forgotten. The idol of today
pushes the hero of yesterday out of our recollection; and will, in
turn, be supplanted by his successor of tomorrow. “Our fathers,”
says Sir Thomas Brown, “ nd their graves in our short memories,
and sadly tell us how we may be buried in our survivors”12 History
fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy;
the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the
pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of
sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust? What is
the security of a tomb, or the perpetuity of an embalmment? The
remains of Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind,
and his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum.
“The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time hath spared,
avarice now consumeth; Mizraim cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold
for balsams” *13
What then is to insure this pile which now towers above me from
sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums? The time must come when
its gilded vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish
beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of melody and praise,
the wind shall whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot
from the shattered tower—when the garish sun beam shall break
into those gloomy mansions of death; and the ivy twine round the
fallen column; and the fox glove hang its blossoms about the
nameless urn, as if in mockery of the dead. Thus man passes away;
his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a
tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.

NOTES CONCERNING WESTMINSTER ABBEY

Toward the end of the sixth century when Britain, under the
dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry
Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo
Saxon youths, exposed for sale in the Market place at Rome,
conceived a fancy for the race and determined to send missionaries
to preach the Gospel among these comely but benighted islanders.
He was encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert King of Kent
and the most potent of the Anglo Saxon princes, had married Bertha
a Christian princess, only daughter of the King of Paris, and that she
was allowed by stipulation, the full exercise of her religion.
The shrewd Ponti knew the in uence of the sex in matters of
religious faith. He forthwith dispatched Augustine a Roman Monk
with forty associates to the Court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, to
e ect the conversion of the King and to obtain through him a
foothold in the island.
Ethelbert received them warily and held a conference in the open
air; being distrustful of foreign priest craft, and fearful of spells and
magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as good a
Christian as his wife; the conversion of the King of course produced
the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and success of
Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop of
Canterbury and being endowed with authority over all the British
churches.
 One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, King
of the East Saxons a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at London, of
which Mellitus, one of the Roman Monks who had come over with
Augustine was made bishop.
Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal founded a monastery by the
river side to the west of the city on the ruins of a temple of Apollo,
being in fact the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey.
Great preparations were made for the consecration of the church
which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the
appointed day Mellitus the bishop proceeded with great pomp and
solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the edi ce he
was met by a sherman who informed him that it was needless to
proceed as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared with surprise
when the sherman went on to relate that the night before, as he
was in his boat on the Thames St. Peter appeared to him and told
him that he intended to consecrate the church himself that very
night. The Apostle accordingly went into the church which suddenly
became illuminated. The ceremony was performed in sumptuous
style accompanied by strains of heavenly music and clouds of
fragrant incense. After this the Apostle came onto the boat and
ordered the sherman to cast his net. He did so and had a
miraculous draft of shes; one of which he was commanded to
present to the Bishop, and to signify to him that the Apostle had
relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the church.
Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required
con rmation of the sherman’s tale. He opened the church doors
and beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil sprinkled in various
places and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had still
any lingering doubts they were completely removed on the
sherman’s producing the identical sh which he had been ordered
by the Apostle to present to him. To resist this would have been to
resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was
convinced that the church had actually been consecrated by St.
Peter in person; so he reverently abstained from proceeding further
in the business.
 The forgoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which
he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built
another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited in a
magni cent shrine.
The sacred edi ce again underwent modi cations if not a
reconstruction by Henry III in 1220 and began to assume its present
appearance.
Under Henry VIII it lost its conventual character, that monarch
turning the monks away and seizing upon the revenues.

RELIQUES OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR

A curious narrative was printed in 1688 by one of the choristers of

the Cathedral,14 who appears to have been the Paul Pry15 of the
sacred edi ce, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones
of Edward the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their
sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth
the cruci x and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During
eighteen years that he had o ciated in the choir it had been a
common tradition, he says, among his brother choristers and the
grey headed servants of the abbey that the body of King Edward was
deposited in a kind of chest or co n which was indistinctly seen in
the upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None of the
abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspection,
until the worthy narrator to gratify his curiosity mounted to the
co n by the aid of a ladder and found it to be made of wood,
apparently very strong and rm, being secured by bands of iron.
Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the sca olding used in the
coronation of James II, the co n was found to be broken, a hole
appearing in the lid, probably made through accident, by the
workmen. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the sacred
depository of royal rest, until, several weeks afterwards, the
circumstance came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. He
forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two friends of
congenial tastes who were desirous of inspecting the tombs.
Procuring a ladder he again mounted to the co n and found, as had
been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches long and four
inches broad, just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his hand
and groping among the bones he drew from underneath the
shoulder a cruci x, richly adorned and enamelled a xed to a gold
chain twenty four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive
friends, who were equally surprized with himself.
“At the time,” says he, “when I took the cross and chain out of the
co n, I drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very sound and
rm with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of teeth, and a
list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a coronet,
surrounding the temples. There was also in the co n, white linen
and gold coloured owered silk, that looked indi erent fresh but the
least stress put thereto shewed it was well nigh perished. There were
all his bones and much dust likewise which I left as I found” It is
di cult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride than
the scull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled about in
its co n by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face to face with
him through a hole in the lid!
Having satis ed his curiosity the chorister put the cruci x and
chain back again into the co n and sought the Dean, to apprize him
of his discovery. The Dean not being accessible at the time; and
fearing that the “holy treasure” might be taken away by other
hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine
about two or three hours afterwards and in his presence again drew
forth the reliques. These he afterwards delivered on his knees to
King James. The King subsequently had the old co n enclosed in a
new one of great strength: “each plank being two inches thick and
cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now remains
(1688) as a testimony of his pious care that no abuse might be
o ered to the sacred ashes therein reposited.”
As the history of this shrine is full of moral I subjoin a description
of it in modern times. “The solitary and forlorn shrine,” says a
British writer, “now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few
faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar catch
the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendor **** Only two of the
spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much broken and
covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in every part within
reach, only the lozenges of about a foot square and ve circular
pieces of the rich marble remain.”
Malcolm. Lond. Rediv.16
INSCRIPTION ON A MONUMENT ALLUDED TO IN THE SKETCH.

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Dutchess his second wife,
by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret Lucas, youngest sister to
the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble Family; for all the brothers were
valiant and all the sisters virtuous. This Dutchess was a wise, witty, and
learned Lady, which her many Bookes do well testify: she was a most
virtuous, and loving and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of
his banishment and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from
him in his solitary retirements.

In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the
afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The e ect is ne of the
choir partially lighted up; while the main body of the cathedral and
the transepts are in profound and cavernous darkness. The white
dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the oaken
slatts and canopies; the partial illumination makes enormous
shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the
surrounding gloom catches here and there upon a sepulchral
decoration, or monumental e gy. The swelling notes of the organ
accord well with the scene.
When the service is over the Dean is lighted to his dwelling, in the
old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir in their
white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the
abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and
arches and grim sepulchral monuments and leaving all behind in
darkness.
On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean’s
Yard the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a
distant view of a white marble gure reclining on a tomb, on which
a strong glare thrown by a gas light, has quite a spectral e ect. It is
a mural monument of one of the Pultneys.17
The cloisters are well worth visiting by moonlight, when the
moon is in the full.

* Sir T. Brown.
 CHRISTMAS

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of his good,
gray old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, seeing I cannot have
more of him.

HUE AND CRY AFTER CHRISTMAS1

A man might then behold

   At Christmas, in each hall,
Good res to curb the cold,
   And meat for great and small:
The neighbours were friendly bidden,
   And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden,
   When this old cap was new.
OLD SONG

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell over my

imagination, than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural
games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to
draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world
through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it;
and they bring with them the avour of those honest days of yore,
in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world
was more homebred, social, and joyous, than at present. I regret to
say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being
gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern
fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of gothic
architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the
country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in
the additions and alterations of latter days. Poetry however, clings
with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel,
from which it has derived so many of its themes—as the ivy winds
its rich foliage about the gothic arch and mouldering tower,
gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their
tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.
Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the
strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn
and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the
spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of
the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring.
They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the
pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement. They gradually
increase in fervour and pathos during the season of Advent, until
they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace
and good will to men. I do not know a grander e ect of music on
the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ
performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and lling every part
of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.
It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that
this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion
of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together
of family connexions, and drawing closer again those bands of
kindred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows of the
world are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the
children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered
widely asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth,
that rallying place of the a ections, there to grow young and loving
again among the endearing mementos of childhood.
There is something in the very season of the year that gives a
charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great
portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our
feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny
landscape, and we “live abroad and every where” The song of the
bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring,
the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn,
earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep
delicious blue and its cloudy magni cence, all ll us with mute but
exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But
in the depth of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm,
and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our
grati cations to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the
landscape, the short gloomy days and darksome nights, while they
circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from
rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the
pleasures of the social circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated,
our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the
charm of each other’s society, and are brought more closely together
by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto
heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living
kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which,
when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.
The pitchy gloom without, makes the heart dilate on entering the
room lled with the glow and warmth of the evening re. The
ruddy blaze di uses an arti cial summer and sunshine through the
room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier welcome.
Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and
more cordial smile—where is the shy glance of love more sweetly
eloquent—than by the winter reside;—and as the hollow blast of
wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles
about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney—what can be
more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with
which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene
of domestic hilarity?
The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout
every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and
holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and
they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious
and social rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry
details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humours,
the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and
good fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated. It seemed
to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the
peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm
generous ow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and
manor houses resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and
their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even
the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with green
decorations of bay and holly—the cheerful re glanced its rays
through the lattice, inviting the passenger to raise the latch, and join
the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long
evening with legendary jokes, and oft told Christmas tales.
One of the least pleasing e ects of modern re nement is the
havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has
completely taken o the sharp touchings and spirited reliefs of these
embellishments of life, and has worn down society into a more
smooth and polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface.
Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have entirely
disappeared, and, like the sherris sack of old Falsta ,2 are become
matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They
ourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed
life roughly, but heartily and vigorously: times wild and
picturesque, which have furnished poetry with its richest materials,
and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters and
manners. The world has become more worldly. There is more of
dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has expanded into a
broader, but a shallower stream, and has forsaken many of those
deep and quiet channels where it owed sweetly through the calm
bosom of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened and
elegant tone; but it has lost many of its strong local peculiarities, its
homebred feelings, its honest reside delights. The traditionary
customs of golden hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and
lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial castles and
stately manor houses in which they were celebrated. They
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, and the
tapestried parlour, but were un tted to the light showy saloons and
gay drawing rooms of the modern villa.
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honours,
Christmas is still a period of delightful excitement in England. It is
gratifying to see that home feeling completely aroused which holds
so powerful a place in every English bosom. The preparations
making on every side for the social board that is again to unite
friends and kindred—the presents of good cheer passing and
repassing, those tokens of regard and quickeners of kind feelings—
the evergreens distributed about houses and churches, emblems of
peace and gladness—all these have the most pleasing e ect in
producing fond associations, and kindling benevolent sympathies.
Even the sound of the Waits,3 rude as may be their minstrelsy,
breaks upon the midwatches of a winter night with the e ect of
perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by them in that still and
solemn hour “when deep sleep falleth upon man,” I have listened
with a hushed delight, and connecting them with the sacred and
joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into another celestial
choir, announcing peace and good will to mankind.
How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon by these
moral in uences, turns everything to melody and beauty. The very
crowing of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose of the
country, “telling the night watches to his feathery dames,” was
thought by the common people to announce the approach of this
sacred festival:
Some say that ever ’gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome—then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm,

So hallowed and so gracious is the time.4

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and
stir of the a ections, which prevail at this period, what bosom can
remain insensible? It is, indeed, the season of regenerated feeling—
the season for kindling not merely the re of hospitality in the hall,
but the genial ame of charity in the heart.
The scene of early love again rises green to memory beyond the
sterile waste of years, and the idea of home, fraught with the
fragrance of home dwelling joys, reanimates the drooping spirit—as
the Arabian breeze will sometimes waft the freshness of the distant
elds to the weary pilgrim of the desert.
Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land—though for me no
social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof throw open its doors,
nor the warm grasp of friendship welcome me at the threshold—yet
I feel the in uence of the season beaming into my soul from the
happy looks of those around me. Surely happiness is re ective, like
the light of heaven; and every countenance bright with smiles, and
glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a mirror transmitting to others
the rays of a supreme and ever shining benevolence. He who can
turn churlishly away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow
beings, and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness
when all around is joyful, may have his moments of strong
excitement and sel sh grati cation, but he wants the genial and
social sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.
 THE STAGE COACH

   Omne benè
   Sine poenâ
Tempus est ludendi.
   Venit hora
   Absque morâ
Libros deponendi.

OLD HOLYDAY SCHOOL SONG1

In the preceding paper I have made some general observations on

the Christmas festivities of England, and am tempted to illustrate
them by some anecdotes of a Christmas passed in the country: in
perusing which, I would most courteously invite my reader to lay
aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday
spirit, which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for amusement.
In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode for a long
distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding
Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with
passengers, who, by their talk, seemed principally bound to the
mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was
loaded also with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of
delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the
coachman’s box, presents from distant friends for the impending
feast. I had three ne rosy cheeked school boys for my fellow
passengers inside, full of the buxom health and manly spirit which I
have observed in the children in this country. They were returning
home for the holidays, in high glee, and promising themselves a
world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of
pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were
to perform during their six weeks’ emancipation from the abhorred
thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They were full of
anticipations of the meeting with the family and household, down to
the very cat and dog, and of the joy they were to give their little
sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed; but
the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest
impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and,
according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed
since the days of Bucephalus.2 How he could trot! how he could
run! and then such leaps as he would take—there was not a hedge
in the whole country that he could not clear.
They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to
whom, whenever an opportunity presented, they addressed a host of
questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole
world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of
bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on
one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the
buttonhole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care
and business, but he is particularly so during this season, having so
many commissions to execute in consequence of the great
interchange of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be
unacceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that may
serve as a general representation of this very numerous and
important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a manner, a
language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and prevalent throughout
the fraternity, so that, wherever an English stage coachman may be
seen, he cannot be mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery.
He has commonly a broad full face, curiously mottled with red, as
if the blood had been forced by hard feeding into every vessel of the
skin; he is swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of
malt liquors, and his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity
of coats, in which he is buried like a cauli ower, the upper one
reaching to his heels. He wears a broad brimmed low crowned hat,
a huge roll of coloured handkerchief about his neck, knowingly
knotted and tucked in at the bosom, and has in summer time a large
bouquet of owers in his buttonhole, the present, most probably of
some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some
bright colour, striped, and his small clothes extend far below the
knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about half way up
his legs.
All this costume is maintained with much precision; he has a
pride in having his clothes of excellent materials, and
notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his appearance, there is
still discernible that neatness and propriety of person, which is
almost inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and
consideration along the road; has frequent conferences with the
village housewives, who look upon him as a man of great trust and
dependence; and he seems to have a good understanding with every
bright eyed country lass. The moment he arrives where the horses
are to be changed, he throws down the reins with something of an
air, and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler: his duty being
merely to drive them from one stage to another. When o the box,
his hands are thrust in the pockets of his great coat, and he rolls
about the inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here
he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of hostlers,3
stable boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless hangers on, that infest
inns and taverns, and run errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for
the privilege of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the
leakage of the tap room. These all look up to him as to an oracle;
treasure up his cant phrases; echo his opinions about horses and
other topics of jockey lore; and above all, endeavour to imitate his
air and carriage. Every ragamu n that has a coat to his back,
thrusts his hands in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is
an embryo Coachey.
Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity that reigned in
my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheerfulness in every
countenance throughout the journey. A Stage Coach, however,
carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it
whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of a village,
produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some
with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and in the hurry of
the moment can hardly take leave of the group that accompanies
them. In the meantime, the coachman has a world of small
commissions to execute; sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant;
sometimes jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public
house, and sometimes, with knowing leer, and words of sly import,
hands to some half blushing, half laughing housemaid, an odd
shaped billet-doux4 from some rustic admirer. As the Coach rattles
through the village, everyone runs to the window, and you have
glances on every side of fresh country faces, and blooming, giggling
girls. At the corners are assembled juntos of village idlers and wise
men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of
seeing company pass: but the sagest knot is generally at the
blacksmith’s, to whom the passing of the coach is an event fruitful
of much speculation. The smith, with the horse’s heel in his lap,
pauses as the vehicle whirls by; the cyclops round the anvil suspend
their ringing hammers, and su er the iron to grow cool; and the
sooty spectre in brown paper cap, labouring at the bellows, leans on
the handle for a moment, and permits the asthmatic engine to heave
a long drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke and
sulphurous gleams of the smithy.
Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a more than
usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me as if everybody
was in good looks and good spirits; game, poultry, and other
luxuries of the table, were in brisk circulation in the villages; the
grocer’s, butcher’s, and fruiterer’s shops were thronged with
customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their
dwellings in order, and the glossy branches of holly, with their
bright red berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene
brought to mind an old writer’s account of Christmas preparations.
“Now capons and hens, besides turkeys, geese, and ducks, with beef
and mutton—must all die—for in twelve days a multitude of people
will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, sugar and honey,
square it among pies and broath. Now or never must music be in
tune, for the youth must dance and sing to get them a heat, while
the aged sit by the re. The country maid leaves half her market,
and must be sent againe, if she forgets a pack of cards on Christmas
even. Great is the contention of Holly and Ivy, whether master or
dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards bene t the butler; and if
the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his ngers”5
I was roused from this t of luxurious meditation, by a shout from
my little travelling companions. They had been looking out of the
coach windows for the last few miles, recognising every tree and
cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general
burst of joy. “There’s John! and there’s old Carlo! and there’s
Bantam!” cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.
At the head of a lane there was an old sober looking servant in
livery, waiting for them; he was accompanied by a super-annuated
pointer, and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony
with a shagged mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly
by the road side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited
him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows
leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged the pointer, who
wriggled his whole body for joy But Bantam was the great object of
interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some
di culty that John arranged that they should ride by turns, and the
eldest should ride rst.
O they set at last, one on the pony with the dog bounding and
barking before him, and the others holding John’s hands, both
talking at once, and overpowering him with questions about home,
and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in
which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated;
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had neither
known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly
felicity. We stopped a few moments afterwards to water the horses;
and on resuming our route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of
a neat country seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and
two young girls in the portico, and I saw my little comrades, with
Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping along the carriage road. I
leaned out of the coach window, in hopes of witnessing the happy
meeting, but a grove of trees shut it from my sight.
In the evening we reached a village where I had determined to
pass the night. As we drove into the great gateway of the inn, I saw
on one side, the light of a rousing kitchen re beaming through a
window. I entered and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture
of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, the kitchen
of an English inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with
copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated here and there
with a Christmas green. Hams, tongues, and itches of bacon, were
suspended from the ceiling; a smoke jack6 made its ceaseless
clanking beside the replace, and a clock ticked in one corner. A
well scoured deal table extended along one side of the kitchen, with
a cold round of beef, and other hearty viands, upon it, over which
two foaming tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of
inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, whilst
others sat smoking and gossipping over their ale on two high backed
oaken seats beside the re. Trim housemaids were hurrying
backwards and forwards under the directions of a fresh bustling
landlady; but still seizing an occasional moment to exchange a
ippant word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group around the
re. The scene completely realized Poor Robin’s humble idea of the
comforts of mid-winter:
Now trees their leafy hats do bare
To reverence Winter’s silver hair;
A handsome hostess, merry host,
A pot of ale now and a toast,
Tobacco and a good coal re,
Are things this season doth require.*
 I had not been long at the inn when a post chaise drove up to the
door. A young gentleman stepped out, and by the light of the lamps
I caught a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. I
moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I
was not mistaken; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly good
humoured young fellow, with whom I had once travelled on the
continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the countenance
of an old fellow traveller always brings up the recollection of a
thousand pleasant scenes, odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To
discuss all these in a transient interview at an inn was impossible,
and nding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely making
a tour of observation, he insisted that I should give him a day or two
at his father’s country seat, to which he was going to pass the
holidays, and which lay at a few miles distance. “It is better than
eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn,” said he, “and I can
assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the old fashioned
style” His reasoning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation
I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment, had made me
feel a little impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once
with his invitation; the chaise drove up to the door, and in a few
moments I was on my way to the family mansion of the
Bracebridges.

* Poor Robin’s Almanack, 1684.7

 CHRISTMAS EVE

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight

Blesse this house from wicked wight;
From the night-mare and the goblin,
That is hight good fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits,
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets:
    From curfew-time
    To the next prime.

CARTWRIGHT1

It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold: our chaise

whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the post boy cracked his
whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were upon a
gallop. “He knows where he is going,” said my companion,
laughing, “and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment
and good cheer of the servants’ hall. My father, you must know, is a
bigoted devotee of the old school, and prides himself upon keeping
up something of old English hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen
of what you will rarely meet with now-a-days in its purity, the old
English country gentleman; for our men of fortune spend so much of
their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into the country,
that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life are almost
polished away. My father, however, from early years, took honest
Peacham* for his text book, instead of Chester eld;2 he determined
in his own mind, that there was no condition more truly honourable
and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands,
and, therefore, passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a
strenuous advocate for the revival of the old rural games and
holiday observances, and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and
modern, who have treated of the subject. Indeed, his favourite range
of reading is among the authors who ourished at least two
centuries since, who, he insists, wrote and thought more like true
Englishmen than any of their successors. He even regrets sometimes
that he had not been born a few centuries earlier, when England
was itself, and had its peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at
some distance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the
country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that most
enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an opportunity of
indulging the bent of his own humour, without molestation. Being
representative of the oldest family in the neighbourhood, and a
great part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up
to, and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of ‘The
Squire;’ a title which has been accorded to the head of the family
since time immemorial. I think it best to give you these hints about
my worthy old father, to prepare you for any little eccentricities that
might otherwise appear absurd.”
We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at
length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy magni cent
old stile; of iron bars, fancifully wrought at top into ourishes and
owers. The huge square columns that supported the gate were
surmounted by the family crest. Close adjoining was the porter’s
lodge, sheltered under dark r trees, and almost buried in
shrubbery.
The post boy rung a large porter’s bell, which resounded through
the still frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs,
with which the mansion house seemed garrisoned. An old woman
immediately appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly
upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, dressed very
much in the antique taste, with a neat kerchief and stomacher,3 and
her silver hair peeping from under a cap of snowy whiteness. She
came curtseying forth, with many expressions of simple joy at
seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants’ hall; they could not do
without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the
household.
My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the
park to the hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise
should follow on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees,
among the naked branches of which the moon glittered as she rolled
through the deep vault of a cloudless sky: the lawn beyond was
sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which here and there
sparkled as the moon beams caught a frosty crystal; and at a
distance might be seen a thin transparent vapour, stealing up from
the low grounds, and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape.
My companion looked round him with transport:—“How often,”
said he, “have I scampered up this avenue, on returning home on
school vacations. How often have I played under these trees when a
boy. I feel a degree of lial reverence for them as we look up to
those who have cherished us in childhood. My father was always
scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and having us around him on
family festivals. He used to direct and superintend our games with
the strictness that some parents do the studies of their children. He
was very particular that we should play the old English games
according to their original form, and consulted old books for
precedent and authority for every ‘merrie disport.’ Yet I assure you
there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy of the good
old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the happiest
place in the world, and I value this delicious home feeling as one of
the choicest gifts a parent could bestow.”
We were interrupted by the clamour of a troop of dogs of all sorts
and sizes, “mongrel, puppy, whelp and hound, and curs of low
degree,” that, disturbed by the ringing of the porter’s bell, and the
rattling of the chaise, came bounding open mouthed across the
lawn.
 ——The little dogs and all,

Tray, Blanch and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!4

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, the bark was
changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded
and almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals.
We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly
thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It
was an irregular building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of
the architecture of di erent periods. One wing was evidently very
ancient, with heavy stone shafted bow windows jutting out and
overrun with ivy, from among the foliage of which the small
diamond shaped panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The
rest of the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second’s5
time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, by
one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch at the
restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the old
formal manner of arti cial ower beds, clipped shrubberies, raised
terraces, with heavy stone ballustrades, ornamented with urns, a
leaden statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was
told, was extremely careful to preserve this obsolete nery in all its
original state. He admired this fashion in gardening; it had an air of
magni cence, was courtly and noble, and be tting good old family
style. The boasted imitation of nature in modern gardening had
sprung up with modern republican notions, but did not suit a
monarchical government; it smacked of the levelling system. I could
not help smiling at this introduction of politics into gardening,
though I expressed some apprehension that I should nd the old
gentleman rather intolerant in his creed. Frank assured me,
however, that it was almost the only instance in which he had ever
heard his father meddle with politics, and he believed that he had
got this notion from a member of parliament who once passed a few
weeks with him. The Squire was glad of any argument to defend his
clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been occasionally
attacked by modern landscape gardeners.
 As we approached the house, we heard the sound of music, and
now and then a burst of laughter, from one end of the building.
This, Bracebridge said, must proceed from the servants’ hall, where
a great deal of revelry was permitted, and even encouraged, by the
Squire, throughout the twelve days of Christmas, provided
everything was done conformably to ancient usage. Here were kept
up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe the wild mare, hot
cockles, steal the white loaf, Bob apple, and snap dragon: the Yule
clog, and Christmas candle, were regularly burnt, and the misletoe,
with its white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the
pretty housemaids.*
So intent were the servants upon their sports, that we had to ring
repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival
being announced, the Squire came out to receive us, accompanied
by his two other sons; one a young o cer of the army, home on
leave of absence, the other an Oxonian,6 just from the university.
The Squire was a ne healthy looking old gentleman, with silver
hair curling lightly round an open orid countenance, in which a
physiognomist, with the advantage, like myself, of a previous hint
or two, might discover a singular mixture of whim and benevolence.
The family meeting was warm and a ectionate; as the evening
was far advanced, the Squire would not permit us to change our
travelling dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which
was assembled in a large old fashioned hall. It was composed of
di erent branches of a numerous family connexion, where there
were the usual proportions of old uncles and aunts, comfortable
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country cousins,
half edged striplings, and bright eyed boarding school hoydens.7
They were variously occupied: some at a round game of cards;
others conversing around the replace; at one end of the hall was a
group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more
tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a
profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls,
about the oor, showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings, who,
having frolicked through a happy day, had been carried o to
slumber through a peaceful night.
While the mutual greetings were going on between young Brace-
bridge and his relatives, I had time to scan the apartment. I have
called it a hall, for so it had certainly been in old times, and the
Squire had evidently endeavoured to restore it to something of its
primitive state. Over the heavy projecting replace was suspended a
picture of a warrior in armour, standing by a white horse, and on
the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler and lance. At one end an
enormous pair of antlers were inserted in the wall, the branches
serving as hooks on which to suspend hats, whips and spurs; and in
the corners of the apartment were fowling pieces, shing rods, and
other sporting implements. The furniture was of the cumbrous
workmanship of former days, though some articles of modern
convenience had been added, and the oaken oor had been
carpeted, so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlour and
hall.
The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming
replace, to make way for a re of wood, in the midst of which was
an enormous log glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast
volume of light and heat: this I understood was the Yule clog, which
the Squire was particular in having brought in and illumined on a
Christmas eve, according to ancient custom.*
It was really delightful to see the old Squire, seated in his
hereditary elbow chair, by the hospitable reside of his ancestors,
and looking around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth
and gladness to every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at
his feet, as he lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look
fondly up in his master’s face, wag his tail against the oor, and
stretch himself again to sleep, con dent of kindness and protection.
There is an emanation from the heart in genuine hospitality, which
cannot be described, but is immediately felt, and puts the stranger
at once at his ease. I had not been seated many minutes by the
comfortable hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself
as much at home as if I had been one of the family.
 Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up
in a spacious oaken chamber, the pannels of which shone with wax,
and around which were several family portraits decorated with
holly and ivy. Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers,
called Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a
highly polished beaufet among the family plate. The table was
abundantly spread with substantial fare; but the Squire made his
supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat cakes, boiled in milk with
rich spices; being a standing dish in old times, for Christmas eve. I
was happy to nd my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the
feast, and nding him to be perfectly orthodox, and that I need not
be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with all the warmth
wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance.
The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humours
of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed
with the quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight brisk
little man, with the air of an arrant old Bachelor. His nose was
shaped like the bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the small
pox, with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frost bitten leaf in
autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a
drollery and lurking waggery of expression that was irresistible. He
was evidently the wit of the family, dealing very much in sly jokes
and innuendoes with the ladies, and making in nite merriment by
harpings upon old themes, which, unfortunately, my ignorance of
the family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy It seemed to be his
great delight during supper, to keep a young girl next him in a
continual agony of sti ed laughter, in spite of her awe of the
reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite. Indeed, he was the
idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed at everything
he said or did, and at every turn of his countenance. I could not
wonder at it; for he must have been a miracle of accomplishments in
their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy;9 make an old woman
of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and pocket
handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature,
that the young folks were ready to die with laughing.
 I was let brie y into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an
old bachelor, of a small independent income, which, by careful
management, was su cient for all his wants. He revolved through
the family system like a vagrant comet in its orbit, sometimes
visiting one branch, and sometimes another quite remote, as is often
the case with gentlemen of extensive connexions and small fortunes,
in England. He had a chirping, buoyant disposition, always enjoying
the present moment; and his frequent change of scene and company
prevented his acquiring those rusty, unaccommodating habits, with
which old bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a complete
family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, history, and
intermarriages of the whole house of Bracebridge, which made him
a great favourite with the old folks; he was a beau of all the elder
ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually
considered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the revels
among the children; so that there was not a more popular being in
the sphere in which he moved, than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of late
years, he had resided almost entirely with the Squire, to whom he
had become a factotum,10 and whom he particularly delighted by
jumping with his humour in respect to old times, and by having a
scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a
specimen of his last mentioned talent; for no sooner was supper
removed, and spiced wines and other beverages peculiar to the
season introduced, than Master Simon was called on for a good old
Christmas song. He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with
a sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad,
excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the notes of a
split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty.
Now Christmas is come,
Let us beat up the drum,
And call all our neighbours together;
And when they appear,
Let us make them such cheer,
As will keep out the wind and the weather. &c.
 The supper had disposed everyone to gayety and an old harper
was summoned from the servants’ hall, where he had been
strumming all the evening, and to all appearance comforting himself
with some of the Squire’s home brewed. He was a kind of hanger
on, I was told, of the establishment, and though ostensibly a
resident of the village, was oftener to be found in the Squire’s
kitchen than his own home; the old gentleman being fond of the
sound of “Harp in hall.”
The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one: some
of the older folks joined in it, and the Squire himself gured down
several couple with a partner with whom he a rmed he had danced
at every Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who
seemed to be a kind of connecting link between the old times and
the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his
accomplishments, evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was
endeavouring to gain credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other
graces of the ancient school; but he had unluckily assorted himself
with a little romping girl from boarding school, who, by her wild
vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and defeated all his
sober attempts at elegance:—such are the ill sorted matches to
which antique gentlemen are unfortunately prone!
The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his
maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries
with impunity; he was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to
tease his aunts and cousins; yet, like all mad cap youngsters, he was
a universal favourite among the women. The most interesting
couple in the dance was the young o cer, and a ward of the
Squire’s, a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy
glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, I suspected
there was a little kindness growing up between them; and, indeed,
the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a romantic girl. He
was tall, slender, and handsome; and, like most young British
o cers of late years, had picked up various small accomplishments
on the continent—he could talk French and Italian—draw
landscapes—sing very tolerably—dance divinely; but, above all, he
had been wounded at Waterloo:11—what girl of seventeen, well
read in poetry and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry
and perfection!
The moment the dance was over, he caught up a guitar, and
lolling against the old marble replace, in an attitude which I am
half inclined to suspect was studied, began the little French air of
the Troubadour. The Squire, however, exclaimed against having
anything on Christmas eve but good old English; upon which the
young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in an e ort of
memory, struck into another strain, and with a charming air of
gallantry, gave Herrick’s “night piece to Julia.”
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
   And the elves also,
   Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of re, befriend thee.
No Will o’ th’ Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake or slow worm bite thee;
   But on, on thy way,
   Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to a right thee.
Then let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber?
   The stars of the night
   Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
Then Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus, to come unto me;
   And when I shall meet
   Thy silvery feet,
My soul I’ll pour into thee.

The song might or might not have been intended in compliment

to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called: she, however,
was certainly unconscious of any such application; for she never
looked at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the oor; her face
was su used, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a
gentle heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by
the exercise of the dance: indeed, so great was her indi erence, that
she was amusing herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of
hot house owers, and by the time the song was concluded, the
nosegay lay in ruins on the oor.
The party now broke up for the night with the kind hearted old
custom of shaking hands. As I passed through the hall, on my way
to my chamber, the dying embers of the Yule clog still sent forth a
dusky glow, and had it not been the season when “no spirit dares
stir abroad,” I should have been half tempted to steal from my room
at midnight, and peep, whether the fairies might not be at their
revels about the hearth.
My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous
furniture of which might have been fabricated in the days of the
giants. The room was pannelled, with cornices of heavy carved
work, in which owers and grotesque faces were strangely
intermingled, and a row of black looking portraits stared mournfully
at me from the walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask,
with a lofty tester,12 and stood in a niche opposite a bow window. I
had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed to break
forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found it
proceeded from a band, which I concluded to be the waits from
some neighbouring village. They went round the house, playing
under the windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more
distinctly. The moon beams fell through the upper part of the
casement, partially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The
sounds as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed to
accord with the quiet and moon light. I listened and listened—they
became more and more tender and remote, and as they gradually
died away, my head sunk upon the pillow, and I fell asleep.
*Peacham’s Compleat Gentleman, 1622.
* The misletoe is still hung up in farm houses and kitchens at Christmas; and the
young men have the privilege of kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a
berry from the bush. When the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases.
* The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of a tree, brought into the
house with great ceremony, on Christmas eve, laid in the replace, and lighted with
the brand of the last year’s clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing,
and telling of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the
cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood re. The Yule
clog was to burn all night; if it went out it was considered a sign of ill luck.
Herrick mentions it in one of his songs:

   Come bring with a noise,

   My merrie, merrie boyes,
The Christmas Log to the ring;
   While my good dame, she
   Bids ye all be free,

And drink to your hearts desiring8

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farm houses and kitchens in England,
particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions connected with it
among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the house while it is burning, or
a person bare footed, it is considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the
Yule clog is carefully put away to light the next year’s Christmas re.
 CHRISTMAS DAY

Dark and dull night ie hence away,

And give the honour to this day
That sees December turn’d to May.

*  *  *  *  *

Why does the chilling winter’s morne

Smile like a eld beset with corner
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,
Thus on the sudden?—Come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be.

HERRICK1

When I awoke the next morning, it seemed as if all the events of the
preceding evening had been a dream, and nothing but the identity
of the ancient chamber convinced me of their reality. While I lay
musing on my pillow, I heard the sound of little feet pattering
outside of the door, and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir
of small voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden of
which was
Rejoice, our Saviour he was born
On Christmas day in the morning.

I rose softly, slipt on my clothes, opened the door suddenly, and

beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy groups that a painter
could imagine. It consisted of a boy and two girls, the eldest not
more than six, and lovely as seraphs. They were going the rounds of
the house and singing at every chamber door, but my sudden
appearance frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained
for a moment playing on their lips with their ngers, and now and
then stealing a shy glance from under their eyebrows, until as if by
one impulse, they scampered away, and as they turned an angle of
the gallery, I heard them laughing in triumph at their escape.
Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this
strong hold of old fashioned hospitality. The window of my chamber
looked out upon what in summer would have been a beautiful
landscape. There was a sloping lawn, a ne stream winding at the
foot of it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of trees,
and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat hamlet, with the smoke
from the cottage chimneys hanging over it; and a church with its
dark spire in strong relief against the clear cold sky. The house was
surrounded with evergreens, according to the English custom, which
would have given almost an appearance of summer; but the
morning was extremely frosty; the light vapour of the preceding
evening had been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees
and every blade of grass with its ne chrystalizations. The rays of a
bright morning sun had a dazzling e ect among the glittering
foliage. A robin perched upon the top of a mountain ash that hung
its clusters of red berries just before my window, was basking
himself in the sunshine, and piping a few querulous notes, and a
peacock was displaying all the glories of his train, and strutting with
the pride and gravity of a Spanish grandee on the terrace walk
below.
I had scarce dressed myself, when a servant appeared to invite me
to family prayers. He showed me the way to a small chapel in the
old wing of the house, where I found the principal part of the family
already assembled in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions,
hassocks, and large prayer books; the servants were seated on
benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from a desk in front
of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as clerk and made the
responses, and I must do him the justice to say that he acquitted
himself with great gravity and decorum.
 The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which Mr. Brace-
bridge himself had constructed from a poem of his favourite author,
Herrick; and it had been adapted to an old church melody by Master
Simon. As there were several good voices among the household, the
e ect was extremely pleasing; but I was particularly grati ed by the
exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful feeling, with which
the worthy Squire delivered one stanza, his eye glistening, and his
voice rambling out of all the bounds of time and tune.
’Tis thou that crown’st my glittering hearth
   With guiltlesse mirth,
And giv’st me Wassaile Bowles to drink
   Spic’d to the brink.
Lord, ’tis thy plenty-dropping hand
   That soiles my land;
And giv’st me, for my bushel sowne,

   Twice ten for one.2

I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on

every Sunday and saint’s day throughout the year, either by Mr.
Brace-bridge or by some member of the family. It was once almost
universally the case at the seats of the nobility and gentry of
England, and it is much to be regretted that the custom is falling
into neglect; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the order
and serenity prevalent in those households, where the occasional
exercise of a beautiful form of worship in the morning gives, as it
were, the key note to every temper for the day, and attunes every
spirit to harmony.
Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denominated true old
English fare. He indulged in some bitter lamentations over modern
breakfasts of tea and toast, which he censured as among the causes
of modern e eminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old
English heartiness: and though he admitted them to his table to suit
the palates of his guests, yet there was a brave display of cold
meats, wine, and ale, on the sideboard.
 After breakfast, I walked about the grounds with Frank
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he was called by
everybody but the Squire. We were escorted by a number of
gentleman like dogs, that seemed loungers about the establishment,
from the frisking spaniel to the steady old stag hound, the last of
which was of a race that had been in the family time out of mind:
they were all obedient to a dog whistle which hung at Master
Simon’s button hole, and in the midst of their gambols would glance
an eye occasionally upon a small switch he carried in his hand.
The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the yellow
sunshine than by pale moonlight; and I could not but feel the force
of the Squire’s idea, that the formal terraces, heavily moulded
ballustrades, and clipped yew trees, carried with them an air of
proud aristocracy. There appeared to be an unusual number of
peacocks about the place, and I was making some remarks upon
what I termed a ock of them that were basking under a sunny wall,
when I was gently corrected in my phraseology by Master Simon,
who told me that, according to the most ancient and approved
treatise on hunting, I must say a muster of peacocks. “In the same
way,” added he, with a slight air of pedantry, “we say a ight of
doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, of wrens or
cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of rooks” He went on to
inform me that, according to Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to
ascribe to this bird “both understanding and glory; for, being
praised, he will presently set up his tail, chie y against the sun, to
the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. But at the
fall of the leaf, when his tail falleth, he will mourn and hide himself
in corners, till his tail come again as it was.”
I could not help smiling at this display of small erudition on so
whimsical a subject; but I found that the peacocks were birds of
some consequence at the hall; for Frank Bracebridge informed me
that they were great favourites with his father, who was extremely
careful to keep up the breed, partly because they belonged to
chivalry, and were in great request at the stately banquets of the
olden time; and partly because they had a pomp and magni cence
about them, highly becoming an old family mansion. Nothing, he
was accustomed to say, had an air of greater state and dignity than
a peacock perched upon an antique stone ballustrade.
Master Simon had now to hurry o , having an appointment at the
parish church with the village choristers, who were to perform some
music of his selection. There was something extremely agreeable in
the cheerful ow of animal spirits of the little man; and I confess I
had been somewhat surprised at his apt quotations from authors,
who certainly were not in the range of everyday reading. I
mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, who told me
with a smile that Master Simon’s whole stock of erudition was
con ned to some half a dozen old authors, which the Squire had put
into his hands, and which he read over and over, whenever he had a
studious t, as he sometimes had of a rainy day, or a long winter
evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert’s book of Husbandry; Markham’s
Country Contentments; the Tretyse of Hunting, by Sir Thomas
Cockayne, Knight; Isaac Walton’s Angler3 and two or three more
such ancient worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities; and,
like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to them with
a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all occasions. As to his songs,
they were chie y picked out of old books in the Squire’s library and
adapted to tunes that were popular among the choice spirits of the
last century. His practical application of scraps of literature,
however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy of book
knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, and small sportsmen of the
neighbourhood.
While we were talking, we heard the distant toll of the village
bell, and I was told that the Squire was a little particular in having
his household at church on Christmas morning; considering it a day
of pouring out of thanks and rejoicing, for, as old Tusser observed,
At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal,

And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small.4
 “If you are disposed to go to church,” said Frank Bracebridge, “I
can promise you a specimen of my cousin Simon’s musical
achievements. As the church is destitute of an organ, he has formed
a band from the village amateurs, and established a musical club for
their improvement; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted my
father’s pack of hounds, according to the directions of Jervaise
Markham, in his Country Contentments; for the bass he has sought
out all the ‘deep, solemn mouths,’ and for the tenor the ‘loud ringing
mouths’ among the country bumpkins; and for ‘sweete mouths,’ he
has culled with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the
neighbourhood, though these last, he a rms, are the most di cult
to keep in tune, your pretty female singer being exceedingly
wayward and capricious, and very liable to accident.”
As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably ne and clear, the
most of the family walked to the church, which was a very old
building of grey stone, and stood near a village, about half a mile
from the park gate. Adjoining it was a low snug parsonage, which
seemed coeval with the church. The front of it was perfectly matted
with a yew tree, that had been trained against its walls; through the
dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to admit light
into the small antique lattices. As we passed this sheltered nest, the
parson issued forth, and preceded us.
I had expected to see a sleek well conditioned pastor, such as is
often found in a snug living in the vicinity of a rich patron’s table,
but I was disappointed. The parson was a little, meagre, black
looking man, with a grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood o
from each ear, so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within
it, like a dried lbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat with great
skirts and pockets that would have held the church Bible and prayer
book; and his small legs seemed still smaller, from being planted in
large shoes, decorated with enormous buckles.
I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson had been a
chum of his father’s at Oxford, and had received this living shortly
after the latter had come to his estate. He was a complete black
letter hunter, and would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman
character. The editions of Caxton and Wynkin de Worde5 were his
delight, and he was indefatigable in his researches after such old
English writers as have fallen into oblivion from their worthlessness.
In deference, perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had
made diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday
customs of former times, and had been as zealous in the inquiry, as
if he had been a boon companion; but it was merely with that
plodding spirit, with which men of adust temperament follow up
any track of study, merely because it is denominated learning,
indi erent to its intrinsic nature, whether it be the illustration of the
wisdom or of the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored
over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to have been
re ected into his countenance, which, if the face be, indeed, an
index of the mind, might be compared to a title page of black letter.
On reaching the church porch, we found the parson rebuking the
grey headed sexton for having used misletoe among the greens with
which the church was decorated. It was, he observed, an unholy
plant; profaned by having been used by the Druids in their mystic
ceremonies, and though it might be innocently employed in the
festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had been deemed
by the fathers of the church as unhallowed, and totally un t for
sacred purposes. So tenacious was he on this point, that the poor
sexton was obliged to strip down a great part of the humble trophies
of his taste, before the parson would consent to enter upon the
service of the day.
The interior of the church was venerable, but simple: on the walls
were several mural monuments of the Bracebridges; and just beside
the altar was a tomb of ancient workmanship, on which lay the
e gy of a warrior in armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his
having been a crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had
signalized himself in the holy land, and the same whose picture
hung over the replace in the hall.
During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, and repeated
the responses very audibly; evincing that kind of ceremonious
devotion punctually observed by a gentleman of the old school, and
a man of old family connexions. I observed, too, that he turned over
the leaves of a folio prayer book with something of a ourish,
possibly to show o an enormous seal ring which enriched one of
his ngers, and which had the look of a family relique. But he was
evidently most solicitous about the musical part of the service,
keeping his eye xed intently on the choir, and beating time with
much gesticulation and emphasis.
The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a most
whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the other, among
which I particularly noticed that of the village taylor, a pale fellow
with a retreating forehead and chin, who played on the clarionet,
and seemed to have blown his face to a point; and there was
another, a short pursy man, stooping and labouring at a bass viol, so
as to show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the egg of
an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces among the female
singers, to which the keen air of a frosty morning had given a bright
rosy tint; but the gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen,
like old Cremona ddles, more for tone than looks; and as several
had to sing from the same book, there were clusterings of odd
physiognomies, not unlike those groups of cherubs we sometimes
see on country tombstones.
The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the
vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and
some loitering ddler now and then making up for lost time by
travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more
bars than the keenest fox hunter, to be in at the death. But the great
trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master
Simon, and on which he had founded great expectations. Unluckily,
there was a blunder at the very outset; the musicians became
urried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely
and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning “Now let us
sing with one accord,” which seemed to be a signal for parting
company: all became discord and confusion, each shifted for
himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could,
excepting one old chorister in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding
and pinching a long sonorous nose, who, happening to stand a little
apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a
quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding
all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars duration.
The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites and
ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of observing it, not
merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of rejoicing; supporting the
correctness of his opinions by the earliest usages of the church, and
enforcing them by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesárea, St.
Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine,6 and a cloud more of saints
and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I was a little
at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a mighty array of forces to
maintain a point which no one present seemed inclined to dispute;
but I soon found that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries
to contend with, having, in the course of his researches on the
subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in the sectarian
controversies of the revolution,7 when the Puritans made such a
erce assault upon the ceremonies of the church, and poor old
Christmas was driven out of the land by proclamation of
Parliament* The worthy parson lived but with times past, and knew
but little of the present.
Shut up among worm eaten tomes in the retirement of his
antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to him as the
gazettes of the day; while the era of the Revolution was mere
modern history. He forgot that nearly two centuries had elapsed
since the ery persecution of poor Mince pie throughout the land;
when plum porridge was denounced as “mere popery,” and roast
beef as antichristian; and that Christmas had been brought in again
triumphantly with the merry court of King Charles at the
restoration. He kindled into warmth with the ardour of his contest,
and the host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; had a
stubborn con ict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten
champions of the round heads,8 on the subject of Christmas
festivity; and concluded by urging his hearers, in the most solemn
and a ecting manner, to stand to the traditionary customs of their
fathers, and feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the
church.
I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more
immediate e ects; for on leaving the church the congregation
seemed one and all possessed with the gayety of spirit so earnestly
enjoined by their pastor. The elder folks gathered in knots in the
church yard, greeting and shaking hands, and the children ran about
crying Ule! Ule! and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which the
parson, who had joined us, informed me had been handed down
from days of yore. The villagers do ed their hats to the Squire as he
passed, giving him the good wishes of the season with every
appearance of heartfelt sincerity, and were invited by him to the
hall, to take something to keep out the cold of the weather; and I
heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which convinced me
that, in the midst of his enjoyments, the worthy old cavalier had not
forgotten the true Christmas virtue of charity.
On our way homeward, his heart seemed over owing with
generous and happy feelings. As we passed over a rising ground
which commanded something of a prospect, the sounds of rustic
merriment now and then reached our ears; the Squire paused for a
few moments, and looked around with an air of inexpressible
benignity. The beauty of the day was, of itself, su cient to inspire
philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the morning, the
sun in his cloudless journey had acquired su cient power to melt
away the thin covering of snow from every southern declivity, and
to bring out the living green which adorns an English landscape
even in mid winter. Large tracts of smiling verdure, contrasted with
the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and hollows. Every
sheltered bank, on which the broad rays rested, yielded its silver rill
of cold and limpid water, glittering through the dripping grass; and
sent up slight exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung
just above the surface of the earth. There was something truly
cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure over the frosty
thraldom of winter: it was, as the Squire observed, an emblem of
Christmas hospitality breaking through the chills of ceremony and
sel shness, and thawing every heart into a ow He pointed with
pleasure to the indications of good cheer reeking from the chimneys
of the comfortable farm houses, and low thatched cottages. “I love,”
said he, “to see this day well kept by rich and poor; it is a great
thing to have one day in the year at least, when you are sure of
being welcome wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the
world all thrown open to you; and I am almost disposed to join with
poor Robin,9 in his malediction on every churlish enemy to this
honest festival.”
Those who at Christmas do repine
   And would fain hence despatch him,
May they with old duke Humphry dine,
   Or else may Squire Ketch catch ’em.

The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of the games

and amusements which were once prevalent at this season among
the lower orders, and countenanced by the higher. When the old
halls of castles and manor houses were thrown open at daylight;
when the tables were covered with brawn,10 and beef, and
humming ale; when the harp and the carol resounded all day long,
and when rich and poor were alike welcome to enter and make
merry* “Our old games and local customs,” said he, “had a great
e ect in making the peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of
them by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made the times
merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly say with one of our
old poets,
I like them well—the curious preciseness
And all pretended gravity of those
That seek to banish hence these harmless sports,

Have thrust away much ancient honesty.11

“The nation,” continued he, “is altered; we have almost lost our
simple, true hearted peasantry. They have broken asunder from the
higher classes, and seem to think their interests are separate. They
have become too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to
ale house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode to keep
them in good humour in these hard times, would be for the nobility
and gentry to pass more time on their estates, mingle more among
the country people, and set the merry old English games going
again.”
Such was the good Squire’s project for mitigating public
discontent: and, indeed, he had once attempted to put his doctrine
in practice, and a few years before had kept open house during the
holidays in the old style. The country people, however, did not
understand how to play their parts in the scene of hospitality: many
uncouth circumstances occurred; the manor was overrun by all the
vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn into the
neighbourhood in one week than the parish o cers could get rid of
in a year. Since then, he had contented himself with inviting the
decent part of the neighbouring peasantry to call at the hall on
Christmas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale,
among the poor, that they might make merry in their own
dwellings.
We had not been long home when the sound of music was heard
from a distance. A band of country lads without coats, their shirt
sleeves fancifully tied with ribands, their hats decorated with
greens, and clubs in their hands, were seen advancing up the
avenue, followed by a large number of villagers and peasantry. They
stopped before the hall door, where the music struck up a peculiar
air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate dance,
advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs together, keeping
exact time to the music; while one, whimsically crowned with a
fox’s skin, the tail of which aunted down his back, kept capering
round the skirts of the dance, and rattling a Christmas box with
many antic gesticulations.13
The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great interest and
delight, and gave me a full account of its origin, which he traced to
the times when the Romans held possession of the island, plainly
proving that this was a lineal descendant of the sword dance of the
ancients. “It was now,” he said, “nearly extinct, but he had
accidentally met with traces of it in the neighbourhood, and had
encouraged its revival, though, to tell the truth, it was too apt to be
followed up by rough cudgel play and broken heads, in the
evening.”
After the dance was concluded, the whole party was entertained
with brawn and beef, and stout home brewed. The Squire himself
mingled among the rustics, and was received with awkward
demonstrations of deference and regard. It is true, I perceived two
or three of the younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards
to their mouths, when the Squire’s back was turned, making
something of a grimace, and giving each other the wink, but the
moment they caught my eye they pulled grave faces, and were
exceedingly demure. With Master Simon, however, they all seemed
more at their ease. His varied occupations and amusements had
made him well known throughout the neighbourhood. He was a
visitor at every farm house and cottage, gossipped with the farmers
and their wives, romped with their daughters, and like that type of a
vagrant bachelor, the humble bee, tolled the sweets from all the
rosy lips of the country round.
The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer
and a ability. There is something genuine and a ectionate in the
gayety of the lower orders, when it is excited by the bounty and
familiarity of those above them; the warm glow of gratitude enters
into their mirth, and a kind word, and a small pleasantry frankly
uttered by a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependant more than
oil and wine. When the Squire had retired, the merriment increased,
and there was much joking and laughter; particularly between
Master Simon and a hale ruddy faced white headed farmer, who
appeared to be the wit of the village, for I observed all his
companions to wait with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into
a gratuitous laugh before they could well understand them.
The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merriment: as I
passed to my room to dress for dinner, I heard the sound of music in
a small court, and looking through a window that commanded it, I
perceived a band of wandering musicians with pandean pipes and
tambourine: a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a jig with a
smart country lad, while several of the other servants were looking
on. In the midst of her sport the girl caught a glimpse of my face at
the window, and colouring up, ran o with an air of roguish
a ected confusion.

* From “The Flying Eagle,” a small Gazette published December 24th, 1652.—“The
House spent much time this day about the businesse of the Navy for settling the
a airs at sea, and before they rose were presented with a terrible remonstrance
against Christmas day grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16. 1 Cor. xv.
14.17; and in honour of the Lord’s day grounded upon these Scriptures, John, xx. 1.
Rev. i. 10. Psalms, cxviii. 24. Lev. xxiii. 7.11. Mark. xvi. 8. Psalms, lxxxiv. 10. In
which Christmas is called Antichrist’s masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists
who observe it, &c. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in
consultation about the abolition of Christmas day passed orders to that e ect, and
resolved to sit on the following day which was commonly called Christmas day.”
*“An English gentleman at the opening of the great day, i.e. on Christmas day in the
morning, had all his tenants and neighbours enter his hall by day break. The strong
beer was broached, and the black jacks went plentifully about with toast, sugar,
nutmeg, and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must be boiled
by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden (i.e. the cook,) by the
arms and run her round the market place till she is ashamed of her laziness”—Round

about our Sea-coal Fire.12

*

“Ule! Ule!
Three puddings in a pule;
Crack nuts and cry ule!”
 THE CHRISTMAS DINNER

Lo, now is come our joyful’st feast!

   Let every man be jolly,
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest,
   And every post with holly.
Now all our neighbours’ chimneys smoke
   And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak’t meats choke,
   And all their spits are turning.
      Without the door let sorrow lie,
        And if, for cold, it hap to die,
      Wee’le bury’t in a Christmas pye,
        And ever more be merry.

WITHERS’ JUVENILIA1

I had nished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank Bracebridge in

the library, when we heard a distant thwacking sound, which he
informed me was a signal for the serving up of the dinner. The
Squire kept up old customs in kitchen as well as hall, and the rolling
pin struck upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the servants to
carry in the meats.
Just in this nick the cook knock’d thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
   His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
 March’d boldly up, like our train band,
Presented, and away*

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the Squire
always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, crackling re of logs
had been heaped on to warm the spacious apartment, and the ame
went sparkling and wreathing up the wide mouthed chimney. The
great picture of the crusader and his white horse had been profusely
decorated rated with greens for the occasion, and holly and ivy had
likewise been wreathed round the helmet and weapons on the
opposite wall, which I understood were the arms of the same
warrior. I must own, by the by, I had strong doubts about the
authenticity of the painting and armour as having belonged to the
crusader, they certainly having the stamp of more recent days; but I
was told that the painting had been so considered time out of mind;
and that, as to the armour, it had been found in a lumber room, and
elevated to its present situation by the Squire, who at once
determined it to be the armour of the family hero; and as he was
absolute authority on all such subjects in his own household, the
matter had passed into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out
just under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of plate that
might have vied (at least in variety) with Belshazzar’s parade of the
vessels of the temple:3 “ agons, cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins,
and ewers;” the gorgeous utensils of good companionship, that had
gradually accumulated through many generations of jovial
housekeepers; before these stood the two Yule candles beaming like
two stars of the rst magnitude; other lights were distributed in
branches, and the whole array glittered like a rmament of silver.
We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of
minstrelsy; the old harper being seated on a stool beside the
replace, and twanging his instrument, with a vast deal more power
than melody. Never did Christmas board display a more goodly and
gracious assemblage of countenances; those who were not
handsome, were, at least, happy; and happiness is a rare improver of
your hard favoured visage. I always consider an old English family
as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein’s portraits or
Albert Durer’s prints.4 There is much antiquarian lore to be
acquired; much knowledge of the physiognomies of former times.
Perhaps it may be from having continually before their eyes those
rows of old family portraits, with which the mansions of this
country are stocked; certain it is, that the quaint features of
antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these ancient
lines; and I have traced an old family nose through a whole picture
gallery, legitimately handed down from generation to generation,
almost from the time of the conquest. Something of the kind was to
be observed in the worthy company around me. Many of their faces
had evidently originated in a gothic age, and been merely copied by
succeeding generations; and there was one little girl in particular, of
staid demeanour, with a high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar
aspect, who was a great favourite of the Squire’s, being, as he said, a
Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of his
ancestors who gured in the court of Henry VIII.
The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar one, such as
is commonly addressed to the deity, in these unceremonious days;
but a long, courtly, well worded one, of the ancient school. There
was now a pause, as if something was expected, when suddenly the
butler entered the hall, with some degree of bustle: he was attended
by a servant on each side with a large wax light, and bore a silver
dish, on which was an enormous pig’s head, decorated with
rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which was placed with great
formality at the head of the table. The moment this pageant made
its appearance, the harper struck up a ourish; at the conclusion of
which the young Oxonian,5 on receiving a hint from the Squire,
gave, with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the rst
verse of which was as follows:
   Caput apri defero
   Reddens laudes Domino.
The boar’s head in hand bring I,
With garlands gay and rosemary.
 I pray you all synge merily
   Qui estis in convivio.

Though prepared to witness many of these little eccentricities, from

being apprized of the peculiar hobby of mine host; yet, I confess, the
parade with which so odd a dish was introduced, somewhat
perplexed me, until I gathered from the conversation of the Squire
and the parson, that it was meant to represent the bringing in of the
boar’s head, a dish formerly served up with much ceremony, and
the sound of minstrelsy and song, at great tables on Christmas day.
“I like the old custom,” said the Squire, “not merely because it is
stately and pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the
college at Oxford, at which I was educated. When I hear the old
song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I was young and
gamesome—and the noble old college hall—and my fellow students
loitering about it in their black gowns, many of whom, poor lads,
are now in their graves!”
The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by such
associations, and who was always more taken up with the text than
the sentiment, objected to the Oxonian’s version of the carol, which
he a rmed was di erent from that sung at college. He went on with
the dry perseverance of a commentator, to give the college reading,
accompanied by sundry annotations, addressing himself at rst to
the company at large; but nding their attention gradually diverted
to other talk and other objects, he lowered his tone as his number of
auditors diminished, until he concluded his remarks in an under
voice, to a fat headed old gentleman next him, who was silently
engaged in the discussion of a huge plate full of turkey*
The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an
epitome of country abundance, in this season of over owing larders.
A distinguished post was allotted to “ancient sirloin,” as mine host
termed it, being, as he added, “the standard of old English
hospitality and a joint of goodly presence, and full of expectation”
There were several dishes quaintly decorated, and which had
evidently something traditionary in their embellishments, but about
which, as I did not like to appear over curious, I asked no questions.
I could not, however, but notice a pie, magni cently decorated
with peacock’s feathers, in imitation of the tail of that bird, which
overshadowed a considerable tract of the table. This the Squire
confessed, with some little hesitation, was a pheasant pie, though a
peacock pie was certainly the most authentical; but there had been
such a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he could not
prevail upon himself to have one killed.*
It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who may not
have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete things to which I am
a little given, were I to mention the other make shifts of this worthy
old humourist, by which he was endeavouring to follow up, though
at humble distance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased,
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his children and
relatives, who, indeed, entered readily into the full spirit of them,
and seemed all well versed in their parts, having doubtless been
present at many a rehearsal. I was amused, too, at the air of
profound gravity with which the butler and other servants executed
the duties assigned them, however eccentric. They had an old
fashioned look, having, for the most part, been brought up in the
household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated mansion,
and the humours of its lord, and most probably looked upon all his
whimsical regulations as the established laws of honourable
housekeeping.
When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a huge silver
vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which he placed before the
Squire. Its appearance was hailed with acclamation; being the
Wassail Bowl, so renowned in Christmas festivity. The contents had
been prepared by the Squire himself; for it was a beverage in the
skilful mixture of which he particularly prided himself; alleging that
it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehension of an
ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, that might well make
the heart of a toper7 leap within him; being composed of the richest
and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples
bobbing about the surface.*
The old gentleman’s whole countenance beamed with a serene
look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty bowl. Having
raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of a merry Christmas to all
present, he sent it brimming round the board, for everyone to follow
his example, according to the primitive style; pronouncing it, “the
ancient fountain of good feeling, where all hearts met togetherӠ
There was much laughing and rallying as the honest emblem of
Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed rather coyly by the
ladies. When it reached Master Simon he raised it in both hands,
and with the air of a boon companion struck up an old Wassail
chanson:9
The brown bowle,
The merry brown bowle,
As it goes round about—a,
Fill
Still
Let the world say what it will
And drink your ll all out-a.

The deep canne,

The merry deep canne,
As thou dost freely qua -a,
Sing
Fling
Be as merry as a king,
And sound a lusty laugh-a.*

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon family

topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, however, a great deal
of rallying of Master Simon about some gay widow, with whom he
was accused of having a irtation. This attack was commenced by
the ladies; but it was continued throughout the dinner by the fat
headed old gentleman next the parson, with the persevering
assiduity of a slow hound; being one of those long winded jokers,
who, though rather dull at starting game, are unrivalled for their
talents in hunting it down. At every pause in the general
conversation, he renewed his bantering in pretty much the same
terms; winking hard at me with both eyes, whenever he gave Master
Simon what he considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed
fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are apt to be,
and he took occasion to inform me, in an under tone, that the lady
in question was a prodigiously ne woman, and drove her own
curricle.11
The dinner time passed away in this ow of innocent hilarity, and
though the old hall may have resounded in its time with many a
scene of broader rout and revel, yet I doubt whether it ever
witnessed more honest and genuine enjoyment. How easy it is for
one benevolent being to di use pleasure around him; and how truly
is a kind heart a fountain of gladness, making every thing in its
vicinity to freshen into smiles. The joyous disposition of the worthy
Squire was perfectly contagious; he was happy himself, and
disposed to make all the world happy; and the little eccentricities of
his humour did but season, in a manner, the sweetness of his
philanthropy.
When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, became
still more animated: many good things were broached which had
been thought of during dinner, but which would not exactly do for a
lady’s ear; and though I cannot positively a rm that there was
much wit uttered, yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare
wit produce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty tart,
pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some stomachs; but
honest good humour is the oil and wine of a merry meeting, and
there is no jovial companionship equal to that, where the jokes are
rather small, and the laughter abundant.
The Squire told several long stories of early college pranks and
adventures, in some of which the parson had been a sharer; though
in looking at the latter, it required some e ort of imagination to
gure such a little dark anatomy of a man, into the perpetrator of a
mad cap gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures
of what men may be made by their di erent lots in life: the Squire
had left the university to live lustily on his paternal domains, in the
vigorous enjoyment of prosperity and sunshine, and had ourished
on to a hearty and orid old age, whilst the poor parson, on the
contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty tomes, in the
silence and shadows of his study. Still there seemed to be a spark of
almost extinguished re, feebly glimmering in the bottom of his
soul; and as the Squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a
pretty milkmaid whom they once met on the banks of the Isis,12 the
old gentleman made an “alphabet of faces,” which, as far as I could
decypher his physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of
laughter;—indeed, I have rarely met with an old gentleman that
took absolute o ence at the imputed gallantries of his youth.
I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land
of sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder as their
jokes grew duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humour as a
grasshopper lled with dew; his old songs grew of a warmer
complexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. He
even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow, which he
informed me he had gathered from an excellent black letter work
entitled “Cupid’s Solicitor for Love;” containing store of good advice
for Bachelors, and which he promised to lend me; the rst verse was
to this e ect:
He that will woo a widow must not dally,
   He must make hay while the sun doth shine;
He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I,

   But boldly say, Widow thou must be mine.13

This song inspired the fat headed old gentleman, who made
several attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller,14 that
was pat to the purpose; but he always stuck in the middle,
everybody recollecting the latter part except himself. The parson,
too, began to show the e ects of good cheer, having gradually
settled down into a doze, and his wig setting most suspiciously on
one side. Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing
room, and I suspect, at the private instigation of mine host, whose
joviality seemed always tempered with a proper love of decorum.
After the dinner table was removed, the hall was given up to the
younger members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy
mirth, by the Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring
with their merriment, as they played at romping games. I delight in
witnessing the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the drawing room
on hearing one of their peals of laughter. I found them at the game
of blindman’s-blu Master Simon, who was the leader of their
revels, and seemed on all occasions to ful l the o ce of that ancient
potentate, the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the hall.
The little beings were as busy about him as the mock fairies about
Falsta , pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling
him with straws. One ne blue eyed girl of about thirteen, with her
axen hair all in beautiful confusion, her frolick face in a glow, her
frock half torn o her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, was
the chief tormentor; and from the slyness with which Master Simon
avoided the smaller game, and hemmed this wild little nymph in
corners, and obliged her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected
the rogue of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient.
When I returned to the drawing room, I found the company
seated round the re, listening to the parson, who was deeply
ensconced in a high backed oaken chair, the work of some cunning
arti cer of yore, which had been brought from the library for his
particular accommodation. From this venerable piece of furniture,
with which his shadowy gure and dark weazen face so admirably
accorded, he was dealing forth strange accounts of the popular
superstitions, and legends of the surrounding country, with which
he had become acquainted in the course of his antiquarian
researches. I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was
himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are very apt
to be, who live a recluse and studious life in a sequestered part of
the country, and pore over black letter tracts, so often lled with the
marvellous and supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the
fancies of the neighbouring peasantry, concerning the e gy of the
crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church altar. As it was the
only monument of the kind in that part of the country, it had always
been regarded with feelings of superstition by the good wives of the
village. It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds of
the church yard of stormy nights, particularly when it thundered;
and one old woman whose cottage bordered on the church yard had
seen it, through the windows of the church, when the moon shone,
slowly pacing up and down the aisles. It was the belief that some
wrong had been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure
hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and restlessness.
Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the tomb, over which the
spectre kept watch; and there was a story current of a sexton in old
times who endeavoured to break his way to the co n at night; but
just as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble hand
of the e gy, which stretched him senseless on the pavement. These
tales were often laughed at by some of the sturdier among the
rustics, yet when night came on, there were many of the stoutest
unbelievers that were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led
across the church yard.
From these and other anecdotes that followed, the crusader
appeared to be the favourite hero of ghost stories throughout the
vicinity. His picture, which hung up in the hall, was thought by the
servants to have something supernatural about it; for they remarked
that, in whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the warrior
were still xed on you. The old porter’s wife too, at the lodge, who
had been born and brought up in the family, and was a great gossip
among the maid servants, a rmed, that in her young days she had
often heard say, that on midsummer eve, when it is well known all
kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies, become visible and walk
abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come down from his
picture, ride about the house, down the avenue, and so to the
church to visit the tomb; on which occasion the church door most
civilly swung open of itself: not that he needed it; for he rode
through closed gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by
one of the dairy maids to pass between two bars of the great park
gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper.
All these superstitions I found had been very much countenanced
by the Squire, who, though not superstitious himself, was very fond
of seeing others so. He listened to every goblin tale of the
neighbouring gossips with in nite gravity, and held the porter’s wife
in high favour on account of her talent for the marvellous. He was
himself a great reader of old legends and romances, and often
lamented that he could not believe in them, for a superstitious
person, he thought, must live in a kind of fairy land.
Whilst we were all attention to the parson’s stories, our ears were
suddenly assailed by a burst of heterogeneous sounds from the hall,
in which were mingled something like the clang of rude minstrelsy,
with the uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The door
suddenly ew open, and a train came trooping into the room, that
might almost have been mistaken for the breaking up of the court of
Fairy. That indefatigable spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful
discharge of his duties, as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of
a Christmas mummery, or masquing; and having called in to his
assistance the Oxonian and the young o cer, who were equally ripe
for any thing that should occasion romping and merriment, they had
carried it into instant e ect. The old housekeeper had been
consulted; the antique clothes presses and wardrobes rummaged,
and made to yield up the reliques of nery that had not seen the
light for several generations; the younger part of the company had
been privately convened from parlour and hall, and the whole had
been bedizened out, into a burlesque imitation of an antique
masque.*
Master Simon led the van, as “Ancient Christmas,” quaintly
apparelled in a ru , a short cloak, which had very much the aspect
of one of the old housekeeper’s petticoats, and a hat that might have
served for a village steeple, and must indubitably have gured in
the days of the Covenanters.16 From under this his nose curved
boldly forth, ushed with a frost bitten bloom, that seemed the very
trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied by the blue eyed
romp, dished up as “Dame Mince Pie,” in the venerable
magni cence of faded brocade, long stomacher,17 peaked hat, and
high heeled shoes. The young o cer appeared as Robin Hood, in a
sporting dress of Kendal green,18 and a foraging cap with a gold
tassel. The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to deep
research, and there was an evident eye to the picturesque, natural to
a young gallant in the presence of his mistress. The fair Julia hung
on his arm in a pretty rustic dress, as “Maid Marian” The rest of the
train had been metamorphosed in various ways; the girls trussed up
in the nery of the ancient belles of the Brace-bridge line, and the
striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and gravely clad in broad
skirts, hanging sleeves, and full bottomed wigs, to represent the
characters of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies
celebrated in ancient masquings. The whole was under the control
of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule; and I
observed that he exercised rather a mischievous sway with his wand
over the smaller personages of the pageant.
The irruption of this motley crew, with beat of drum, according to
ancient custom, was the consummation of uproar and merriment.
Master Simon covered himself with glory by the stateliness with
which, as Ancient Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless,
though giggling, Dame Mince Pie. It was followed by a dance of all
the characters, which, from its medley of costumes, seemed as
though the old family portraits had skipped down from their frames
to join in the sport. Di erent centuries were guring at cross hands
and right and left; the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and
rigadoons;19 and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the
middle, through a line of succeeding generations.
The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, and this
resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple relish of childish
delight. He stood chuckling and rubbing his hands, and scarcely
hearing a word the parson said, notwithstanding that the latter was
discoursing most authentically on the ancient and stately dance of
the Paon, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet to be
derived.* For my part, I was in a continual excitement from the
varied scenes of whim and innocent gayety passing before me. It
was inspiring to see wild eyed frolic and warm hearted hospitality
breaking out from among the chills and glooms of winter, and old
age throwing o its apathy, and catching once more the freshness of
youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene, from the
consideration that these eeting customs were posting fast into
oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, the only family in England in
which the whole of them was still punctiliously observed. There was
a quaintness too, mingled with all this revelry that gave it a peculiar
zest: it was suited to the time and place; and as the old manor house
almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed echoing back the
joviality of long departed years.*

But enough of Christmas and its gambols: it is time for me to pause

in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the question asked by my graver
readers, “To what purpose is all this—how is the world to be made
wiser by this talk?” Alas! is there not wisdom enough extant for the
instruction of the world? And if not, are there not thousands of abler
pens labouring for its improvement?—It is so much pleasanter to
please than to instruct—to play the companion rather than the
preceptor. What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could throw
into the mass of knowledge; or how am I sure that my sagest
deductions may be safe guides for the opinions of others? But in
writing to amuse, if I fail, the only evil is my own disappointment.
If, however, I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out
one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy heart of
one moment of sorrow; if I can now and then penetrate through the
gathering lm of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human
nature, and make my reader more in good humour with his fellow
beings and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written
entirely in vain.
* Sir John Suckling.2
* The old ceremony of serving up the boar’s head on Christmas day is still observed
in the hall of Queen’s College Oxford. I was favoured by the parson with a copy of
the carol as now sung, and as it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are
curious in these grave and learned matters, I give it entire.

The boar’s head in hand bear I,

Bedeck’d with bays and rosemary;
And I pray you, my masters, be merry
   Quot estis in convivio.
      Caput apri defero
      Reddens laudes Domino.
The boar’s head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedeck’d with a gay garland
   Let us servire cantico.
      Caput apri defero, &c.
Our steward hath provided this
In honour of the King of bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
   In Reginensi Atrio.
      Caput apri defero,
        &c. &c. &c.

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately entertainments. Sometimes
it was made into a pie, at one end of which the head appeared above the crust in all
its plumage, with the beak richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such
pies were served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when Knights errant
pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprize, whence came the ancient
oath, used by Justice Shallow, “by cock and pye.”
The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast, and Massinger in

his City Madam6 gives some idea of the extravagance with which this, as well as
other dishes, was prepared for the gorgeous revels of the olden times:—
 Men may talk of Country-Christmasses,
Their thirty pound butter’d eggs, their pies of carps’ tongues;
Their pheasants drench’d with ambergris; the carcasses of three fat
   wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock!

* The Wassail Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of wine; with nutmeg,
sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs: in this way the nut brown beverage is still
prepared in some old families, and round the hearths of substantial farmers at
Christmas. It is also called Lamb’s wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his Twelfth
Night:

   Next crowne the bowle full

   With gentle Lamb’s wooll,
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
   With store of ale too;
   And thus ye must doe
To make the Wassaile a swinger

†“The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to each having his cup.
When the steward came to the doore with the Wassel, he was to cry three times
Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and then the chappel (chaplain) was to answer with a song”

ARCHÆOLOGIA.8

* From Poor Robin’s Almanack.10

* At christmasse there was in the Kinges house, wheresoever hee was lodged, a lorde
of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, and the like had ye in the house of every

nobleman of honor, or good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporall. STOW.15

* Masquingsor mummeries were favourite sports at Christmas in old times; and the
wardrobes at halls and manor houses were often laid under contribution to furnish
dresses and fantastic disguisings. I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the
idea of his from Ben Jonson’s Masque of Christmas.
* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, from pavo, a peacock,
says, “It is a grave and majestic dance; the method of dancing it anciently was by
gentlemen, dressed with caps and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns,
by the peers in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the
motion whereof, in dancing, resembled that of a peacock” HISTORY OF MUSIC.
* At the time of the rst publication of this paper, the picture of an old fashioned
Christmas in the country was pronounced by some as out of date. The author had
afterwards an opportunity of witnessing almost all the customs above described,
existing in unexpected vigor on the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he
passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will nd some notice of them in the
author’s account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey.
 LONDON ANTIQUES

                                                —I do walk
Methinks like Guido Vaux, with my dark lanthorn,
Stealing to set the town o’ re; i’ th’ country
I should be taken for William o’ the Wisp,
Or Robin Goodfellow

FLETCHER1

I am somewhat of an antiquity hunter and am fond of exploring

London in quest of the reliques of old times. These are principally to
be found in the depths of the city, swallowed up and almost lost in a
wilderness of brick and mortar; but deriving poetical and romantic
interest from the commonplace prosaic world around them. I was
struck with an instance of the kind in the course of a recent summer
ramble into the city; for the city is only to be explored to advantage
in summer time; when free from the smoke and fog, and rain and
mud of winter. I had been bu eting for some time against the
current of population setting through Fleet Street. The warm
weather had unstrung my nerves and made me sensitive to every jar
and jostle and discordant sound. The esh was weary, the spirit
faint and I was getting out of humor with the bustling busy throng
through which I had to struggle, when in a t of desperation I tore
my way through the crowd, plunged into a bye lane, and after
passing through several obscure nooks and angles emerged into a
quaint and quiet court with a grass plot in the centre overhung by
elms, and kept perpetually fresh and green by a fountain with its
sparkling jet of water. A student with book in hand was seated on a
stone bench, partly reading, partly meditating on the movements of
two or three trim nursery maids with their infant charges.
I was like an Arab who had suddenly come upon an oasis amid
the panting sterility of the desert. By degrees the quiet and coolness
of the place soothed my nerves and refreshed my spirit. I pursued
my walk and came, hard by, to a very ancient chapel with a low
browed saxon portal of massive and rich architecture. The interior
was circular and lofty, and lighted from above. Around were
monumental tombs of ancient date, on which were extended the
marble e gies of warriors in armour. Some had the hands devoutly
crossed upon the breast; others grasped the pummel of the sword—
menacing hostility even in the tomb!—while the crossed legs of
several indicated soldiers of the Faith who had been on crusades to
the Holy Land.
I was in fact, in the chapel of the Knights Templars,2 strangely
situated in the very centre of sordid tra c; and I do not know a
more impressive lesson for the man of the world than thus suddenly
to turn aside from the high way of busy money seeking life, and sit
down among these shadowy sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust
and forgetfulness.
In a subsequent tour of observation I encountered another of these
reliques of a “foregone world” locked up in the heart of the city. I
had been wandering for some time through dull monotonous streets,
destitute of anything to strike the eye or excite the imagination,
when I beheld before me a gothic gate way of mouldering antiquity.
It opened into a spacious quadrangle forming the court yard of a
stately gothic pile the portal of which stood “invitingly open.”
It was apparently a public edi ce, and as I was antiquity hunting I
ventured in, though with dubious steps. Meeting no one either to
oppose or rebuke my intrusion I continued on until I found myself in
a great hall with a lofty arched roof and oaken gallery, all of gothic
architecture. At one end of the hall was an enormous replace with
wooden settles on each side; at the other end was a raised platform
or dais, the seat of state, above which was the portrait of a man in
antique garb, with a long robe, a ru and a venerable grey beard.
The whole establishment had an air of monastic quiet and
seclusion, and what gave it a mysterious charm was, that I had not
met with a human being since I had passed the threshold.
Encouraged by this loneliness I seated myself in a recess of a large
bow window which admitted a broad ood of yellow sunshine,
checquered here and there by tints from panes of colored glass;
while an open casement let in the soft summer air. Here leaning my
head on my hand and my arm on an old oaken table I indulged in a
sort of reverie about what might have been the ancient uses of this
edi ce. It had evidently been of monastic origin; perhaps one of
those collegiate establishments built of yore for the promotion of
learning, where the patient monk, in the ample solitude of the
cloister, added page to page and volume to volume, emulating in
the productions of his brain the magnitude of the pile he inhabited.
As I was seated in this musing mood a small panneled door in an
arch at the upper end of the hall was opened and a number of grey
headed old men, clad in long black cloaks, came forth one by one;
proceeding in that manner through the hall, without uttering a
word, each turning a pale face on me as he passed, and disappearing
through a door at the lower end.
I was singularly struck with their appearance; their black cloaks
and antiquated air comported with the style of this most venerable
and mysterious pile. It was as if the ghosts of the departed years
about which I had been musing were passing in review before me.
Pleasing myself with such fancies, I set out, in the spirit of Romance,
to explore what I pictured to myself a realm of shadows, existing in
the very centre of substantial realities.
My ramble led me through a labyrinth of interior courts and
corridors and delapidated cloisters, for the main edi ce had many
additions and dependencies, built at various times and in various
styles; in one open space a number of boys who evidently belonged
to the establishment, were at their sports; but everywhere I observed
those mysterious old grey men in black mantles, sometimes
sauntering alone; sometimes conversing in groups: they appeared to
be the pervading genii of the place. I now called to mind what I had
read of certain colleges in old times where judicial astrology,
geomancy necromancy and other forbidden and magical sciences
were taught. Was this an establishment of the kind—and were these
black cloaked old men really professors of the black art?
These surmises were passing through my mind as my eye glanced
into a chamber, hung round with all kinds of strange and uncouth
objects: implements of savage warfare; strange idols and stu ed
alligators; bottled serpents and monsters decorated the mantelpiece;
while on the high tester3 of an old fashioned bed stead grinned a
human skull, anked on each side by a dried cat.
I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, which
seemed a tting laboratory for a necromancer, when I was startled
at beholding a human countenance staring at me from a dusky
corner. It was that of a small, shrivelled old man, with thin cheeks,
bright eyes, and grey wiry projecting eyebrows. I at rst doubted
whether it were not a mummy curiously preserved, but it moved
and I saw that it was alive. It was another of these black cloaked old
men, and, as I regarded his quaint physiognomy, his obsolete garb,
and the hideous and sinister objects by which he was surrounded, I
began to persuade myself that I had come upon the Arch Mago, who
ruled over this magical fraternity.
Seeing me pausing before the door he rose and invited me to
enter. I obeyed, with singular hardihood, for how did I know
whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me into some
strange monster, or conjure me into one of the bottles on his mantel
piece. He proved, however, to be any thing but a conjuror, and his
simple garrulity soon dispelled all the magic and mystery with
which I had enveloped this antiquated pile and its no less
antiquated inhabitants.
It appeared that I had made my way into the centre of an ancient
asylum for superannuated tradesmen and decayed householders,
with which was connected a school for a limited number of boys. It
was founded upwards of two centuries since on an old monastic
establishment, and retained somewhat of the conventual air and
character. The shadowy line of old men in black mantles who had
passed before me in the hall, and whom I had elevated into magi,
turned out to be the pensioners returning from morning service in
the chapel.
John Hallum, the little collector of curiosities whom I had made
the arch magician, had been for six years a resident of the place,
and had decorated this nal nestling place of his old age with
reliques and rarities picked up in the course of his life. According to
his own account he had been somewhat of a traveller; having been
once in France and very near making a visit to Holland. He
regretted not having visited the latter country, “as then he might
have said he had been there”—He was evidently a traveller of the
simple kind.
He was aristocratical too in his notions; keeping aloof, as I found,
from the ordinary run of pensioners. His chief associates were a
blind man who spoke Latin and Greek, of both which languages
Hallum was profoundly ignorant; and a broken down gentleman
who had run through a fortune of forty thousand pounds left him by
his father, and ten thousand pounds, the marriage portion of his
wife. Little Hallum seemed to consider it an indubitable sign of
gentle blood as well as of lofty spirit to be able to squander such
enormous sums.

P.S. The picturesque remnant of old times into which I have thus
beguiled the reader is what is called the Charter House, originally
the Chartreuse. It was founded in 1611 on the remains of an ancient
convent by Sir Thomas Sutton, being one of those noble charities set
on foot by individual muni cence, and kept up with the quaintness
and sanctity of ancient times amidst the modern changes and
innovations of London. Here eighty broken down men, who have
seen better days, are provided, in their old age, with food, clothing,
fuel and a yearly allowance for private expenses. They dine together
as did the monks of old, in the hall which had been the refectory of
the original convent. Attached to the establishment is a school for
forty four boys.
Stow,4 whose work I have consulted on the subject; speaking of
the obligations of the grey headed pensioners, says, “They are not to
intermeddle with any business touching the a airs of the hospital;
but to attend only to the service of God, and take thankfully what is
provided for them, without muttering, murmuring or grudging.
None to wear weapon, long hair, colored boots, spurs or colored
shoes; feathers in their hats, or any ru an like or unseemly apparel,
but such as becomes hospital men to wear” “And in truth,” adds
Stow, “happy are they that are so taken from the cares and sorrows
of the world, and xed in so good a place as these old men are;
having nothing to care for, but the good of their souls, to serve God
and to live in brotherly love.”

For the amusement of such as have been interested by the preceding

sketch, taken down from my own observation, and who may wish to
know a little more about the mysteries of London, I subjoin a
modicum of local history, put into my hands by an odd looking old
gentleman in a small brown wig and a snu colored coat, with
whom I became acquainted shortly after my visit to the Charter
House. I confess I was a little dubious at rst, whether it was not
one of those apocryphal tales often passed o upon inquiring
travellers like myself; and which have brought our general character
for veracity into such unmerited reproach. On making proper
inquiries, however, I have received the most satisfactory assurances
of the author’s probity; and, indeed, have been told that he is
actually engaged in a full and particular account of the very
interesting region in which he resides; of which the following may
be considered merely as a foretaste.
 LITTLE BRITAIN

What I write is most true. **** I have a whole booke of cases lying by me,
which if I should sette foorth, some grave auntients (within the hearing of
Bow bell) would bee out of charity with me.

NASHE1

In the centre of the great City of London lies a small neighbourhood,

consisting of a cluster of narrow streets and courts, of very
venerable and debilitated houses, which goes by the name of LITTLE
BRITAIN. Christ Church School and St. Bartholomew’s Hospital bound
it on the west; Smith Field and Long Lane on the north; Aldersgate
Street, like an arm of the sea, divides it from the eastern part of the
city; whilst the yawning gulf of Bull and Mouth Street separates it
from Butcher Lane, and the regions of New Gate. Over this little
territory, thus bounded and designated, the great dome of St. Paul’s,
swelling above the intervening houses of Paternoster Row, Amen
Corner, and Ave-Maria Lane, looks down with an air of motherly
protection.
This quarter derives its appellation from having been, in ancient
times, the residence of the Dukes of Britany As London increased,
however, rank and fashion rolled o to the west, and trade creeping
on at their heels, took possession of their deserted abodes. For some
time Little Britain became the great mart of learning, and was
peopled by the busy and proli c race of booksellers: these also
gradually deserted it, and emigrating beyond the great strait of New
Gate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St. Paul’s Church
Yard; where they continue to increase and multiply even at the
present day.
But though thus fallen into decline, Little Britain still bears traces
of its former splendour. There are several houses, ready to tumble
down, the fronts of which are magni cently enriched with old
oaken carvings of hideous faces, unknown birds, beasts, and shes;
and fruits and owers which it would perplex a naturalist to
classify. There are also, in Aldersgate Street, certain remains of what
were once spacious and lordly family mansions, but which have in
latter days been subdivided into several tenements. Here may often
be found the family of a petty tradesman, with its trumpery
furniture, burrowing among the relics of antiquated nery, in great
rambling time stained apartments, with fretted ceilings, gilded
cornices, and enormous marble replaces. The lanes and courts also
contain many smaller houses, not on so grand a scale, but, like your
small ancient gentry, sturdily maintaining their claims to equal
antiquity. These have their gable ends to the street; great bow
windows, with diamond panes set in lead; grotesque carvings; and
low arched door ways.*
In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed
several quiet years of existence; comfortably lodged in the second
oor of one of the smallest, but oldest edi ces. My sitting room is an
old wainscotted chamber, with small pannels, and set o with a
miscellaneous array of furniture. I have a particular respect for three
or four high backed claw footed chairs, covered with tarnished
brocade; which bear the marks of having seen better days; and have
doubtless gured in some of the old palaces of Little Britain. They
seem to me to keep together, and to look down with sovereign
contempt upon their leathern bottomed neighbours; as I have seen
decayed gentry carry a high head among the plebeian society with
which they were reduced to associate. The whole front of my sitting
room is taken up with a bow window; on the panes of which are
recorded the names of previous occupants for many generations;
mingled with scraps of very indi erent, gentleman like poetry,
written in characters which I can scarcely decipher; and which extol
the charms of many a beauty of Little Britain, who has long, long
since, bloomed, faded, and passed away. As I am an idle personage,
with no apparent occupation, and pay my bill regularly every week,
I am looked upon as the only independent gentleman of the
neighbourhood; and being curious to learn the internal state of
community so apparently shut up within itself, I have managed to
work my way into all the concerns and secrets of the place.
Little Britain may truly be called the heart’s core of the city; the
strong hold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it
was in its better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here
ourish in great preservation many of the holiday games and
customs of yore. The inhabitants most religiously eat pan cakes on
Shrove Tuesday; hot cross buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at
Michaelmas:2 they send love letters on Valentine’s Day; burn the
Pope on the Fifth of November,3 and kiss all the girls under the
misletoe at Christmas. Roast beef and plum pudding are also held in
superstitious veneration, and port and sherry maintain their grounds
as the only true English wines; all others being considered vile
outlandish beverages.
Little Britain has its long catalogue of city wonders, which its
inhabitants consider the wonders of the world; such as the great bell
of St. Paul’s, which sours all the beer when it tolls; the gures that
strike the hours at St. Dunstan’s clock; the Monument; the lions in
the Tower; and the wooden giants in Guildhall.4 They still believe in
dreams and fortune telling, and an old woman that lives in Bull and
Mouth Street makes a tolerable subsistence by detecting stolen
goods, and promising the girls good husbands. They are apt to be
rendered uncomfortable by comets and eclipses; and if a dog howls
dolefully at night, it is looked upon as a sure sign of a death in the
place. There are even many ghost stories current, particularly
concerning the old mansion houses; in several of which it is said
strange sights are sometimes seen. Lords and ladies, the former in
full bottomed wigs, hanging sleeves and swords, the latter in
lappets,5 stays, hoops, and brocade, have been seen walking up and
down the great waste chambers, on moonlight nights; and are
supposed to be the shades of the ancient proprietors in their court
dresses.
Little Britain has likewise its sages and great men. One of the
most important of the former is a tall dry old gentleman, of the
name of Skryme, who keeps a small apothecary’s shop. He has a
cadaverous countenance, full of cavities and projections; with a
brown circle round each eye, like a pair of horn spectacles. He is
much thought of by the old women, who consider him as a kind of
conjuror, because he has two or three stu ed alligators hanging up
in his shop, and several snakes in bottles. He is a great reader of
almanacks and newspapers, and is much given to pore over
alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, res, earthquakes, and
volcanic eruptions; which last phenomena he considers as signs of
the times. He has always some dismal tale of the kind to deal out to
his customers, with their doses; and thus at the same time puts both
soul and body into an uproar. He is a great believer in omens and
predictions; and has the prophecies of Robert Nixon and Mother
Shipton6 by heart. No man can make so much out of an eclipse, or
even an unusually dark day; and he shook the tail of the last comet
over the heads of his customers and disciples until they were nearly
frightened out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular
legend or prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent.
There has been a saying current among the ancient Sybils,7 who
treasure up these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of
the Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow
Church steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange
conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same
architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola of the
Exchange, and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to relate, the
dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by jole, in the yard
of his workshop!
“Others,” as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, “may go star
gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here is a
conjunction on the earth, near at home, and under our own eyes,
which surpasses all the signs and calculations of astrologers” Since
these portentous weathercocks have thus laid their heads together,
wonderful events had already occurred. The good old king,
notwithstanding that he had lived eighty two years, had all at once
given up the ghost; another king had mounted the throne; a royal
duke had died suddenly—another, in France, had been murdered;
there had been radical meetings in all parts of the kingdom; the
bloody scenes at Manchester; the great plot in Cato Street;—and,
above all, the Queen had returned to England!8All these sinister
events are recounted by Mr. Skryme with a mysterious look, and a
dismal shake of the head; and, being taken with his drugs, and
associated in the minds of his auditors with stu ed sea monsters,
bottled serpents, and his own visage, which is a title page of
tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of the
people in Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever they go by
Bow Church, and observe, that they never expected any good to
come of taking down that steeple, which in old times told nothing
but glad tidings, as the history of Wittington and his Cat9 bears
witness.
The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial cheesemonger,
who lives in a fragment of one of the old family mansions, and is as
magni cently lodged as a round bellied mite in the midst of one of
his own Cheshires. Indeed he is a man of no little standing and
importance; and his renown extends through Huggin Lane, and Lad
Lane, and even unto Aldermanbury His opinion is very much taken
in a airs of state, having read the Sunday papers for the last half
century, together with the Gentleman’s Magazine, Rapin’s History of
England, and the Naval Chronicle. His head is stored with
invaluable maxims which have borne the test of time and use for
centuries. It is his rm opinion that “it is a moral impossible,” so
long as England is true to herself, that anything can shake her: and
he has much to say on the subject of the national debt; which,
somehow or other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and
blessing. He passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of
Little Britain, until of late years, when, having become rich, and
grown into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his
pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several
excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighbouring towns,
where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the
metropolis through a telescope and endeavouring to descry the
steeple of St. Bartholomew’s. Not a stage coachman of Bull and
Mouth Street, but touches his hat as he passes; and he is considered
quite a patron at the coach o ce of the Goose and Gridiron, St.
Paul’s Church yard. His family have been very urgent for him to
make an expedition to Margate, but he has great doubts of those
new gim-cracks the steam boats, and indeed thinks himself too
advanced in life to undertake sea voyages.
Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and party
spirit ran very high at one time in consequence of two rival “Burial
Societies” being set up in the place. One held its meeting at the
Swan and Horse Shoe, and was patronized by the cheesemonger; the
other at the Cock and Crown, under the auspices of the apothecary:
it is needless to say that the latter was the most ourishing. I have
passed an evening or two at each, and have acquired much valuable
information as to the best mode of being buried; the comparative
merits of church yards; together with diverse hints on the subject of
patent iron co ns. I have heard the question discussed in all its
bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account of
their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies have
happily died of late; but they were for a long time prevailing themes
of controversy, the people of Little Britain being extremely solicitous
of funeral honours and of lying comfortably in their graves.
Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a
di erent cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good humour
over the whole neighbourhood. It meets once a week at a little old
fashioned house, kept by a jolly publican of the name of Wagsta ,
and bearing for insignia a resplendent half moon, with a most
seductive bunch of grapes. The whole edi ce is covered with
inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such as
“Truman, Hanbury and Co’s. Entire,” “Wine, Rum, and Brandy
Vaults,” “Old Tom, Rum and Compounds, &c” This indeed has been
a temple of Bacchus and Momus10 from time immemorial. It has
always been in the family of the Wagsta s, so that its history is
tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much frequented
by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of Elizabeth, and was
looked into now and then by the wits of Charles the Second’s day.
But what Wagsta principally prides himself upon, is, that Henry
the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal rambles, broke the head of one of
his ancestors with his famous walking sta . This however is
considered as rather a dubious and vain glorious boast of the
landlord.
The club which now holds its weekly sessions here, goes by the
name of “the Roaring Lads of Little Britain” They abound in old
catches, glees and choice stories, that are traditional in the place,
and not to be met with in any other part of the metropolis. There is
a mad cap undertaker who is inimitable at a merry song; but the life
of the club, and indeed the prime wit of Little Britain, is bully
Wagsta himself. His ancestors were all wags before him, and he
has inherited with the inn a large stock of songs and jokes, which go
with it from generation to generation as heirlooms. He is a dapper
little fellow, with bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist
merry eye, and a little shock of grey hair behind. At the opening of
every club night he is called in to sing his “Confession of Faith,”
which is the famous old drinking trowl from Gammer Gurton’s
Needle.11 He sings it, to be sure with many variations, as he
received it from his father’s lips; for it has been a standing favourite
at the Half Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written;
nay, he a rms that his predecessors have often had the honour of
singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas mummeries,
when Little Britain was in all its glory*
It would do one’s heart good to hear on a club night the shouts of
merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the choral bursts
of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue from this jovial
mansion. At such times the street is lined with listeners, who enjoy a
delight equal to that of gazing into a confectioner’s window, or
snu ng up the steams of a cook shop.
There are two annual events which produce great stir and
sensation in Little Britain; these are St. Bartholomew’s Fair, and the
Lord Mayor’s day12 During the time of the Fair, which is held in the
adjoining regions of Smith eld, there is nothing going on but
gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets of Little Britain
are overrun with an irruption of strange gures and faces, every
tavern is a scene of rout and revel. The ddle and the song are
heard from the tap room, morning, noon, and night; and at each
window may be seen some group of boon companions, with half
shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in mouth and tankard in hand,
fondling, and prozing, and singing maudlin songs over their liquor.
Even the sober decorum of private families, which I must say is
rigidly kept up at other times among my neighbours, is no proof
against this saturnalia. There is no such thing as keeping maid
servants within doors. Their brains are absolutely set madding with
Punch and the Puppet Show; the Flying Horses; Signior Polito; the
Fire Eater; the celebrated Mr. Paap; and the Irish Giant. The
children too lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt ginger
bread, and ll the house with the Lilliputian13 din of drums,
trumpets and penny whistles.
But the Lord Mayor’s day is the great anniversary. The Lord
Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as the
greatest potentate upon earth; his gilt coach with six horses as the
summit of human splendour; and his procession, with all the Sheri s
and Aldermen in his train, as the grandest of earthly pageants. How
they exult in the idea, that the King himself dare not enter the city,
without rst knocking at the gate of Temple Bar,14 and asking
permission of the Lord Mayor: for if he did, heaven and earth! there
is no knowing what might be the consequence. The man in armour
who rides before the Lord Mayor, and is the city champion, has
orders to cut down everybody that o ends against the dignity of the
city; and then there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his
head, who sits at the window of the state coach and holds the city
sword, as long as a pike sta —Odd’s blood! If he once draws that
sword, Majesty itself is not safe!
Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the good
people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an e ectual
barrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign invasion, the Lord
Mayor has but to throw himself into the tower, call in the train
bands,15 and put the standing army of Beef eaters under arms, and
he may bid de ance to the world!
Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own
opinions, Little Britain has long ourished as a sound heart to this
great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with considering it
as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy John Bullism were
garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the national character, when it
had run to waste and degeneracy. I have rejoiced also in the general
spirit of harmony that prevailed throughout it; for though there
might now and then be a few clashes of opinion between the
adherents of the cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an
occasional feud between the burial societies, yet these were but
transient clouds, and soon passed away. The neighbours met with
good will, parted with a shake of the hand, and never abused each
other except behind their backs.
I could give rare descriptions of snug junketting parties at which I
have been present; where we played at All-Fours, Pope-Joan, Tom-
come-tickle-me, and other choice old games; and where we
sometimes had a good old English country dance to the tune of Sir
Roger de Coverly. Once a year also the neighbours would gather
together and go on a gypsey party to Epping Forest. It would have
done any man’s heart good to see the merriment that took place
here as we banqueted on the grass under the trees. How we made
the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the songs of little Wagsta
and the merry undertaker! After dinner too, the young folks would
play at blind-man’s-blu and hide and seek; and it was amusing to
see them tangled among the briars, and to hear a ne romping girl
now and then squeak from among the bushes. The elder folks would
gather round the cheesemonger and the apothecary, to hear them
talk politics; for they generally brought out a newspaper in their
pockets, to pass away time in the country. They would now and
then, to be sure, get a little warm in argument; but their disputes
were always adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella maker
in a double chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject,
managed, somehow or other, to decide in favour of both parties.
All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are
doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep
in; factions arise; and families now and then spring up, whose
ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion. Thus
in latter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been grievously
disturbed, and its golden simplicity of manners threatened with total
subversion by the aspiring family of a retired butcher.
The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving
and popular in the neighbourhood: the Miss Lambs were the belles
of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had
made money enough to shut up shop, and put his name on a brass
plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss Lambs
had the honour of being a lady in attendance on the Lady Mayoress,
at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore three
towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family never got over it;
they were immediately smitten with a passion for high life; set up a
one horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace round the errand boy’s hat,
and have been the talk and detestation of the whole neighbourhood
ever since. They could no longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or
blind-man’s-blu ; they could endure no dances but quadrilles,
which nobody had ever heard of in Little Britain; and they took to
reading novels, talking bad French, and playing upon the piano.
Their brother too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a
dandy and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts; and
he confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean,
the Opera and the Edinbro’ Review16
What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they
neglected to invite any of their old neighbours; but they had a great
deal of genteel company from Theobald’s Road, Red Lion Square,
and other parts towards the west. There were several beaux of their
brother’s acquaintance from Grays inn Lane and Hatton Garden; and
not less than three Aldermen’s ladies with their daughters. This was
not to be forgotten or forgiven. All Little Britain was in an uproar
with the smacking of whips, the lashing of miserable horses, and the
rattling and jingling of hackney coaches. The gossips of the
neighbourhood might be seen popping their night caps out at every
window, watching the crazy vehicles rumble by; and there was a
knot of virulent old crones, that kept a lookout from a house just
opposite the retired butcher’s, and scanned and criticized everyone
that knocked at the door.
This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole
neighbourhood declared they would have nothing more to say to
the Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements
with her quality acquaintance, would give little hum drum tea
junkettings to some of her old cronies, “quite,” as she would say, “in
a friendly way;” and it is equally true that her invitations were
always accepted, in spite of all previous vows to the contrary. Nay
the good ladies would sit and be delighted with the music of the
Miss Lambs, who would condescend to strum an Irish melody for
them on the piano; and they would listen with wonderful interest to
Mrs. Lamb’s anecdotes of Alderman Plunket’s family of Portsoken
ward, and the Miss Timberlakes, the rich heiresses of Crutched
Friars; but then they relieved their consciences, and averted the
reproaches of their confederates, by canvassing at the next gossiping
convocation everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and
their rout all to pieces.
The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable
was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of the
meekness of his name, was a rough hearty old fellow, with the voice
of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe brush, and a broad face
mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the daughters always
spoke of him as “the old gentleman,” addressed him as “papa,” in
tones of in nite softness, and endeavoured to coax him into a
dressing gown and slippers, and other gentlemanly habits. Do what
they might, there was no keeping down the butcher. His sturdy
nature would break through all their glozings. He had a hearty
vulgar good humour that was irrepressible. His very jokes made his
sensitive daughters shudder; and he persisted in wearing his blue
cotton coat of a morning, dining at two o’clock, and having a “bit of
sausage with his tea.”
He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family.
He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to him;
no longer laughing at his jokes; and now and then throwing out a
ing at “some people,” and a hint about “quality binding” This both
nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife and
daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex, taking
advantage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon him to give
up his afternoon’s pipe and tankard at Wagsta ’s; to sit after dinner
by himself and take his pint of port—a liquor he detested—and to
nod in his chair in solitary and dismal gentility.
The Miss Lambs might now be seen aunting along the streets in
French bonnets, with unknown beaux; and talking and laughing so
loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within hearing.
They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and actually induced
a French dancing master to set up in the neighbourhood; but the
worthy folks of Little Britain took re at it, and did so persecute the
poor Gaul, that he was fain to pack up ddle and dancing pumps,
and decamp with such precipitation, that he absolutely forgot to pay
for his lodgings.
I had attered myself, at rst, with the idea that all this ery
indignation on the part of the community was merely the
over owing of their zeal for good old English manners, and their
horror of innovation; and I applauded the silent contempt they were
so vociferous in expressing, for upstart pride, French fashions, and
the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon perceived the
infection had taken hold; and that my neighbours, after
condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I overheard
my landlady importuning her husband to let their daughters have
one quarter at French and music, and that they might take a few
lessons in the quadrille. I even saw, in the course of a few Sundays,
no less than ve French bonnets, precisely like those of the Miss
Lambs, parading about Little Britain.
I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die away;
that the Lambs might move out of the neighbourhood; might die, or
might run away with attornies’ apprentices; and that quiet and
simplicity might be again restored to the community. But unluckily
a rival power arose. An opulent oil man died and left a widow with
a large jointure17 and a family of buxom daughters. The young
ladies had long been repining in secret at the parsimony of a
prudent father which kept down all their elegant aspirings. Their
ambition being now no longer restrained broke out into a blaze, and
they openly took the eld against the family of the butcher. It is
true that the Lambs, having had the rst start, had naturally an
advantage of them in the fashionable career. They could speak a
little bad French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed
high acquaintances; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When
the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss
Trotters mounted four, and of twice as ne colours. If the Lambs
gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behind hand; and
though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had
double the number and were twice as merry.
The whole community has at length divided itself into fashionable
factions, under the banners of these two families. The old games of
Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely discarded; there is
no such thing as getting up an honest country dance; and, on my
attempting to kiss a young lady under the misletoe last Christmas, I
was indignantly repulsed; the Miss Lambs having pronounced it
“shocking vulgar” Bitter rivalry has also broken out as to the most
fashionable part of Little Britain; the Lambs standing up for the
dignity of Cross Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St.
Bartholomew’s.
Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and what
will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all his
talent at prognostics, to determine; though I apprehend that it will
terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism.
The immediate e ects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a
single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle good for
nothing personage, I have been considered the only gentleman by
profession in the place. I stand therefore in high favour with both
parties, and have to hear all their cabinet counsels and mutual
backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree with the ladies on all
occasions, I have committed myself most horribly with both parties,
by abusing their opponents. I might manage to reconcile this to my
conscience, which is a truly accommodating one, but I cannot to my
apprehension—if the Lambs and Trotters ever come to a
reconciliation and compare notes, I am ruined!
I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am
actually looking out for some other nest in this great city, where old
English manners are still kept up; where French is neither eaten,
drunk, danced nor spoken; and where there are no fashionable
families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will, like a veteran rat,
hasten away before I have an old house about my ears; bid a long,
though a sorrowful adieu to my present abode, and leave the rival
factions of the Lambs and the Trotters, to divide the distracted
empire of LITTLE BRITAIN.

* It is evident that the author of this interesting communication has included in his
general title of Little Britain, many of those little lanes and courts that belong
immediately to Cloth Fair.
* As mine host of the Half moon’s Confession of Faith may not be familiar to the
majority of readers, and as it is a specimen of the current songs of Little Britain, I
subjoin it in its original orthography. I would observe that the whole club always
join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table and clattering of pewter pots.

I cannot eate but lytle meate,

   My stomacke is not good,
But sure I thinke that I can drinke
   With him that weares a hood.
Though I go bare take ye no care,
   I nothing am a colde,
I stu my skyn so full within,
   Of joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare,
   Booth foote and hand go colde,
But belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe,
   Whether it be new or olde.
I love no rost, but a nut browne toste,
   And a crab laid in the fyre;
A little breade shall do me steade,
   Much breade I not desyre.
No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe,
   Can hurte mee if I wolde,
I am so wrapt and throwly lapt
   Of joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c.
And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe,
   Loveth well good ale to seeke,
Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see,
   The teares run downe her cheeke.
Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle,
   Even as a mault-worme sholde,
And sayth, sweete harte, I tooke my parte
   Of this joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c.
Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke,
   Even as goode fellowes should doe,
They shall not mysse to have the blisse,
   Good ale doth bring men to.
And all poore soules that have scowred bowles,
   Or have them lustily trolde,
God save the lyves of them and their wives,
   Whether they be yonge or olde.
Chorus. Back and syde go bare, go bare, &c.
 STRATFORD-ON-AVON

Thou soft owing Avon, by the silver stream,

Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream;
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head.

GARRICK1

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he

can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something
like independence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary
day’s travel, he kicks o his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and
stretches himself before an inn re. Let the world without go as it
may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to
pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he
surveys. The arm chair is his throne; the poker his sceptre, and the
little parlour of some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is
a morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties
of life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day;
and he who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence,
knows the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of
enjoyment. “Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?”2 thought I, as I
gave the re a stir, lolled back in my elbow chair, and cast a
complacent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, at
Stratford-on-Avon.
The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my
mind as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in
which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a
pretty chamber maid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with a
hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint
that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute dominion was at an
end; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent potentate, to avoid
being deposed, and putting the Stratford Guide Book under my arm,
as a pillow companion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of
Shakespeare, the Jubilee, and David Garrick.
The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which
we sometimes have in early spring; for it was about the middle of
March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the
north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing from
the west, breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every
bud and ower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty.
I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My rst visit
was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where,
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father’s craft of
wool combing. It is a small mean looking edi ce of wood and
plaster, a true nestling place of genius, which seems to delight in
hatching its o spring in bye corners. The walls of its squalid
chambers are covered with names and inscriptions, in every
language, by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the
prince to the peasant; and present a simple, but striking instance of
the spontaneous and universal homage of mankind to the great poet
of nature.
The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty red face,
lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and garnished with arti cial
locks of axen hair, curling from under an exceedingly dirty cap.
She was peculiarly assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which
this, like all other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the
shattered stock of the very matchlock with which Shakespeare shot
the deer, on his poaching exploit. There, too, was his tobacco box;
which proves that he was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh;3 the
sword also with which he played Hamlet; and the identical lanthorn
with which Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the
tomb! There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare’s mulberry
tree,4 which seems to have as extraordinary powers of self
multiplication as the wood of the true cross; of which there is
enough extant to build a ship of the line.
The most favourite object of curiosity, however, is Shakespeare’s
chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a small gloomy chamber, just
behind what was his father’s shop. Here he may many a time have
sat when a boy watching the slowly revolving spit with all the
longing of an urchin; or of an evening, listening to the crones and
gossips of Stratford, dealing forth church yard tales and legendary
anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In this chair it is the
custom of everyone that visits the house to sit: whether this be done
with the hope of imbibing any of the inspiration of the bard I am at
a loss to say, I merely mention the fact; and mine hostess privately
assured me, that though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal
of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in
three years. It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this
extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile nature
of the Santa Casa of Loretto,5 or the ying chair of the Arabian
enchanter, for though sold some few years since to a northern
princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back again to the
old chimney corner.
I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing to
be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant, and costs nothing. I am
therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local anecdotes of
goblins and great men; and would advise all travellers who travel
for their grati cation to be the same. What is it to us whether these
stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade ourselves into
the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of the reality? There is
nothing like resolute good humoured credulity in these matters; and
on this occasion I went even so far as willingly to believe the claims
of mine hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily
for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition,
which set all belief in her consanguinity at de ance.
 From the birth place of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to
his grave. He lies buried in the chancel6 of the parish church, a large
and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly ornamented. It
stands on the banks of the Avon, on an embowered point, and
separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its
situation is quiet and retired: the river runs murmuring at the foot
of the church yard, and the elms which grow upon its banks droop
their branches into its clear bosom. An avenue of limes, the boughs
of which are curiously interlaced, so as to form in summer an
arched way of foliage, leads up from the gate of the yard to the
church porch. The graves are overgrown with grass; the grey
tombstones, some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half
covered with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old
building. Small birds have built their nests among the cornices and
ssures of the walls, and keep up a continual utter and chirping;
and rooks are sailing and cawing about its lofty grey spire.
In the course of my rambles I met with the grey headed sexton,
Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church.
He had lived in Stratford, man and boy for eighty years, and seemed
still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception
that he had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and its bordering
meadows; and was a picture of that neatness, order, and comfort,
which pervade the humblest dwellings in this country. A low white
washed room, with a stone oor carefully scrubbed, served for
parlour, kitchen, and hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes
glittered along the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and
polished, lay the family Bible and Prayer book, and the drawer
contained the family library, composed of about half a score of well
thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, that important article of
cottage furniture, ticked on the opposite side of the room; with a
bright warming pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man’s
horn handled Sunday cane on the other. The replace, as usual, was
wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its jambs. In
one corner sat the old man’s grand daughter sewing, a pretty blue
eyed girl,—and in the opposite corner was a superannuated crony,
whom he addressed by the name of John Ange, and who, I found,
had been his companion from childhood. They had played together
in infancy; they had worked together in manhood; they were now
tottering about and gossiping away the evening of life; and in a
short time they will probably be buried together in the neighbouring
church yard. It is not often that we see two streams of existence
running thus evenly and tranquilly side by side; it is only in such
quiet “bosom scenes” of life that they are to be met with.
I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard
from these ancient chroniclers; but they had nothing new to impart.
The long interval during which Shakespeare’s writings lay in
comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his history; and it is
his good or evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his
biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures.
The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters
on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford jubilee, and they
remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fête, who
superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the sexton,
was “a short punch man very lively and bustling” John Ange had
assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare’s mulberry tree, of which
he had a morsel in his pocket for sale; no doubt a sovereign
quickener of literary conception.
I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare house.
John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and
inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of the
mulberry tree; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as to
Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered that
he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet’s
tomb; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. Thus it is
that historians di er at the very outset, and mere pebbles make the
stream of truth diverge into di erent channels even at the fountain
head.
 We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and
entered by a gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors of
massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture and
embellishments superior to those of most country churches. There
are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of
which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping piecemeal
from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the chancel. The place
is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave before the pointed
windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short distance from the
walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A at stone marks the spot
where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed on it, said to
have been written by himself, and which have in them something
extremely awful. If they are indeed his own, they show that
solicitude about the quiet of the grave, which seems natural to ne
sensibilities and thoughtful minds:
Good friend, for Jesus’ sake, forbeare
To dig the dust encloased here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones,
And curst be he that moves my bones.

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of

Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and considered as a
resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a nely arched
forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear indications of that
cheerful, social disposition, by which he was as much characterized
among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. The
inscription mentions his age at the time of his decease— fty three
years; an untimely death for the world: for what fruit might not
have been expected from the golden autumn of such a mind,
sheltered as it was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and
ourishing in the sunshine of popular and royal favour.
The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its e ect.
It has prevented the removal of his remains from the bosom of his
native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one time
contemplated. A few years since also, as some labourers were
digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to
leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one might
have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to meddle
with his remains, so awfully guarded by a malediction; and lest any
of the idle or the curious, or any collector of relics, should be
tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept watch over the
place for two days, until the vault was nished and the aperture
closed again. He told me that he had made bold to look in at the
hole, but could see neither co n nor bones; nothing but dust. It was
something, I thought, to have seen the dust of Shakespeare.
Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favourite daughter
Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also, is a full
length e gy of his old friend John Combe, of usurious memory; on
whom he is said to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other
monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on any thing that
is not connected with Shakespeare. His idea pervades the place: the
whole pile seems but as his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer
checked and thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect con dence:
other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is palpable
evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement,
there was something intense and thrilling in the idea, that, in very
truth, the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet.
It was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the
place; and as I passed through the church yard I plucked a branch
from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought from
Stratford.
I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim’s devotion, but I
had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at Charlecot, and
to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in company with
some of the roysters of Stratford, committed his youthful o ence of
deer stealing. In this hare-brained exploit we are told that he was
taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper’s lodge, where he
remained all night in doleful captivity. When brought into the
presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his treatment must have been galling
and humiliating, for it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a
rough pasquinade, which was a xed to the park gate at Charlecot*
This agitious attack upon the dignity of the Knight so incensed
him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the severity of
the laws in force against the rhyming deer stalker. Shakespeare did
not wait to brave the united puissance of a Knight of the Shire and a
country attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks of the
Avon and his paternal trade; wandered away to London; became a
hanger on to the theatres; then an actor; and, nally, wrote for the
stage; and thus, through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy,
Stratford lost an indi erent wool comber and the world gained an
immortal poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the
harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in
his writings; but in the sportive way of a good natured mind. Sir
Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow,7 and the satire
is slyly xed upon him by the Justice’s armorial bearings, which,
like those of the Knight, had white luces† in the quarterings.
Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften
and explain away this early transgression of the poet; but I look
upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his situation
and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the
wildness and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and undirected
genius. The poetic temperament has naturally something in it of the
vagabond. When left to itself it runs loosely and wildly, and delights
in everything eccentric and licentious. It is often a turn up of a die,
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn
out a great rogue or a great poet; and had not Shakespeare’s mind
fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly
transcended all civil, as he has all dramatic laws.
I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, like an
unbroken colt, about the neighbourhood of Stratford, he was to be
found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous characters; that
he associated with all the mad caps of the place, and was one of
those unlucky urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their
heads, and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. To
him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy’s park was doubtless like a
foray to a Scottish Knight, and struck his eager, and as yet untamed,
imagination, as something delightfully adventurous.*
The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly
interesting from being connected with this whimsical but eventful
circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the house stood at
little more than three miles distance from Stratford, I resolved to
pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some of
those scenes from which Shakespeare must have derived his earliest
ideas of rural imagery.
The country was yet naked and lea ess; but English scenery is
always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the
weather was surprising in its quickening e ects upon the landscape.
It was inspiring and animating to witness this rst awakening of
spring. To feel its warm breath stealing over the senses; to see the
moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and the
tender blade; and the trees and shrubs, in their reviving tints and
bursting buds, giving the promise of returning foliage and ower.
The cold snow drop, that little borderer on the skirts of winter, was
to be seen with its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens
before the cottages. The bleating of the new dropt lambs was faintly
heard from the elds. The sparrow twittered about the thatched
eaves and budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his
late querulous wintry strain; and the lark, springing up from the
reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright eecy
cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little
songster, mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was still lled
with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare’s exquisite little song
in Cymbeline:
Hark! hark! the lark at heav’n’s gate sings,
   And Phoebus ’gins arise,
 His steeds to water at those springs,
   On chaliced owers that lies.
And winking mary-buds begin,
   To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty bin,

   My lady sweet arise!9

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground: every thing
is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old cottage that I
saw, I fancied into some resort of his boyhood, where he had
acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and manners, and
heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has
woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are told,
it was a popular amusement in winter evenings “to sit round the
re, and tell merry tales of errant knights, queens, lovers, lords,
ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and
friars”*
My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which
made a variety of the most fanciful doublings and windings through
a wide and fertile valley; sometimes glittering from among willows,
which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among groves, or
beneath green banks; and sometimes rambling out into full view,
and making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. This
beautiful bosom of country is called the vale of the Red Horse. A
distant line of undulating blue hills seems to be its boundary, whilst
all the soft intervening landscape lies in a manner enchained in the
silver links of the Avon.
After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned o into a
footpath, which led along the borders of elds and under hedge
rows to a private gate of the park; there was a style, however, for
the bene t of the pedestrian; there being a public right of way
through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable estates, in which
everyone has a kind of property—at least as far as the footpath is
concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man to his lot, and
what is more, to the better lot of his neighbour, thus to have parks
and pleasure grounds thrown open for his recreation. He breathes
the pure air as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as
the lord of the soil; and if he has not the privilege of calling all that
he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying
for it, and keeping it in order.
I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose
vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded
solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their
hereditary nests in the tree tops. The eye ranged through a long
lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant
statue; and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the opening.
There is something about these stately old avenues that has the
e ect of gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended
similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long
duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time with
which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also
the long settled dignity, and proudly concentrated independence of
an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but aristocratic old
friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous palaces of modern
gentry, that “money could do much with stone and mortar, but
thank heaven there was no such thing as suddenly building up an
avenue of oaks.”
It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and
about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fulbroke,
which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of
Shakespeare’s commentators have supposed he derived his noble
forest meditations of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures
in “As You Like It” It is in lonely wanderings through such scenes,
that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of inspiration, and
becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and majesty of nature. The
imagination kindles into reverie and rapture; vague but exquisite
images and ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute and
almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was in some such
mood, and perhaps under one of those very trees before me, which
threw their broad shades over the grassy banks and quivering
waters of the Avon, that the poet’s fancy may have sallied forth into
that little song which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary:
Under the green wood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry throat
Unto the sweet bird’s note,
Come hither, come hither, come hither,
   Here shall he see
   No enemy,

But winter and rough weather.11

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of

brick, with stone quoins,12 and is in the gothic style of Queen
Elizabeth’s day, having been built in the rst year of her reign. The
exterior remains very nearly in its original state, and may be
considered a fair specimen of the residence of a wealthy country
gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens from the park into
a kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with a grass
plot, shrubs, and ower beds. The gateway is in imitation of the
ancient barbican;13 being a kind of outpost, and anked by towers;
though evidently for mere ornament, instead of defence. The front
of the house is completely in the old style; with stone shafted
casements, a great bow window of heavy stone work, and a portal
with armorial bearings over it, carved in stone. At each corner of
the building is an octagon tower, surmounted by a gilt ball and
weathercock.
The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at
the foot of a gently sloping bank, which sweeps down from the rear
of the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its
borders; and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I
contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to mind Falsta ’s
encomium on Justice Shallow’s abode, and the a ected indi erence
and real vanity of the latter:
“FALSTAFF. You have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.
Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John:—
SHALLOW.
marry, good air”14
Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the
days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and solitude. The
great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard was locked; there
was no show of servants bustling about the place; the deer gazed
quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried by the moss
troopers15 of Stratford. The only sign of domestic life that I met
with, was a white cat stealing with wary look and stealthy pace
towards the stables, as if on some nefarious expedition. I must not
omit to mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw
suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the Lucys still
inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, and maintain that
rigorous exercise of territorial power which was so strenuously
manifested in the case of the bard.
After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to a
lateral portal which was the everyday entrance to the mansion. I
was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with
the civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me the
interior of the house. The greater part has undergone alterations,
and been adapted to modern tastes and modes of living: there is a
ne old oaken staircase; and the great hall, that noble feature in an
ancient manor house, still retains much of the appearance it must
have had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty;
and at one end is a gallery, in which stands an organ. The weapons
and trophies of the chace, which formerly adorned the hall of a
country gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a
wide hospitable replace, calculated for an ample old fashioned
wood re, formerly the rallying place of winter festivity. On the
opposite side of the hall is the huge gothic bow window, with stone
shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are emblazoned in
stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many
generations, some being dated in 1558.1 was delighted to observe in
the quarterings the three white luces by which the character of Sir
Thomas was rst identi ed with that of Justice Shallow16 They are
mentioned in the rst scene of the “Merry Wives of Windsor,” where
the Justice is in a rage with Falsta for having “beaten his men,
killed his deer, and broken into his lodge” The poet had no doubt
the o ences of himself and his comrades in mind at the time, and
we may suppose the family pride and vindictive threats of the
puissant Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation of
Sir Thomas.
Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star-Chamber
“SHALLOW. matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falsta s, he shall
not abuse Robert Shallow, Esq.
SLENDER. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram.
SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum.
Ay, and ratalorum too; and a gentleman born, master
SLENDER. parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant,
quittance, or obligation, Armigero.
Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred
SHALLOW.
years.
All his successors gone before him have done’t, and all his
SLENDER. ancestors that come after him may: they may give the
dozen white luces in their coat. *****
SHALLOW. The council shall hear it; it is a riot.
EVANS. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no fear of
Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the
 fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in
that.
Ha! o’ my life, if I were young again, the sword should end
SHALLOW.
it!”
Near the window thus emblazoned, hung a portrait by Sir Peter
Lely17 of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of
Charles the Second; the old housekeeper shook her head as she
pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been
sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of
the family estate, among which was that part of the park where
Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus
lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the present
day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess that she had a
surpassingly ne hand and arm.
The picture which most attracted my attention was a great
painting over the replace, containing likenesses of a Sir Thomas
Lucy and his family who inhabited the hall in the latter part of
Shakespeare’s life time. I at rst thought that it was the vindictive
knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that it was his son;
the only likeness extant of the former being an e gy upon his tomb
in the church of the neighbouring hamlet of Charlecot* The picture
gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of the time. Sir
Thomas is dressed in ru and doublet; white shoes with roses in
them; and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, “a
cane coloured beard” His lady is seated on the opposite side of the
picture in wide ru and long stomacher,18 and the children have a
most venerable sti ness and formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels
are mingled in the family group; a hawk is seated on his perch in
the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow;—all intimating
the knight’s skill in hunting, hawking, and archery—so
indispensable to an accomplished gentleman in those days.*
 I regretted to nd that the ancient furniture of the hall had
disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately elbow chair of
carved oak, in which the country Squire of former days was wont to
sway the sceptre of empire over his rural domains; and in which it
might be presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in
awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was brought before him.
As I like to deck out pictures for my entertainment, I pleased myself
with the idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky
bard’s examination on the morning after his captivity in the lodge. I
fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded by his body guard
of butler, pages, and blue coated serving men with their badges;
while the luckless culprit was brought in, bedrooped and chapfallen;
in the custody of game keepers, huntsmen and whippers in, and
followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright faces of
curious housemaids peeping from the half open doors, while from
the gallery the fair daughters of the Knight leaned gracefully
forward, eyeing the youthful prisoner with that pity “that dwells in
womanhood”—Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus
trembling before the brief authority of a country Squire, and the
sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the delight of princes; the
theme of all tongues and ages; the dictator to the human mind; and
was to confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a
lampoon!
I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I felt
inclined to visit the orchard and arbour where the Justice treated Sir
John Falsta and Cousin Silence,20 “to a last year’s pippen of his
own gra ng, with a dish of carraways;” but I had already spent so
much of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up any
further investigations. When about to take my leave I was grati ed
by the civil entreaties of the housekeeper and butler, that I would
take some refreshment: an instance of good old hospitality, which I
grieve to say we castle hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I
make no doubt it is a virtue which the present representative of the
Lucys inherits from his ancestor; for Shakespeare, even in his
caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect, as
witness his pressing instances to Falsta :
“By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to night ****. I will not excuse
you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no
excuse shall serve; you shall not be excused ******. Some pigeons, Davy; a
couple of shortlegged hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny

kickshaws, tell William Cook”21

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had

become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and
characters connected with it, that I seemed to be actually living
among them. Everything brought them, as it were, before my eyes;
and as the door of the dining room opened, I almost expected to
hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his favourite
ditty:
“’Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all,
And welcome merry Shrove-tide!”

On returning to my inn, I could not but re ect on the singular gift

of the poet; to be able thus to spread the magic of his mind over the
very face of nature; to give to things and places a charm and
character not their own, and to turn this “working day world” into a
perfect fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell
operates not upon the senses, but upon the imagination and the
heart. Under the wizard in uence of Shakespeare I had been
walking all day in a complete delusion. I had surveyed the
landscape through the prism of poetry, which tinged every object
with the hues of the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied
beings; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic power; yet
which, to me, had all the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques
soliloquize beneath his oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her
companion adventuring through the woodlands; and, above all, had
been once more present in spirit with fat Jack Falsta , and his
contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down to the gentle
Master Slender, and the sweet Anne Page.22 Ten thousand honours
and blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of
life with innocent illusions; who has spread exquisite and unbought
pleasures in my chequered path; and beguiled my spirit, in many a
lonely hour, with all the cordial and cheerful sympathies of social
life!
As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to
contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried, and
could not but exult in the malediction, which has kept his ashes
undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honour could his
name have derived from being mingled in dusty companionship
with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal eulogiums of a titled
multitude. What would a crowded corner in Westminster Abbey
have been, compared with this reverend pile, which seems to stand
in beautiful loneliness as his sole mausoleum! The solicitude about
the grave may be but the o spring of an overwrought sensibility;
but human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices; and its best
and tenderest a ections are mingled with these factitious feelings.
He who has sought renown about the world, and has reaped a full
harvest of worldly favour, will nd, after all, that there is no love,
no admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered
in peace and honour among his kindred and his early friends. And
when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn him that the
evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly as does the infant to
the mother’s arms, to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his
childhood.
How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard, when,
wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a
heavy look upon his paternal home; could he have foreseen that,
before many years, he should return to it covered with renown; that
his name should become the boast and glory of his native place; that
his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious treasure;
and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes were xed in tearful
contemplation, should one day become the beacon, towering amidst
the gentle landscape, to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to
his tomb.

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon:—

A parliament member, a justice of peace,

At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse,
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it,
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it.
      He thinks himself great;
      Yet an asse in his state,
We allow, by his ears, but with asses to mate.
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscall it,
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it.

† The luce is a pike, or jack, and abounds in the Avon about Charlecot.
* A proof of Shakespeare’s random habits and associates in his youthful days, may

be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up at Stratford by the elder Ireland,8

and mentioned in his “Picturesque Views on the Avon.”
      About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market town of Bedford,
famous for its ale. Two societies of the village yeomanry used to meet, under the
appellation of the Bedford topers, and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the
neighbouring villages to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford
were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the number of the
champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite of the proverb, that “they who drink beer
will think beer,” was as true to his ale as Falsta to his sack. The chivalry of
Stratford was staggered at the rst onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet
legs to carry them o the eld. They had scarcely marched a mile, when, their legs
failing them, they were forced to lie down under a crab tree, where they passed the
night. It is still standing, and goes by the name of Shakespeare’s tree.
      In the morning his companions awakened the bard, and proposed returning to
Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, having drank with

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,

Haunted Hillbro’, Hungry Grafton,
 Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford,
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford.

“The villages here alluded to,” says Ireland, “still bear the epithets thus given them;
the people of Pebworth are still famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor:
Hillborough is now called Haunted Hillborough: and Grafton is famous for the
poverty of its soil.”
* Scot, in his “Discoverie of Witchcraft,” enumerates a host of these reside fancies.
“And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags,
fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can’sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes,
giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-good-fellow,
the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the er drake, the puckle,
Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we

were afraid of our own shadowes”10

* This e gy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in complete armor. Near
him lies the e gy of his wife, and on her tomb is the following inscription; which, if
really composed by her husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of
Master Shallow:
   Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sr Thomas Lucy of Charlecot in ye county
of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of
Worcester Esquire who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly
kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her age 60
and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful servant of her good God, never
detected of any cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband most
faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust was committed unto
her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of
youth in ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and singular. A great
maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of none unless
of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with
virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any. As shee lived most
virtuously so shee died most Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath
byn written to be true. Thomas Lucye.
* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, observes, “his
housekeeping is seen much in the di erent families of dogs, and serving men
attendant on their kennels; and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his
discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly
ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and have his st gloved with his jesses”
And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings remarks, “he kept all sorts of hounds
that run buck, fox, hare, otter and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and
short winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of
hawk perches, hounds, spaniels and terriers. On a broad hearth paved with brick,

lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds and spaniels”19

 TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER1

“I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan’s cabin hungry, and he
gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and naked, and he clothed him
not.”

SPEECH OF AN INDIAN CHIEF2

There is something in the character and habits of the North

American savage, taken in connexion with the scenery over which
he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests, majestic
rivers and trackless plains, that is, to my mind, wonderfully striking
and sublime. He is formed for the wilderness, as the Arab is for the
desert. His nature is stern, simple and enduring; tted to grapple
with di culties, and to support privations. There seems but little
soil in his heart for the growth of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we
would but take the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism
and habitual taciturnity, which lock up his character from casual
observation, we should nd him linked to his fellow man of
civilized life by more of those sympathies and a ections than are
usually ascribed to him.
It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America, in the
early periods of colonization, to be doubly wronged by the white
men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary possessions by
mercenary and frequently wanton warfare; and their characters
have been traduced by bigoted and interested writers. The colonist
has often treated them like beasts of the forest; and the author has
endeavoured to justify him in his outrages. The former found it
easier to exterminate than to civilize; the latter to vilify than to
discriminate. The appellations of savage and pagan were deemed
su cient to sanction the hostilities of both; and thus the poor
wanderers of the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because
they were guilty but because they were ignorant.
The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreciated
or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been the
dupe of artful tra c; in war he has been regarded as a ferocious
animal, whose life or death was a question of mere precaution and
convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when his own safety is
endangered, and he is sheltered by impunity; and little mercy is to
be expected from him when he feels the sting of the reptile and is
conscious of the power to destroy.
The same prejudices which were indulged thus early, exist in
common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies
have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavoured to investigate
and record the real characters and manners of the Indian tribes; the
American government too, has wisely and humanely exerted itself to
inculcate a friendly and forbearing spirit towards them, and to
protect them from fraud and injustice.* The current opinion of the
Indian character, however, is too apt to be formed from the
miserable hordes which infest the frontiers, and hang on the skirts
of the settlements. These are too commonly composed of degenerate
beings, corrupted and enfeebled by the vices of society, without
being bene ted by its civilization. That proud independence, which
formed the main pillar of savage virtue, has been shaken down, and
the whole moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and
debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage cowed
and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their
enlightened neighbours. Society has advanced upon them like one of
those withering airs that will sometimes breathe desolation over a
whole region of fertility. It has enervated their strength, multiplied
their diseases, and superinduced upon their original barbarity the
low vices of arti cial life. It has given them a thousand super uous
wants, whilst it has diminished their means of mere existence. It has
driven before it the animals of the chase, who y from the sound of
the axe and the smoke of the settlement, and seek refuge in the
depths of remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too
often nd the Indians on our frontiers to be mere wrecks and
remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the vicinity
of the settlements, and sunk into precarious and vagabond
existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a canker of the
mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their spirits and blights every
free and noble quality of their natures. They become drunken,
indolent, feeble, thievish and pusillanimous. They loiter like
vagrants about the settlements, among spacious dwellings, replete
with elaborate comforts, which only render them sensible of the
comparative wretchedness of their own condition. Luxury spreads
its ample board before their eyes, but they are excluded from the
banquet. Plenty revels over the elds, but they are starving in the
midst of its abundance; the whole wilderness has blossomed into a
garden; but they feel as reptiles that infest it.
How di erent was their state while yet the undisputed lords of
the soil. Their wants were few, and the means of grati cation within
their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the same lot,
enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same aliments, arrayed
in the same rude garments. No roof then rose, but was open to the
homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the trees, but he was
welcome to sit down by its re and join the hunter in his repast.
“For,” says an old historian of New England, “their life is so void of
care, and they are so loving also, that they make use of those things
they enjoy as common goods, and are therein so compassionate, that
rather than one should starve through want, they would starve all;
thus do they pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but
are better content with their own, which some men esteem so
meanly of”3 Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of
their primitive natures; they resemble those wild plants which thrive
best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of
cultivation, and perish beneath the in uence of the sun.
 In discussing the savage character, writers have been too prone to
indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration, instead of
the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not su ciently
considered the peculiar circumstances in which the Indians have
been placed, and the peculiar principles under which they have
been educated No being acts more rigidly from rule than the Indian.
His whole conduct is regulated according to some general maxims
early implanted in his mind. The moral laws that govern him are, to
be sure, but few; but then he conforms to them all;—the white man
abounds in laws of religion, morals and manners, but how many
does he violate!
A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their
disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with which,
in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly y to hostilities. The
intercourse of the white men with the Indians, however, is too apt
to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and insulting. They seldom treat
them with that con dence and frankness which are indispensable to
real friendship; nor is su cient caution observed not to o end
against those feelings of pride or superstition, which often prompt
the Indian to hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest.
The solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities are
not di used over so wide a surface as those of the white man; but
they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride, his a ections,
his superstitions, are all directed towards fewer objects; but the
wounds in icted on them are proportionably severe, and furnish
motives of hostility which we cannot su ciently appreciate. Where
a community is also limited in number, and forms one great
patriarchal family, as in an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual
is the injury of the whole; and the sentiment of vengeance is almost
instantaneously di used. One council re is su cient for the
discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all the
ghting men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition
combine to in ame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens
their martial ardour, and they are wrought up to a kind of religious
desperation, by the visions of the prophet and the dreamer.
 An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a
motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an old record of
the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of Plymouth had
defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit, and had
plundered the grave of the Sachem’s4 mother of some skins with
which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for the
reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of their kindred.
Tribes, that have passed generations exiled from the abodes of their
ancestors, when by chance they have been travelling in the vicinity,
have been known to turn aside from the high way, and, guided by
wonderfully accurate tradition, have crossed the country for miles to
some tumulus,5 buried perhaps in woods, where the bones of their
tribe were anciently deposited; and there have passed hours in silent
meditation. In uenced by this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem,
whose mother’s tomb had been violated, gathered his men together,
and addressed them in the following beautifully simple and pathetic
harangue; a curious specimen of Indian eloquence, and an a ecting
instance of lial piety in a savage.
“When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this
globe, and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is, to
take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed, methought I saw a
vision, at which my spirit was much troubled; and, trembling at that
doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, ‘Behold, my son, whom I have
cherished, see the breasts that gave thee suck, the hands that lapped
thee warm, and fed thee oft! Canst thou forget to take revenge of
those wild people, who have defaced my monument in a despiteful
manner, disdaining our antiquities and honourable customs. See
now, the Sachem’s grave lies like the common people, defaced by an
ignoble race. Thy mother doth complain, and implores thy aid
against this thievish people, who have newly intruded on our land.
If this be su ered, I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting
habitation.’ This said, the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not
able scarce to speak, began to get some strength, and recollect my
spirits that were ed, and determined to demand your counsel and
assistance.”
 I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show,
how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed to
caprice and per dy, may often arise from deep and generous
motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs
prevents our properly appreciating.
Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their
barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in policy and
partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes called nations,
were never so formidable in their numbers, but that the loss of
several warriors was sensibly felt; this was particularly the case
when they had been frequently engaged in warfare; and many an
instance occurs in Indian history, where a tribe that had long been
formidable to its neighbours, has been broken up and driven away,
by the capture and massacre of its principal ghting men. There was
a strong temptation, therefore, to the victor to be merciless; not so
much to gratify any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security.
The Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among
barbarous nations, and prevalent also among the ancients, that the
manes of their friends who had fallen in battle, were soothed by the
blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are not thus
sacri ced, are adopted into their families in place of the slain, and
are treated with the con dence and a ection of relatives and
friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is their entertainment, that
when the alternative is o ered them they will often prefer to remain
with their adopted brethren, rather than return to the home and the
friends of their youth.
The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been
heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was formerly
a compliance with policy and superstition, has been exasperated
into a grati cation of vengeance. They cannot but be sensible that
the white men are the usurpers of their ancient dominion, the cause
of their degradation, and the gradual destroyers of their race. They
go forth to battle, smarting with injuries and indignities which they
have individually su ered, and they are driven to madness and
despair by the wide spreading desolation, and the overwhelming
ruin of European warfare. The whites have too frequently set them
an example of violence, by burning their villages and laying waste
their slender means of subsistence; and yet they wonder that
savages do not show moderation and magnanimity towards those,
who have left them nothing but mere existence and wretchedness.
We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous,
because they use stratagem in warfare, in preference to open force;
but in this they are fully justi ed by their rude code of honour. They
are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy: the bravest warrior
thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence, and take every advantage of
his foe: he triumphs in the superior craft and sagacity by which he
has been enabled to surprize and destroy an enemy. Indeed man is
naturally more prone to subtilty than open valour, owing to his
physical weakness in comparison with other animals. They are
endowed with natural weapons of defence; with horns, with tusks,
with hoofs and talons; but man has to depend on his superior
sagacity. In all his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he
resorts to stratagem; and when he perversely turns his hostility
against his fellow man, he at rst continues the same subtle mode of
warfare.
The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our enemy
with the least harm to ourselves; and this of course is to be e ected
by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces us to despise
the suggestions of prudence, and to rush in the face of certain
danger, is the o spring of society, and produced by education. It is
honourable, because it is in fact the triumph of lofty sentiment over
an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over those yearnings after
personal ease and security, which society has condemned as ignoble.
It is kept alive by pride and the fear of shame; and thus the dread of
real evil is overcome by the superior dread of an evil which exists
but in the imagination. It has been cherished and stimulated also by
various means. It has been the theme of spirit stirring song and
chivalrous story. The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed
round it the splendours of ction; and even the historian has
forgotten the sober gravity of narration, and broken forth into
enthusiasm and rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous
pageants have been its reward: monuments, on which art has
exhausted its skill, and opulence its treasures, have been erected to
perpetuate a nation’s gratitude and admiration. Thus arti cially
excited, courage has arisen to an extraordinary and factitious degree
of heroism; and, arrayed in all the glorious “pomp and circumstance
of war,” this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse many of
those quiet, but invaluable virtues, which silently ennoble the
human character, and swell the tide of human happiness.
But if courage intrinsically consists in the de ance of danger and
pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of it. He lives in
a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril and adventure are
congenial to his nature; or rather seem necessary to arouse his
faculties and to give an interest to his existence. Surrounded by
hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare is by ambush and surprisal, he
is always prepared for ght, and lives with his weapons in his
hands. As the ship careers in fearful singleness through the solitudes
of ocean;—as the bird mingles among clouds, and storms, and wings
its way, a mere speck, across the pathless elds of air;—so the
Indian holds his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the
boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in
distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee, or the
crusade of the knight errant. He traverses vast forests, exposed to
the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies and pining
famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no obstacles to his
wanderings: in his light canoe of bark he sports, like a feather, on
their waves, and darts, with the swiftness of an arrow, down the
roaring rapids of the rivers. His very subsistence is snatched from
the midst of toil and peril. He gains his food by the hardships and
dangers of the chase; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the
panther, and the bu alo, and sleeps among the thunders of the
cataract.
No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his
lofty contempt of death, and the fortitude with which he sustains its
crudest in iction. Indeed we here behold him rising superior to the
white man, in consequence of his peculiar education. The latter
rushes to glorious death at the cannon’s mouth; the former calmly
contemplates its approach, and triumphantly endures it, amidst the
varied torments of surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of
re. He even takes a pride in taunting his persecutors, and
provoking their ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring ames
prey on his very vitals, and the esh shrinks from the sinews, he
raises his last song of triumph, breathing the de ance of an
unconquered heart, and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness
that he dies without a groan.
Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians have
overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some bright
gleams occasionally break through, which throw a degree of
melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occasionally to be
met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces, which, though
recorded with the colouring of prejudice and bigotry, yet speak for
themselves; and will be dwelt on with applause and sympathy, when
prejudice shall have passed away.
In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New
England, there is a touching account of the desolation carried into
the tribe of the Pequod Indians.6 Humanity shrinks from the cold
blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read of
the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were
wrapped in ames, and the miserable inhabitants shot down and
slain in attempting to escape, “all being dispatched and ended in the
course of an hour” After a series of similar transactions, “our
soldiers,” as the historian piously observes, “being resolved by God’s
assistance to make a nal destruction of them,” the unhappy
savages being hunted from their homes and fortresses, and pursued
with re and sword, a scanty but gallant band, the sad remnant of
the Pequod warriors, with their wives and children, took refuge in a
swamp.
Burning with indignation, and rendered sullen by despair; with
hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe, and spirits
galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused
to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred
death to submission.
As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal
retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated, their
enemy “plied them with shot all the time, by which means many
were killed and buried in the mire” In the darkness and fog that
preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the besiegers and
escaped into the woods: “the rest were left to the conquerors, of
which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen dogs who would
rather, in their self willedness and madness, sit still and be shot
through, or cut to pieces,” than implore for mercy. When the day
broke upon this handful of forlorn but dauntless spirits, the soldiers,
we are told, entering the swamp, “saw several heaps of them sitting
close together, upon whom they discharged their pieces, laden with
ten or twelve pistol bullets at a time; putting the muzzles of their
pieces under the boughs, within a few yards of them; so as, besides
those that were found dead, many more were killed and sunk into
the mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe.”
Can anyone read this plain unvarnished tale, without admiring
the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of spirit, that
seemed to nerve the hearts of these self taught heroes, and to raise
them above the instinctive feelings of human nature? When the
Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found the senators clothed
in their robes and seated with stern tranquillity in their curule
chairs; in this manner they su ered death without resistance or even
supplication. Such conduct was, in them, applauded as noble and
magnanimous; in the hapless Indians it was reviled as obstinate and
sullen. How truly are we the dupes of show and circumstance! How
di erent is virtue, clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from
virtue naked and destitute, and perishing obscurely in a wilderness.
But I forbear to dwell upon these gloomy pictures. The eastern
tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that sheltered them
have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in the
thickly settled states of New England, excepting here and there the
Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must sooner or later
be the fate of those other tribes which skirt the frontiers, and have
occasionally been inveigled from their forests to mingle in the wars
of white men. In a little while, and they will go the way that their
brethren have gone before. The few hordes which still linger about
the shores of Huron and Superior, and the tributary streams of the
Mississippi, will share the fate of those tribes that once spread over
Massachusetts and Connecticut, and lorded it along the proud banks
of the Hudson; of that gigantic race said to have existed on the
borders of the Susquehanna; and of those various nations that
ourished about the Patowmac and the Rappahanoc, and that
peopled the forests of the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will
vanish like a vapour from the face of the earth; their very history
will be lost in forgetfulness; and “the places that now know them
will know them no more for ever” Or if, perchance, some dubious
memorial of them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams
of the poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the
fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he
venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness;
should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled; driven
from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their fathers; hunted
like wild beasts about the earth; and sent down with violence and
butchery to the grave; posterity will either turn with horror and
incredulity from the tale, or blush with indignation at the
inhumanity of their forefathers.—“We are driven back,” said an old
warrior, “until we can retreat no further—our hatchets are broken,
our bows are snapped, our res are nearly extinguished—a little
longer and the white man will cease to persecute us—for we shall
cease to exist!”

* The American government has been indefatigable in its exertions to ameliorate the
situation of the Indians, and to introduce among them the arts of civilization, and
civil and religious knowledge. To protect them from the frauds of the white traders,
no purchase of land from them by individuals is permitted; nor is any person
allowed to receive lands from them as a present, without the express sanction of
government. These precautions are strictly enforced.
 PHILIP OF POKANOKET
An Indian Memoir

As monumental bronze unchanged his look:

A soul that pity touch’d, but never shook:
Train’d, from his tree-rock’d cradle to his bier,
The erce extremes of good and ill to brook
Impassive—fearing but the shame of fear—
A stoic of the woods—a man without a tear.

CAMPBELL1

It is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of the

discovery and settlement of America, have not given us more
particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that
ourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have reached
us are full of peculiarity and interest; they furnish us with nearer
glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a
comparatively primitive state, and what he owes to civilization.
There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon these
wild and unexplored tracts of human nature; in witnessing, as it
were, the native growth of moral sentiment; and perceiving those
generous and romantic qualities which have been arti cially
cultivated by society, vegetating in spontaneous hardihood and rude
magni cence.
In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the
existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his fellow
men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and peculiar
traits of native character are re ned away, or softened down by the
levelling in uence of what is termed good breeding; and he
practises so many petty deceptions, and a ects so many generous
sentiments, for the purposes of popularity, that it is di cult to
distinguish his real, from his arti cial character. The Indian, on the
contrary, free from the restraints and re nements of polished life,
and, in a great degree, a solitary and independent being, obeys the
impulses of his inclination or the dictates of his judgment; and thus
the attributes of his nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great
and striking. Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is
smoothed, every bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted
by the smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would
study nature in its wildness and variety, must plunge into the forest,
must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare the precipice.
These re ections arose on casually looking through a volume of
early colonial history, wherein are recorded, with great bitterness,
the outrages of the Indians, and their wars with the settlers of New
England. It is painful to perceive, even from these partial narratives,
how the footsteps of civilization may be traced in the blood of the
aborigines; how easily the colonists were moved to hostility by the
lust of conquest; how merciless and exterminating was their
warfare. The imagination shrinks at the idea, how many intellectual
beings were hunted from the earth; how many brave and noble
hearts, of nature’s sterling coinage, were broken down and trampled
in the dust.
Such as the fate of PHILIP OF POKANOKET, an Indian warrior, whose
name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and Connecticut.
He was the most distinguished of a number of contemporary
Sachems2 who reigned over the Pequods, the Narrhagansets, the
Wampanoags, and the other Eastern tribes, at the time of the rst
settlement of New England: a band of native untaught heroes; who
made the most generous struggle of which human nature is capable;
ghting to the last gasp in the cause of their country, without a
hope of victory or a thought of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry,
and t subjects for local story and romantic ction, they have left
scarcely any authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk, like
gigantic shadows in the dim twilight of tradition.*
When the pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their
descendants, rst took refuge on the shores of the New World, from
the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was to the last
degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and that number
rapidly perishing away through sickness and hardships; surrounded
by a howling wilderness and savage tribes; exposed to the rigours of
an almost arctic winter, and the vicissitudes of an ever shifting
climate; their minds were lled with doleful forebodings, and
nothing preserved them from sinking into despondency but the
strong excitement of religious enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation
they were visited by Massasoit, chief Sagamore of the
Wampanoags,4 a powerful chief, who reigned over a great extent of
country. Instead of taking advantage of the scanty number of the
strangers, and expelling them from his territories into which they
had intruded, he seemed at once to conceive for them a generous
friendship, and extended towards them the rites of primitive
hospitality. He came early in the spring to their settlement of New
Plymouth, attended by a mere handful of followers; entered into a
solemn league of peace and amity; sold them a portion of the soil,
and promised to secure for them the good will of his savage allies.
Whatever may be said of Indian per dy, it is certain that the
integrity and good faith of Massasoit, have never been impeached.
He continued a rm and magnanimous friend of the white men;
su ering them to extend their possessions and to strengthen
themselves in the land; and betraying no jealousy of their increasing
power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he came once more
to New Plymouth, with his son Alexander, for the purpose of
renewing the covenant of peace, and of securing it to his posterity.
At this conference he endeavoured to protect the religion of his
forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries; and
stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw o his
people from their ancient faith; but, nding the English obstinately
opposed to any such condition, he mildly relinquished the demand.
Almost the last act of his life was to bring his two sons, Alexander
and Philip (as they had been named by the English,) to the
residence of a principal settler, recommending mutual kindness and
con dence; and entreating that the same love and amity which had
existed between the white men and himself, might be continued
afterwards with his children. The good old Sachem died in peace,
and was happily gathered to his fathers before sorrow came upon
his tribe; his children remained behind to experience the ingratitude
of white men.
His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and
impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights
and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the
strangers excited his indignation; and he beheld with uneasiness
their exterminating wars with the neighbouring tribes. He was
doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting with
the Narrhagansets to rise against the English and drive them from
the land. It is impossible to say whether this accusation was
warranted by facts, or was grounded on mere suspicions. It is
evident, however, by the violent and overbearing measures of the
settlers, that they had by this time begun to feel conscious of the
rapid increase of their power, and to grow harsh and inconsiderate
in their treatment of the natives. They dispatched an armed force to
seize at once upon Alexander, and to bring him before their court.
He was traced to his woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting
house, where he was reposing with a band of his followers,
unarmed, after the toils of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest,
and the outrage o ered to his sovereign dignity, so preyed upon the
irascible feelings of this proud savage, as to throw him into a raging
fever; he was permitted to return home on condition of sending his
son as a pledge for his reappearance; but the blow he had received
was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a victim to the
agonies of a wounded spirit.
The successor of Alexander was Metamocet,5 or King Philip, as he
was called by the settlers, on account of his lofty spirit and
ambitious temper. These, together with his well known energy and
enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and
apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a
secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may very
probably, and very naturally, have been the case. He considered
them as originally but mere intruders into the country, who had
presumed upon indulgence, and were extending an in uence
baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his countrymen
melting before them from the face of the earth; their territories
slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming feeble,
scattered and dependent. It may be said that the soil was originally
purchased by the settlers; but who does not know the nature of
Indian purchases, in the early periods of colonization? The
Europeans always made thrifty bargains through their superior
adroitness in tra c; and they gained vast accessions of territory, by
easily provoked hostilities. An uncultivated savage is never a nice
inquirer into the re nements of law, by which an injury may be
gradually and legally in icted. Leading facts are all by which he
judges; and it was enough for Philip to know, that before the
intrusion of the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil,
and that now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their
fathers.
But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility, and
his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he
suppressed them for the present; renewed the contract with the
settlers; and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or, as it
was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat of
dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at rst but
vague and inde nite, began to acquire form and substance; and he
was at length charged with attempting to instigate the various
eastern tribes to rise at once, and by a simultaneous e ort, to throw
o the yoke of their oppressors. It is di cult at this distant period to
assign the proper credit due to these early accusations against the
Indians. There was a proneness to suspicion, and an aptness to acts
of violence, on the part of the whites, that gave weight and
importance to every idle tale. Informers abounded where tale
bearing met with countenance and reward; and the sword was
readily unsheathed when its success was certain and it carved out
empire.
The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which he had
received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his allegiance
two or three times, with a facility that evinced the looseness of his
principles. He had acted for some time as Philip’s con dential
secretary and councillor, and had enjoyed his bounty and
protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of adversity were
gathering round his patron, he abandoned his service and went over
to the whites; and in order to gain their favour, charged his former
benefactor with plotting against their safety. A rigorous
investigation took place. Philip and several of his subjects submitted
to be examined, but nothing was proved against them. The settlers,
however, had now gone too far to retract; they had previously
determined that Philip was a dangerous neighbour; they had
publicly evinced their distrust; and had done enough to ensure his
hostility; according, therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in
these cases, his destruction had become necessary to their security.
Sausaman, the treacherous informer, was shortly after found dead in
a pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe. Three
Indians, one of whom was a friend and councillor of Philip, were
apprehended and tried, and on the testimony of one very
questionable witness, were condemned and executed as the
murderers.
This treatment of his subjects, and ignominious punishment of his
friend, outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of Philip.
The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened him to the
gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself no longer in the
power of the white men. The fate of his insulted and broken hearted
brother still rankled in his mind; and he had a further warning in
the tragical story of Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the
Narrhagansets, who, after manfully facing his accusers before a
tribunal of the colonists, exculpating himself from a charge of
conspiracy, and receiving assurances of amity, had been per diously
dispatched at their instigation. Philip, therefore, gathered his
ghting men about him; persuaded all strangers that he could, to
join his cause; sent the women and children to the Narrhagansets for
safety; and wherever he appeared, was continually surrounded by
armed warriors.
When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and
irritation, the least spark was su cient to set them in a ame. The
Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew mischievous, and
committed various petty depredations. In one of their maraudings a
warrior was red upon and killed by a settler. This was the signal
for open hostilities; the Indians pressed to revenge the death of their
comrade, and the alarm of war resounded through the Plymouth
colony.
In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times we
meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public mind.
The gloom of religious abstraction, and the wildness of their
situation, among trackless forests, and savage tribes, had disposed
the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had lled their
imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and
spectrology.6 They were much given also to a belief in omens. The
troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told, by
a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and public
calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in the air at
New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the inhabitants as a
“prodigious apparition” At Hadley Northampton, and other towns in
their neighbourhood, “was heard the report of a great piece of
ordnance, with a shaking of the earth and a considerable echo”*
Others were alarmed on a still sunshiny morning by the discharge of
guns and muskets; bullets seemed to whistle past them, and the
noise of drums resounded in the air, seeming to pass away to the
westward: others fancied that they heard the galloping of horses
over their heads; and certain monstrous births which took place
about the time, lled the superstitious in some towns with doleful
forebodings. Many of these portentous sights and sounds may be
ascribed to natural phenomena. To the northern lights which occur
vividly in those latitudes; the meteors which explode in the air; the
casual rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest; the
crash of falling trees or disruptured rocks; and to those other
uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so
strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes. These
may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have been
exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened to, with
that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and
mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious fancies,
and the grave record made of them by one of the learned men of the
day, are strongly characteristic of the times.
The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On the
part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and success;
but with a wastefulness of the blood, and a disregard of the natural
rights of their antagonists: on the part of the Indians it was waged
with the desperation of men fearless of death, and who had nothing
to expect from peace, but humiliation, dependence and decay.
The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy
clergyman of the time; who dwells with horror and indignation on
every hostile act of the Indians, however justi able, whilst he
mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the whites.
Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor; without considering
that he was a true born prince, gallantly ghting at the head of his
subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family; to retrieve the tottering
power of his line; and to deliver his native land from the oppression
of usurping strangers.
The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had really
been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and, had it not been
prematurely discovered, might have been overwhelming in its
consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a war of
detail; a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected
enterprizes. Still it sets forth the military genius and daring prowess
of Philip; and wherever, in the prejudiced and passionate narrations
that have been given of it, we can arrive at simple facts, we nd him
displaying a vigorous mind; a fertility in expedients; a contempt of
su ering and hardship; and an unconquerable resolution; that
command our sympathy and applause.
Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw
himself into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that
skirted the settlements and were almost impervious to anything but
a wild beast, or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces, like
the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom of the
thunder cloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and place least
expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the villages. There were
now and then indications of these impending ravages, that lled the
minds of the colonists with awe and apprehension. The report of a
distant gun would perhaps be heard from the solitary woodland,
where there was known to be no white man; the cattle which had
been wandering in the woods, would sometimes return home
wounded; or an Indian or two would be seen lurking about the
skirts of the forests, and suddenly disappearing; as the lightning will
sometimes be seen playing silently about the edge of the cloud that
is brewing up the tempest.
Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the settlers,
yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their toils, and
plunging into the wilderness would be lost to all search or inquiry,
until he again emerged at some far distant quarter, laying the
country desolate. Among his strongholds were the great swamps or
morasses, which extend in some parts of New England; composed of
loose bogs of deep black mud; perplexed with thickets, brambles,
rank weeds, the shattered and mouldering trunks of fallen trees, and
overshadowed by lugubrious hemlocks. The uncertain footing and
the tangled mazes of these shagged wilds, render them almost
impracticable to the white man, though the Indian could thrid their
labyrinths with the agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great
swamp of Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his
followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to
venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where they might
perish in fens and miry pits, or be shot down by lurking foes. They
therefore invested the entrance to the neck, and began to build a
fort, with the thought of starving out the foe; but Philip and his
warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm of the sea, in the
dead of night, leaving the women and children behind; and escaped
away to the westward, kindling the ames of war among the tribes
of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country, and threatening the
colony of Connecticut.
In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. The
mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors. He
was an evil that walked in darkness; whose coming none could
foresee, and against which none knew when to be on the alert. The
whole country abounded with rumours and alarms. Philip seemed
almost possessed of ubiquity; for, in whatever part of the widely
extended frontier an irruption from the forest took place, Philip was
said to be its leader. Many superstitious notions also were circulated
concerning him. He was said to deal in necromancy, and to be
attended by an old Indian witch or prophetess, whom he consulted,
and who assisted him by her charms and incantations. This indeed
was frequently the case with Indian chiefs; either through their own
credulity, or to act upon that of their followers: and the in uence of
the prophet and the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully
evidenced in recent instances of savage warfare.
At the time that Philip e ected his escape from Pocasset, his
fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been thinned
by repeated ghts, and he had lost almost the whole of his
resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful friend in
Canonchet, Chief Sachem of all the Narrhagansets. He was the son
and heir of Miantonimo, the great Sachem, who, as already
mentioned, after an honourable acquittal of the charge of
conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the per dious
instigations of the settlers. “He was the heir,” says the old
chronicler, “of all his father’s pride and insolence, as well as of his
malice towards the English;”—he certainly was the heir of his
insults and injuries, and the legitimate avenger of his murder.
Though he had forborne to take an active part in this hopeless war,
yet he received Philip and his broken forces with open arms; and
gave them the most generous countenance and support. This at once
drew upon him the hostility of the English; and it was determined to
strike a signal blow that should involve both the sachems in one
common ruin. A great force was, therefore, gathered together from
Massachusetts, Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the
Narrhaganset country in the depth of winter, when the swamps,
being frozen and lea ess, could be traversed with comparative
facility, and would no longer a ord dark and impenetrable
fastnesses to the Indians.
Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater part
of his stores, together with the old, the in rm, the women and
children of his tribe, to a strong fortress; where he and Philip had
likewise drawn up the ower of their forces. This fortress, deemed
by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising mound or
kind of island, of ve or six acres, in the midst of a swamp; it was
constructed with a degree of judgment and skill vastly superior to
what is usually displayed in Indian forti cation, and indicative of
the martial genius of these two chieftains.
Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through
December snows, to this stronghold, and came upon the garrison by
surprize. The ght was erce and tumultuous. The assailants were
repulsed in their rst attack, and several of their bravest o cers
were shot down in the act of storming the fortress, sword in hand.
The assault was renewed with greater success. A lodgement was
e ected. The Indians were driven from one post to another. They
disputed their ground inch by inch, ghting with the fury of despair.
Most of their veterans were cut to pieces; and after a long and
bloody battle, Philip and Canonchet, with a handful of surviving
warriors, retreated from the fort, and took refuge in the thickets of
the surrounding forest.
 The victors set re to the wigwams and the fort; the whole was
soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women and the children
perished in the ames. This last outrage overcame even the stoicism
of the savage. The neighbouring woods resounded with the yells of
rage and despair, uttered by the fugitive warriors as they beheld the
destruction of their dwellings, and heard the agonizing cries of their
wives and o spring. “The burning of the wigwams,” says a
contemporary writer, “the shrieks and cries of the women and
children, and the yelling of the warriors, exhibited a most horrible
and a ecting scene, so that it greatly moved some of the soldiers”
The same writer cautiously adds, “they were in much doubt then,
and afterwards seriously inquired, whether burning their enemies
alive could be consistent with humanity, and the benevolent
principles of the Gospel”*
The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of
particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the noblest
instances on record of Indian magnanimity.
Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat, yet
faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he had espoused,
he rejected all overtures of peace, o ered on condition of betraying
Philip and his followers, and declared that “he would ght it out to
the last man, rather than become a servant to the English” His home
being destroyed; his country harassed and laid waste by the
incursions of the conquerors; he was obliged to wander away to the
banks of the Connecticut; where he formed a rallying point to the
whole body of western Indians, and laid waste several of the English
settlements.
Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, with
only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconk, in the vicinity of
Mount Hope, and procure seed corn to plant for the sustenance of
his troops. This little band of adventurers had passed safely through
the Pequod country, and were in the centre of the Narrhaganset,
resting at some wigwams near Pautucket river, when an alarm was
given of an approaching enemy. Having but seven men by him at
the time, Canonchet dispatched two of them to the top of a
neighbouring hill, to bring intelligence of the foe.
Panic struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indians
rapidly advancing, they ed in breathless terror past their chieftain,
without stopping to inform him of the danger. Canonchet sent
another scout, who did the same. He then sent two more, one of
whom, hurrying back in confusion and a right, told him that the
whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there was no choice
but immediate ight. He attempted to escape round the hill, but was
perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile Indians and a few of the
eetest of the English. Finding the swiftest pursuer close upon his
heels, he threw o , rst his blanket, then his silver laced coat and
belt of peag,8 by which his enemies knew him to be Canonchet, and
redoubled the eagerness of pursuit. At length, in dashing through
the river, his foot slipped upon a stone, and he fell so deep as to wet
his gun. This accident so struck him with despair, that, as he
afterwards confessed, “his heart and his bowels turned within him,
and he became like a rotten stick, void of strength.”
To such a degree was he unnerved, that, being seized by a Pequod
Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no resistance,
though a man of great vigour of body and boldness of heart. But on
being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit arose within him;
and from that moment we nd, in the anecdotes given by his
enemies, nothing but repeated ashes of elevated and prince like
heroism. Being questioned by one of the English who rst came up
with him, and who had not attained his twenty second year, the
proud hearted warrior, looking with lofty contempt upon his
youthful countenance, replied, “You are a child—you cannot
understand matters of war—let your brother or your chief come—
him will I answer.”
Though repeated o ers were made to him of his life, on condition
of submitting, with his nation, to the English, yet he rejected them
with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind to the
great body of his subjects; saying, that he knew none of them would
comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith towards the
whites; his boast that he would not deliver up a Wampanoag, nor
the paring of a Wampanoag’s nail; and his threat that he would burn
the English alive in their houses; he disdained to justify himself,
haughtily answering that others were as forward for the war as
himself, “and he desired to hear no more thereof.”
So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a delity to his cause and
his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous and the
brave: but Canonchet was an Indian; a being towards whom war
had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion—he was
condemned to die. The last words of his that are recorded, are
worthy of the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was
passed upon him, he observed “that he liked it well, for he should
die before his heart was soft, or he had spoken anything unworthy
of himself” His enemies gave him the death of a soldier, for he was
shot at Stonington,9 by three young sachems of his own rank.
The defeat at the Narrhaganset fortress, and the death of
Canonchet, were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He made
an ine ectual attempt to raise a head of war, by stirring up the
Mohawks to take arms; but though possessed of the native talents of
a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the superior arts of his
enlightened enemies, and the terror of their warlike skill began to
subdue the resolution of the neighbouring tribes. The unfortunate
chieftain saw himself daily stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly
thinning around him. Some were suborned by the whites; others fell
victims to hunger and fatigue, and to the frequent attacks by which
they were harassed. His stores were all captured; his chosen friends
were swept away from before his eyes; his uncle was shot down by
his side; his sister was carried into captivity; and in one of his
narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and only
son to the mercy of the enemy. “His ruin,” says the historian, “being
thus gradually carried on, his misery was not prevented, but
augmented thereby; being himself made acquainted with the sense
and experimental feeling of the captivity of his children, loss of
friends, slaughter of his subjects, bereavement of all family
relations, and being stripped of all outward comforts, before his own
life should be taken away.”
To ll up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers began
to plot against his life, that by sacri cing him they might purchase
dishonourable safety. Through treachery a number of his faithful
adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian princess of Pocasset,
a near kinswoman and confederate of Philip, were betrayed into the
hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was among them at the time, and
attempted to make her escape by crossing a neighbouring river:
either exhausted by swimming, or starved with cold and hunger, she
was found dead and naked near the water side. But persecution
ceased not at the grave. Even death, the refuge of the wretched,
where the wicked commonly cease from troubling, was no
protection to this outcast female, whose great crime was a ectionate
delity to her kinsman and her friend. Her corpse was the object of
unmanly and dastardly vengeance; the head was severed from the
body and set upon a pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton, to the
view of her captive subjects. They immediately recognised the
features of their unfortunate queen, and were so a ected at this
barbarous spectacle, that we are told they broke forth into the “most
horrid and diabolical lamentations.”
However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries
and misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers
seemed to wring his heart, and reduce him to despondency. It is said
that “he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any of his
designs” The spring of hope was broken—the ardour of enterprise
was extinguished—he looked around, and all was danger and
darkness; “there was no eye to pity, nor any arm that could bring
deliverance” With a scanty band of followers, who still remained
true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy Philip wandered back to
the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient dwelling of his fathers. Here
he lurked about, like a spectre, among the desolated scenes of
former power and prosperity, now bereft of home, of family, and
friend. There needs no better picture of his destitute and piteous
situation than that furnished by the homely pen of the chronicler,
who is unwarily enlisting the feelings of the reader in favour of the
hapless warrior whom he reviles. “Philip,” he says, “like a savage
wild beast, having been hunted by the English forces through the
woods above a hundred miles backward and forward, at last was
driven to his own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired with a
few of his best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to
keep him fast till the messengers of death came by divine
permission to execute vengeance upon him.”
Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair a sullen
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves
seated among his careworn followers, brooding in silence over his
blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the wildness
and dreariness of his lurking place. Defeated, but not dismayed—
crushed to the earth, but not humiliated—he seemed to grow more
haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a erce satisfaction in
draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little minds are tamed and
subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above it. The very idea
of submission awakened the fury of Philip, and he smote to death
one of his followers, who proposed an expedient of peace. The
brother of the victim made his escape, and in revenge betrayed the
retreat of his chieftain. A body of white men and Indians were
immediately despatched to the swamp where Philip lay crouched,
glaring with fury and despair. Before he was aware of their
approach, they had begun to surround him. In a little while he saw
ve of his trustiest followers laid dead at his feet; all resistance was
vain; he rushed forth from his covert, and made a headlong attempt
at escape, but was shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of
his own nation.
Such is the scanty story of the brave, but unfortunate King Philip;
persecuted while living, slandered and dishonoured when dead. If,
however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes furnished us by
his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of amiable and lofty
character, su cient to awaken sympathy for his fate, and respect for
his memory. We nd, that amidst all the harassing cares and
ferocious passions of constant warfare, he was alive to the softer
feelings of connubial love and paternal tenderness, and to the
generous sentiment of friendship. The captivity of his “beloved wife
and only son” are mentioned with exultation, as causing him
poignant misery: the death of any near friend is triumphantly
recorded as a new blow on his sensibilities; but the treachery and
desertion of many of his followers, in whose a ections he had
con ded, is said to have desolated his heart, and to have bereaved
him of all further comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native
soil—a prince true to his subjects, and indignant of their wrongs—a
soldier, daring in battle, rm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of
hunger, of every variety of bodily su ering, and ready to perish in
the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart, and with an untameable
love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it among the beasts of
the forests, or in the dismal and famished recesses of swamps and
morasses, rather than bow his haughty spirit to submission, and live
dependent and despised in the ease and luxury of the settlements.
With heroic qualities and bold achievements that would have graced
a civilized warrior, and have rendered him the theme of the poet
and the historian; he lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native
land, and went down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness
and tempest—without a pitying eye to weep his fall, or a friendly
hand to record his struggle.

* While correcting the proof sheets of this article, the author is informed, that a
celebrated English poet has nearly nished an heroic poem on the story of Philip of

Pokanoket.3
* Now Bristol, Rhode Island.

* The Rev. Increase Mather’s History.7

* MS. of the Rev. W Ruggles.
 JOHN BULL

An old song, made by an aged old pate,

Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.

With an old study ll’d full of learned old books,

With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,
With an old buttery-hatch worn quite o the hooks,
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks,
                  Like an old courtier, &c.
OLD SONG

There is no species of humour in which the English more excel, than

that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous
appellations, or nicknames. In this way they have whimsically
designated, not merely individuals, but nations; and in their
fondness for pushing a joke, they have not spared even themselves.
One would think, that in personifying itself, a nation would be apt
to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing; but it is
characteristic of the peculiar humour of the English, and of their
love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar, that they have embodied
their national oddities in the gure of a sturdy, corpulent old fellow,
with a three cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and stout
oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular delight in exhibiting
their most private foibles in a laughable point of view, and have
been so successful in their delineations, that there is scarcely a being
in actual existence more absolutely present to the public mind, than
that eccentric personage, John Bull.
Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn
of them, has contributed to x it upon the nation; and thus to give
reality to what at rst may have been painted in a great measure
from the imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are
continually ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem
wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they have formed
of John Bull, and endeavour to act up to the broad caricature that is
perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their
boasted Bull-ism an apology for their prejudice or grossness; and
this I have especially noticed among those truly homebred and
genuine sons of the soil, who have never migrated beyond the sound
of Bow bells.1 If one of these should be a little uncouth in speech,
and apt to utter impertinent truths, he confesses that he is a real
John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he now and then ies into
an unreasonable burst of passion about tri es, he observes, that
John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over in a
moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a coarseness of taste,
and an insensibility to foreign re nements, he thanks heaven for his
ignorance—he is a plain John Bull, and has no relish for frippery
and nick-nacks. His very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to
pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea of
muni cence—for John is always more generous than wise.
Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue
every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of being
the honestest fellow in existence.
However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the
rst instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather,
they have adapted themselves to each other; and a stranger who
wishes to study English peculiarities, may gather much valuable
information from the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as
exhibited in the windows of the caricature shops. Still, however, he
is one of those fertile humourists, that are continually throwing out
new portraits, and presenting di erent aspects from di erent points
of view; and often as he has been described, I cannot resist the
temptation to give a slight sketch of him, such as he has met my
eye.
John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, matter of fact
fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is
little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural
feeling. He excels in humour, more than in wit; is jolly rather than
gay; melancholy, rather than morose; can easily be moved to a
sudden tear, or surprised into a broad laugh; but he loathes
sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is a boon
companion, if you allow him to have his humour, and to talk about
himself; and he will stand by a friend in a quarrel, with life and
purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled.
In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be
some-what too ready. He is a busy minded personage, who thinks
not merely for himself and family, but for all the country round, and
is most generously disposed to be every body’s champion. He is
continually volunteering his services to settle his neighbours’ a airs,
and takes it in great dudgeon2 if they engage in any matter of
consequence without asking his advice, though he seldom engages
in any friendly o ce of the kind without nishing by getting into a
squabble with all parties, and then railing bitterly at their
ingratitude. He unluckily took lessons in his youth in the noble
science of defence, and having accomplished himself in the use of
his limbs and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing
and cudgel play he has had a troublesome life of it ever since. He
cannot hear of a quarrel between the most distant of his neighbours,
but he begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel,
and consider whether his interest or honour does not require that he
should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has extended his relations of
pride and policy so completely over the whole country, that no
event can take place, without infringing some of his nely spun
rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these
laments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some
choleric, bottle bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a
whole chamber, so that a y cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow,
without startling his repose, and causing him to sally forth
wrathfully from his den.
Though really a good hearted, good tempered old fellow at
bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the midst of contention.
It is one of his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the
beginning of an a ray: he always goes into a ght with alacrity, but
comes out of it grumbling even when victorious; and though no one
ghts with more obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet, when the
battle is over, and he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much
taken up with the mere shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his
antagonist pocket all that they have been quarrelling about. It is
not, therefore, ghting that he ought so much to be on his guard
against, as making friends. It is di cult to cudgel him out of a
farthing, but put him in a good humour, and you may bargain him
out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will
weather the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard
in the succeeding calm.
He is a little fond of playing the magni co abroad; of pulling out
a long purse; inging his money bravely about at boxing matches,
horse races, and cock ghts, and carrying a high head among
“gentlemen of the fancy;” but immediately after one of these ts of
extravagance, he will be taken with violent qualms of economy; stop
short at the most trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being
ruined, and brought upon the parish;3 and in such moods, will not
pay the smallest tradesman’s bill, without violent altercation. He is,
in fact, the most punctual and discontented paymaster in the world;
drawing his coin out of his breeches’ pocket with in nite reluctance,
paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every guinea
with a growl.4
With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider,
and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind,
its chief object being to devise how he may a ord to be extravagant,
for he will begrudge himself a beef steak and pint of port one day,
that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat
all his neighbours, on the next.
His domestic establishment is enormously expensive, not so much
from any great outward parade, as from the great consumption of
solid beef and pudding, the vast number of followers he feeds and
clothes, and his singular disposition to pay hugely for small services.
He is a most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants
humour his peculiarities, atter his vanity a little now and then, and
do not peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage
him to perfection. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and
grow fat. His house servants are well paid, and pampered, and have
little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before
his state carriage, and his house dogs sleep quietly about the door,
and will hardly bark at a house breaker.
His family mansion is an old castellated manor house, grey with
age, and of a most venerable though weather beaten appearance. It
has been built upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of
parts, erected in various tastes and ages. The centre bears evident
traces of Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and
old English oak can make it. Like all the reliques of that style, it is
full of obscure passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers; and
though these have been partially lighted up in modern days, yet
there are many places where you must still grope in the dark.
Additions have been made to the original edi ce from time to time,
and great alterations have taken place; towers and battlements have
been erected during wars and tumults; wings built in times of peace,
and outhouses, lodges, and o ces, run up according to the whim or
convenience of di erent generations, until it has become one of the
most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is
taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile that must once
have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having
been altered and simpli ed at various periods, has still a look of
solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the
monuments of John’s ancestors, and it is snugly tted up with soft
cushions and well lined chairs, where such of his family as are
inclined to church services, may doze comfortably in the discharge
of their duties.
To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; but he is
staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the
circumstance that many dissenting chapels5 have been erected in his
vicinity, and several of his neighbours, with whom he has had
quarrels, are strong papists.
To do the duties of the chapel, he maintains, at a large expense, a
pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous
personage, and a truly well bred Christian, who always backs the
old gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his little
peccadilloes,6 rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great
use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers,
and above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without grumbling.
The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat
heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magni cence
of former times; tted up with rich though faded tapestry, unwieldy
furniture, and loads of massy gorgeous old plate. The vast replaces,
ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banquetting halls,
all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the
modern festivity at the manor house is but a shadow. There are,
however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and time
worn; and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay, so that in
high winds there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the
household.
John has frequently been advised to have the old edi ce
thoroughly overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts pulled
down, and the others strengthened with their materials; but the old
gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He swears the house
is an excellent house—that it is tight and weather proof, and not to
be shaken by tempests—that it has stood for several hundred years,
and, therefore, is not likely to tumble down now—that as to its
being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the inconveniences,
and would not be comfortable without them—that as to its
unwieldy size and irregular construction, these result from its being
the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every
generation—that an old family, like his, requires a large house to
dwell in; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and
snug boxes, but an old English family should inhabit an old English
manor house. If you point out any part of the building as
super uous, he insists that it is material to the strength or
decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the whole, and swears,
that the parts are so built into each other, that if you pull down one,
you run the risk of having the whole about your ears.
The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition to
protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an
ancient and honourable family, to be bounteous in its appointments,
and to be eaten up by dependants; and so, partly from pride, and
partly from kind heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give
shelter and maintenance to his superannuated servants.
The consequence is, that like many other venerable family
establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom he
cannot turn o , and an old style which he cannot lay down. His
mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its
magnitude, is not a whit too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or
corner but is of use in housing some useless personage. Groups of
veteran beef eaters, gouty pensioners,7 and retired heroes of the
buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over
its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the
benches at its doors. Every o ce and out house is garrisoned by
these supernumeraries and their families, for they are amazingly
proli c; and when they die o , are sure to leave John a legacy of
hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock8 cannot be struck
against the most mouldering, tumble down tower, but out pops,
from some cranny or loop hole, the grey pate9 of some
superannuated hanger on, who has lived at John’s expense all his
life, and makes the most grievous outcry, at their pulling down the
roof from over the head of a worn out servant of the family. This is
an appeal that John’s honest heart never can withstand; so that a
man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is
sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days.
A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where his
broken down chargers are turned loose, to graze undisturbed for the
remainder of their existence—a worthy example of grateful
recollection, which, if some of his neighbours were to imitate,
would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great
pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on
their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some
little vainglory, of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits,
through which they have carried him.
He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family usages,
and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is
infested by gangs of gipsies, yet he will not su er them to be driven
o , because they have infested the place time out of mind, and been
regular poachers upon every generation of the family. He will
scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that
surround the house, lest it should molest the rooks, that have bred
there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the dovecote; but
they are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have
nearly choked up every chimney with their nests; martins build in
every frieze and cornice; crows utter about the towers, and perch
on every weather cock; and old grey headed rats may be seen in
every quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes
undauntedly, in broad daylight. In short, John has such a reverence
for everything that has been long in the family, that he will not hear
even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old family
abuses.
All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to drain the
old gentleman’s purse; and as he prides himself on punctuality in
money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the
neighbourhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting
his engagements. This too has been increased, by the altercations
and heartburnings which are continually taking place in his family.
His children have been brought up to di erent callings, and are of
di erent ways of thinking; and as they have always been allowed to
speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the privilege
most clamorously in the present posture of his a airs. Some stand
up for the honour of the race, and are clear that the old
establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever may be the
cost; others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old
gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of
housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome
advice has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of
one of his sons. This is a noisy rattle pated fellow, of rather low
habits, who neglects his business to frequent ale houses—is the
orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of
his father’s tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers
mention reform or retrenchment,10 than up he jumps, takes the
words out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his
tongue is once going, nothing can stop it. He rants about the room,
hectors the old man about his spendthrift practices, ridicules his
tastes and pursuits, insists that he shall turn the old servants out of
doors, give the broken down horses to the hounds, send the fat
chaplain packing, and take a eld preacher in his place—nay, that
the whole family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a
plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at every
social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away growling
to the ale house whenever an equipage drives up to the door.
Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he
scruples not to spend all his pocket money in these tavern
convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over which he
preaches about his father’s extravagance.
It may readily be imagined, how little such thwarting agrees with
the old cavalier’s ery temperament. He has become so irritable,
from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrenchment or
reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As
the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having
grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of
wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call
in the aid of his son Tom, an o cer who has served abroad, but is at
present living at home, on half pay11 This last is sure to stand by the
old gentleman, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing,
roystering life, and is ready, at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and
ourish it over the orator’s head, if he dares to array himself against
paternal authority.
These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare
food for scandal in John’s neighbourhood. People begin to look
wise, and shake their heads, whenever his a airs are mentioned.
They all “hope that matters are not so bad with him as represented;
but when a man’s own children begin to rail at his extravagance,
things must be badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged
over head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money lenders.
He is certainly an open handed old gentleman, but they fear he has
lived too fast; indeed, they never knew any good come of this
fondness for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize ghting. In short,
Mr. Bull’s estate is a very ne one, and has been in the family a long
while; but for all that, they have known many ner estates come to
the hammer.”
What is worst of all, is the e ect which these pecuniary
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man
himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face,
which he used to present, he has of late become as shrivelled and
shrunk as a frost bitten apple. His scarlet gold laced waistcoat,
which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he
sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail
in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and
apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both
sides of his once sturdy legs.
Instead of strutting about, as formerly, with his three cornered hat
on one side, ourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every
moment with a hearty thump upon the ground, looking everyone
sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave12 of a catch or a
drinking song, he now goes about, whistling thoughtfully to himself,
with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and
his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches’ pockets, which are
evidently empty.
Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet for all this,
the old fellow’s spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the
least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes re in an instant;
swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the country; talks
of laying out large sums to adorn his house, or to buy another
estate; and, with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs
exceedingly to have another bout at quarter sta .
Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I
confess I cannot look upon John’s situation, without strong feelings
of interest. With all his odd humours, and obstinate prejudices, he is
a sterling hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully ne a
fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his
neighbours represent him. His virtues are all his own; all plain,
homebred and una ected. His very faults smack of the raciness of
his good qualities. His extravagance savours of his generosity; his
quarrelsomeness of his courage; his credulity of his open faith; his
vanity of his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all
the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is like his own
oak; rough without, but sound and solid within; whose bark
abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and
grandeur of the timber; and whose branches make a fearful groaning
and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and
luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his old
family mansion, that is extremely poetical and picturesque; and as
long as it can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost
tremble to see it meddled with during the present con ict of tastes
and opinions. Some of his advisors are no doubt good architects that
might be of service; but many I fear are mere levellers, who when
they had once got to work with their mattocks on the venerable
edi ce, would never stop until they had brought it to the ground,
and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is,
that John’s present troubles may teach him more prudence in future.
That he may cease to distress his mind about other people’s a airs;
that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his
neighbours, and the peace and happiness of the world, by dint of the
cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home; gradually get his house
into repair; cultivate his rich estate according to his fancy; husband
his income, if he thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order
if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity, and long
enjoy on his paternal lands, a green, an honourable, and a merry old
age.
 THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE

May no wolf howle; no screech owle stir

A wing about thy sepulchre!
No boysterous winds or stormes come hither,
                        To starve or wither
Thy soft sweet earth! but like a spring
Love keep it ever ourishing.

HERRICK1

In the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties of

England, I had struck into one of those crossroads that lead through
the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon
at a village, the situation of which was beautifully rural and retired.
There was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants, not to
be found in the villages which lie on the great coach roads. I
determined to pass the night there, and having taken an early
dinner, strolled out to enjoy the neighbouring scenery.
My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to
the church, which stood at a little distance from the village. Indeed,
it was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being completely
overrun with ivy, so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an
angle of grey wall, or a fantastically carved ornament, peered
through the verdant covering. It was a lovely evening. The early
part of the day had been dark and showery, but in the afternoon it
had cleared up, and though sullen clouds still hung over head, yet
there was a broad tract of golden sky in the west, from which the
setting sun gleamed through the dripping leaves, and lit up all
nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the parting hour of a
good Christian, smiling on the sins and sorrows of the world, and
giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he will rise
again in glory.
I had seated myself on a half sunken tombstone, and was musing,
as one is apt to do at this sober thoughted hour, on past scenes, and
early friends—on those who were distant, and those who were dead
—and indulging in that kind of melancholy fancying, which has in it
something sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then, the
stroke of a bell from the neighbouring tower fell on my ear; its tones
were in unison with the scene, and instead of jarring, chimed in
with my feelings, and it was some time before I recollected, that it
must be tolling the knell of some new tenant of the tomb.
Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green; it
wound slowly along a lane, was lost, and reappeared through the
breaks of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting.
The pall was supported by young girls, dressed in white, and
another, about the age of seventeen, walked before, bearing a
chaplet of white owers; a token that the deceased was a young and
unmarried female. The corpse was followed by the parents. They
were a venerable couple of the better order of peasantry. The father
seemed to repress his feelings; but his xed eye, contracted brow,
and deeply furrowed face, showed the struggle that was passing
within. His wife hung on his arm, and wept aloud with the
convulsive bursts of a mother’s sorrow.
I followed the funeral into the church. The bier was placed in the
centre aisle, and the chaplet of white owers, with a pair of white
gloves, were hung over the seat which the deceased had occupied.
Everyone knows the soul subduing pathos of the funeral service;
for who is so fortunate as never to have followed someone he has
loved to the tomb; but when performed over the remains of
innocence and beauty, thus laid low in the bloom of existence—
what can be more a ecting? At that simple, but most solemn
consignment of the body to the grave—“Earth to earth—ashes to
ashes—dust to dust!” the tears of the youthful companions of the
deceased owed unrestrained. The father still seemed to struggle
with his feelings, and to comfort himself with the assurance, that
the dead are blessed which die in the Lord; but the mother only
thought of her child as a ower of the eld, cut down and withered
in the midst of its sweetness; she was like Rachel, “mourning over
her children, and would not be comforted”2
On returning to the inn, I learnt the whole story of the deceased.
It was a simple one, and such as has often been told. She had been
the beauty and pride of the village. Her father had once been an
opulent farmer, but was reduced in circumstances. This was an only
child, and brought up entirely at home, in the simplicity of rural
life. She had been the pupil of the village pastor, the favourite lamb
of his little ock. The good man watched over her education with
paternal care; it was limited, and suitable to the sphere in which she
was to move, for he only sought to make her an ornament to her
station in life, not to raise her above it. The tenderness and
indulgence of her parents, and the exemption from all ordinary
occupations, had fostered a natural grace and delicacy of character,
that accorded with the fragile loveliness of her form. She appeared
like some tender plant of the garden, blooming accidentally amid
the hardier natives of the elds.
The superiority of her charms was felt and acknowledged by her
companions, but without envy, for it was surpassed by the
unassuming gentleness and winning kindness of her manners. It
might be truly said of her,
“This is the prettiest low-born lass, that ever
Ran on the green-sward: nothing she does or seems,
But smacks of something greater than herself;

Too noble for this place”3

The village was one of those sequestered spots, which still retain
some vestiges of old English customs. It had its rural festivals and
holiday pastimes, and still kept up some faint observance of the
once popular rites of May. These, indeed, had been promoted by its
present pastor; who was a lover of old customs, and one of those
simple Christians that think their mission ful lled by promoting joy
on earth and good will among mankind. Under his auspices the May
pole stood from year to year in the centre of the village green; on
May day it was decorated with garlands and streamers; and a queen
or lady of the May was appointed, as in former times, to preside at
the sports, and distribute the prizes and rewards. The picturesque
situation of the village, and the fancifulness of its rustic fetes would
often attract the notice of casual visitors. Among these, on one May
day, was a young o cer, whose regiment had been recently
quartered in the neighbourhood. He was charmed with the native
taste that pervaded this village pageant; but, above all, with the
dawning loveliness of the queen of May. It was the village favourite,
who was crowned with owers, and blushing and smiling in all the
beautiful confusion of girlish di dence and delight. The artlessness
of rural habits enabled him readily to make her acquaintance; he
gradually won his way into her intimacy; and paid his court to her
in that unthinking way in which young o cers are too apt to tri e
with rustic simplicity.
There was nothing in his advances to startle or alarm. He never
even talked of love; but there are modes of making it, more eloquent
than language, and which convey it subtilely and irresistibly to the
heart. The beam of the eye, the tone of voice, the thousand
tendernesses which emanate from every word, and look, and action
—these form the true eloquence of love, and can always be felt and
understood, but never described. Can we wonder that they should
readily win a heart, young, guileless, and susceptible? As to her, she
loved almost unconsciously; she scarcely inquired what was the
growing passion that was absorbing every thought and feeling, or
what were to be its consequences. She, indeed, looked not to the
future. When present, his looks and words occupied her whole
attention; when absent, she thought but of what had passed at their
recent interview. She would wander with him through the green
lanes and rural scenes of the vicinity. He taught her to see new
beauties in nature: he talked in the language of polite and cultivated
life, and breathed into her ear the witcheries of romance and poetry.
Perhaps there could not have been a passion, between the sexes,
more pure than this innocent girl’s. The gallant gure of her
youthful admirer, and the splendour of his military attire, might at
rst have charmed her eye; but it was not these that had captivated
her heart. Her attachment had something in it of idolatry. She
looked up to him as to a being of a superior order. She felt in his
society the enthusiasm of a mind naturally delicate and poetical,
and now rst awakened to a keen perception of the beautiful and
grand. Of the sordid distinctions of rank and fortune, she thought
nothing; it was the di erence of intellect, of demeanor, of manners,
from those of the rustic society to which she had been accustomed,
that elevated him in her opinion. She would listen to him with
charmed ear and downcast look of mute delight, and her cheek
would mantle with enthusiasm; or if ever she ventured a shy glance
of timid admiration, it was as quickly withdrawn, and she would
sigh and blush at the idea of her comparative unworthiness.
Her lover was equally impassioned; but his passion was mingled
with feelings of a coarser nature. He had begun the connexion in
levity; for he had often heard his brother o cers boast of their
village conquests, and thought some triumph of the kind necessary
to his reputation as a man of spirit. But he was too full of youthful
fervour. His heart had not yet been rendered su ciently cold and
sel sh by a wandering and a dissipated life: it caught re from the
very ame it sought to kindle; and before he was aware of the
nature of his situation, he became really in love.
What was he to do? There were the old obstacles which so
incessantly occur in these heedless attachments. His rank in life—
the prejudices of titled connexions—his dependance upon a proud
and unyielding father—all forbad him to think of matrimony:—but
when he looked down upon this innocent being, so tender and
con ding, there was a purity in her manners, a blamelessness in her
life, and a beseeching modesty in her looks, that awed down every
licentious feeling. In vain did he try to fortify himself, by a thousand
heartless examples of men of fashion, and to chill the glow of
generous sentiment, with that cold derisive levity with which he had
heard them talk of female virtue; whenever he came into her
presence, she was still surrounded by that mysterious, but impassive
charm of virgin purity, in whose hallowed sphere no guilty thought
can live.
The sudden arrival of orders for the regiment to repair to the
continent, completed the confusion of his mind. He remained for a
short time in a state of the most painful irresolution; he hesitated to
communicate the tidings, until the day for marching was at hand;
when he gave her the intelligence in the course of an evening
ramble.
The idea of parting had never before occurred to her. It broke in
at once upon her dream of felicity; she looked upon it as a sudden
and insurmountable evil, and wept with the guileless simplicity of a
child. He drew her to his bosom, and kissed the tears from her soft
cheek, nor did he meet with a repulse, for there are moments of
mingled sorrow and tenderness, which hallow the caresses of
a ection. He was naturally impetuous, and the sight of beauty
apparently yielding in his arms, the con dence of his power over
her, and the dread of losing her forever, all conspired to overwhelm
his better feelings—he ventured to propose that she should leave her
home, and be the companion of his fortunes.
He was quite a novice in seduction, and blushed and faltered at
his own baseness; but so innocent of mind was his intended victim,
that she was at rst at a loss to comprehend his meaning;—and why
she should leave her native village, and the humble roof of her
parents. When at last the nature of his proposals ashed upon her
pure mind, the e ect was withering. She did not weep—she did not
break forth into reproach—she said not a word—but she shrunk
back aghast as from a viper, gave him a look of anguish that pierced
to his very soul, and clasping her hands in agony, ed, as if for
refuge, to her father’s cottage.
The o cer retired, confounded, humiliated, and repentant. It is
uncertain what might have been the result of the con ict of his
feelings, had not his thoughts been diverted by the bustle of
departure. New scenes, new pleasures, and new companions, soon
dissipated his self reproach, and sti ed his tenderness. Yet, amidst
the stir of camps, the revelries of garrisons, the array of armies, and
even the din of battles, his thoughts would sometimes steal back to
the scene of rural quiet and village simplicity—the white cottage—
the footpath along the silver brook and up the hawthorn hedge, and
the little village maid loitering along it, leaning on his arm, and
listening to him with eyes beaming with unconscious a ection.
The shock which the poor girl had received, in the destruction of
all her ideal world, had indeed been cruel. Faintings and hysterics
had at rst shaken her tender frame, and were succeeded by a
settled and pining melancholy. She had beheld from her window the
march of the departing troops. She had seen her faithless lover
borne o , as if in triumph, amidst the sound of drum and trumpet,
and the pomp of arms. She strained a last aching gaze after him, as
the morning sun glittered about his gure, and his plume waved in
the breeze: he passed away like a bright vision from her sight, and
left her all in darkness.
It would be trite to dwell on the particulars of her after story. It
was, like other tales of love, melancholy. She avoided society, and
wandered out alone in the walks she had most frequented with her
lover. She sought, like the stricken deer, to weep in silence and
loneliness, and brood over the barbed sorrow that rankled in her
soul. Sometimes she would be seen late of an evening sitting in the
porch of the village church; and the milkmaids, returning from the
elds, would now and then overhear her singing some plaintive
ditty in the hawthorn walk. She became fervent in her devotions at
church, and as the old people saw her approach, so wasted away,
yet with a hectic bloom, and that hallowed air which melancholy
di uses round the form, they would make way for her, as for
something spiritual, and, looking after her, would shake their heads
in gloomy foreboding.
She felt a conviction that she was hastening to the tomb, but
looked forward to it as a place of rest. The silver cord that had
bound her to existence was loosed, and there seemed to be no more
pleasure under the sun. If ever her gentle bosom had entertained
resentment against her lover, it was extinguished. She was incapable
of angry passions, and in a moment of saddened tenderness, she
penned him a farewell letter. It was couched in the simplest
language; but touching from its very simplicity. She told him that
she was dying, and did not conceal from him that his conduct was
the cause. She even depicted the su erings which she had
experienced; but concluded with saying, that she could not die in
peace, until she had sent him her forgiveness and her blessing.
By degrees her strength declined, and she could no longer leave
the cottage. She could only totter to the window, where, propped up
in her chair, it was her enjoyment to sit all day and look out upon
the landscape. Still she uttered no complaint, nor imparted to any
one the malady that was preying on her heart. She never even
mentioned her lover’s name; but would lay her head on her mother’s
bosom and weep in silence. Her poor parents hung, in mute anxiety,
over this fading blossom of their hopes, still attering themselves
that it might again revive to freshness, and that the bright unearthly
bloom which sometimes ushed her cheek might be the promise of
returning health.
In this way she was seated between them one Sunday afternoon;
her hands were clasped in theirs, the lattice was thrown open, and
the soft air that stole in, brought with it the fragrance of the
clustering honeysuckle, which her own hands had trained round the
window.
Her father had just been reading a chapter in the Bible; it spoke of
the vanity of worldly things, and of the joys of heaven; it seemed to
have di used comfort and serenity through her bosom. Her eye was
xed on the distant village church—the bell had tolled for the
evening service—the last villager was lagging into the porch—and
everything had sunk into that hallowed stillness peculiar to the day
of rest. Her parents were gazing on her with yearning hearts.
Sickness and sorrow, which pass so roughly over some faces, had
given to hers the expression of a seraph’s. A tear trembled in her
soft blue eye.—Was she thinking of her faithless lover?—or were her
thoughts wandering to that distant church yard, into whose bosom
she might soon be gathered?
Suddenly the clang of hoofs was heard—a horseman gallopped to
the cottage—he dismounted before the window—the poor girl gave
a faint exclamation, and sunk back in her chair:—it was her
repentant lover! He rushed into the house, and ew to clasp her to
his bosom; but her wasted form—her death like countenance—so
wan, yet so lovely in its desolation, smote him to the soul, and he
threw himself in an agony at her feet. She was too faint to rise—she
attempted to extend her trembling hand—her lips moved as if she
spoke, but no word was articulated—she looked down upon him
with a smile of unutterable tenderness, and closed her eyes forever.
Such are the particulars which I gathered of this village story.
They are but scanty, and I am conscious have little novelty to
recommend them. In the present rage also for strange incident and
high seasoned narrative, they may appear trite and insigni cant, but
they interested me strongly at the time; and, taken in connexion
with the a ecting ceremony which I had just witnessed, left a
deeper impression on my mind than many circumstances of a more
striking nature. I have passed through the place since, and visited
the church again from a better motive than mere curiosity. It was a
wintry evening; the trees were stripped of their foliage; the church
yard looked naked and mournful, and the wind rustled coldly
through the dry grass. Evergreens, however, had been planted about
the grave of the village favourite, and osiers4 were bent over it to
keep the turf uninjured.
The church door was open, and I stepped in. There hung the
chaplet of owers and the gloves, as on the day of the funeral: the
owers were withered, it is true, but care seemed to have been
taken that no dust should soil their whiteness. I have seen many
monuments, where art has exhausted its powers to awaken the
sympathy of the spectator, but I have met with none that spoke
more touchingly to my heart, than this simple, but delicate
memento of departed innocence.
 THE ANGLER

This day dame Nature seemed in love,

The lusty sap began to move,
Fresh juice did stir th’ embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines.
The jealous trout that low did lie,
Rose at a well dissembled lie,
There stood my friend, with patient skill,
Attending of his trembling quill.

SIR H. WOTTON1

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to run away from

his family, and betake himself to a seafaring life, from reading the
history of Robinson Crusoe; and I suspect that, in like manner, many
of those worthy gentlemen, who are given to haunt the sides of
pastoral streams with angle rods in hand, may trace the origin of
their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Walton. I
recollect studying his “Complete Angler”2 several years since, in
company with a knot of friends in America, and moreover that we
were all completely bitten with the angling mania. It was early in
the year; but as soon as the weather was auspicious, and that the
spring began to melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand
and sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever Don Quixote
from reading books of chivalry.
One of our party had equalled the Don in the fullness of his
equipments; being attired cap-a-pie for the enterprize. He wore a
broad skirted fustian coat, perplexed with half a hundred pockets; a
pair of stout shoes, and leathern gaiters; a basket slung on one side
for sh; a patent rod; a landing net, and a score of other
inconveniencies, only to be found in the true angler’s armoury. Thus
harnessed for the eld, he was as great a matter of stare and
wonderment among the country folk, who had never seen a regular
angler, as was the steel clad hero of La Mancha among the
goatherds of the Sierra Morena.
Our rst essay was along a mountain brook, among the highlands
of the Hudson; a most unfortunate place for the execution of those
piscatory tactics which had been invented along the velvet margins
of quiet English rivulets. It was one of those wild streams that
lavish, among our romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to
ll the sketch book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes it
would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, over which
the trees threw their broad balancing sprays, and long nameless
weeds hung in fringes from the impending banks, dripping with
diamond drops. Sometimes it would brawl and fret along a ravine in
the matted shade of a forest, lling it with murmurs; and after this
termagant career, would steal forth into open day with the most
placid demure face imaginable; as I have seen some pestilent shrew
of a housewife, after lling her home with uproar and ill humour,
come dimpling out of doors, swimming and curtseying, and smiling
upon all the world.
How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide, at such times,
through some bosom of green meadow land among the mountains;
where the quiet was only interrupted by the occasional tinkling of a
bell from the lazy cattle among the clover, or the sound of a
woodcutter’s axe from the neighbouring forest.
For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport that
required either patience or adroitness, and had not angled above
half an hour, before I had completely “satis ed the sentiment,” and
convinced myself of the truth of Izaak Walton’s opinion, that
angling is something like poetry—a man must be born to it. I
hooked myself instead of the sh; tangled my line in every tree; lost
my bait; broke my rod; until I gave up the attempt in despair, and
passed the day under the trees, reading old Izaak; satis ed that it
was his fascinating vein of honest simplicity and rural feeling that
had bewitched me, and not the passion for angling. My companions,
however, were more persevering in their delusion. I have them at
this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of the brook,
where it lay open to the day, or was merely fringed by shrubs and
bushes. I see the bittern rising with hollow scream as they break in
upon his rarely invaded haunt; the king sher watching them
suspiciously from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill
pond, in the gorge of the hills; the tortoise letting himself slip
sideways from o the stone or log on which he is sunning himself;
and the panic struck frog plumping in headlong as they approach,
and spreading an alarm throughout the watery world around.
I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and creeping
about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely any success, in
spite of all our admirable apparatus, a lubberly country urchin came
down from the hills with a rod made from a branch of a tree; a few
yards of twine; and, as heaven shall help me! I believe a crooked pin
for a hook, baited with a vile earth worm—and in half an hour
caught more sh than we had nibbles throughout the day!
But above all, I recollect the “good, honest, wholesome, hungry”
repast, which we made under a beech tree just by a spring of pure
sweet water that stole out of the side of a hill; and how, when it was
over, one of the party read old Izaak Walton’s scene with the
milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in a bright pile
of clouds, until I fell asleep. All this may appear like mere egotism,
yet I cannot refrain from uttering these recollections, which are
passing like a strain of music over my mind and have been called up
by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not long since.
In a morning’s stroll along the banks of the Alun, a beautiful little
stream which ows down from the Welsh hills and throws itself into
the Dee, my attention was attracted to a group seated on the
margin. On approaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler
and two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with a
wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully patched,
betokening poverty, honestly come by, and decently maintained. His
face bore the marks of former storms, but present fair weather; its
furrows had been worn into an habitual smile; his iron grey locks
hung about his ears, and he had altogether the good humoured air
of a constitutional philosopher, who was disposed to take the world
as it went. One of his companions was a ragged wight, with the
skulking look of an arrant poacher, and I’ll warrant could nd his
way to any gentleman’s sh pond in the neighbourhood in the
darkest night. The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with a
lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic beau. The old
man was busy in examining the maw of a trout which he had just
killed, to discover by its contents what insects were seasonable for
bait; and was lecturing on the subject to his companions, who
appeared to listen with in nite deference. I have a kind feeling
towards all “brothers of the angle,” ever since I read Izaak Walton.
They are men, he a rms, of a “mild, sweet and peaceable spirit;”
and my esteem for them has been encreased since I met with an old
“Tretyse of shing with the Angle,”3 in which are set forth many of
the maxims of their ino ensive fraternity. “Take good hede,” sayth
this honest little tretyse, “that in going about your disportes ye open
no man’s gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use
this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the encreasing and
sparing of your money only but principally for your solace and to
cause the helth of your body and specyally of your soule”*
I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler before me an
exempli cation of what I had read; and there was a chearful
contentedness in his looks that quite drew me towards him. I could
not but remark the gallant manner in which he stumped from one
part of the brook to another; waving his rod in the air, to keep the
line from dragging on the ground, or catching among the bushes;
and the adroitness with which he would throw his y to any
particular place; sometimes skimming it lightly along a little rapid;
sometimes casting it into one of those dark holes made by a twisted
root or overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to lurk.
In the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his two disciples;
showing them the manner in which they should handle their rods,
x their ies, and play them along the surface of the stream. The
scene brought to my mind the instructions of the sage Piscator to his
scholar. The country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton
is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain of Cheshire,
close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and just where the inferior
Welsh hills begin to swell up from among fresh sweet smelling
meadows. The day, too, like that recorded in his work, was mild and
sunshiny; with now and then a soft dropping shower, that sowed the
whole earth with diamonds.
I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and was so much
entertained, that, under pretext of receiving instructions in his art, I
kept company with him almost the whole day; wandering along the
banks of the stream, and listening to his talk. He was very
communicative, having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age;
and I fancy was a little attered by having an opportunity of
displaying his piscatory lore; for who does not like now and then to
play the sage?
He had been much of a rambler in his day; and had passed some
years of his youth in America, particularly in Savannah, where he
had entered into trade and had been ruined by the indiscretion of a
partner. He had afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life,
until he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by a
cannon ball, at the battle of Camperdown.4 This was the only stroke
of real good fortune he had ever experienced, for it got him a
pension, which, together with some small paternal property,
brought him in a revenue of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired
to his native village, where he lived quietly and independently, and
devoted the remainder of his life to the “noble art of angling.”
I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and he seemed
to have imbibed all his simple frankness and prevalent good
humour. Though he had been sorely bu eted about the world, he
was satis ed that the world, in itself, was good and beautiful.
Though he had been as roughly used in di erent countries as a poor
sheep, that is eeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke of
every nation with candour and kindness, appearing to look only on
the good side of things; and above all, he was almost the only man I
had ever met with, who had been an unfortunate adventurer in
America, and had honesty and magnanimity enough, to take the
fault to his own door, and not to curse the country. The lad that was
receiving his instructions I learnt was the son and heir apparent of a
fat old widow who kept the village inn, and of course a youth of
some expectation, and much courted by the idle, gentleman like
personages of the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the
old man had probably an eye to a privileged corner in the tap room,
and an occasional cup of cheerful ale free of expense.
There is certainly something in angling, if we could forget, which
anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and tortures in icted on worms
and insects, that tends to produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure
serenity of mind. As the English are methodical even in their
recreations, and are the most scienti c of sportsmen, it has been
reduced among them to perfect rule and system. Indeed it is an
amusement peculiarly adapted to the mild and highly cultivated
scenery of England, where every roughness has been softened away
from the landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid
streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the bosom of
this beautiful country; leading one through a diversity of small
home scenery; sometimes winding through ornamented grounds;
sometimes brimming along through rich pasturage, where the fresh
green is mingled with sweet smelling owers; sometimes venturing
in sight of villages and hamlets; and then running capriciously away
into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity of nature, and
the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradually bring on pleasant ts
of musing; which are now and then agreeably interrupted by the
song of a bird; the distant whistle of the pheasant; or perhaps the
vagary of some sh, leaping out of the still water, and skimming
transiently about its glassy surface. “When I would beget content,”
says Izaak Walton, “and increase con dence in the power and
wisdom and providence of Almighty God, I will walk the meadows
by some gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take
no care, and those very many other little living creatures that are
not only created, but fed (man knows not how) by the goodness of
the God of nature, and therefore trust in him.”
I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of those
ancient champions of angling which breathes the same innocent and
happy spirit:
Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink
   Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place;
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink,
   With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace;
And on the world and my creator think:
   Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t’ embrace;
And others spend their time in base excess
   Of wine, or worse, in war or wantonness.

Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue,

   And on such pleasing fancies feed their ll;
So I the elds and meadows green may view
   And daily by fresh rivers walk at will,
Among the daisies and the violets blue,
   Red hyacinth and yellow da odil.*

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place of abode,
and happening to be in the neighbourhood of the village a few
evenings afterwards, I had the curiosity to seek him out. I found him
living in a small cottage, containing only one room, but a perfect
curiosity in its method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the
village, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a small
garden in front, stocked with kitchen herbs, and adorned with a few
owers. The whole front of the cottage was overrun with a
honeysuckle. On the top was a ship for a weathercock. The interior
was tted up in a truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and
convenience having been acquired on the birth deck of a man of
war. A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the day time
was lashed up so as to take but little room. From the centre of the
chamber hung a model of a ship of his own workmanship. Two or
three chairs, a table, and a large sea chest, formed the principal
moveables. About the walls were stuck up naval ballads, such as
Admiral Hosier’s Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom Bowling,
intermingled with pictures of sea ghts, among which the battle of
Camperdown held a distinguished place. The mantle piece was
decorated with sea shells; over which hung a quadrant, anked by
two woodcuts of most bitter looking naval commanders. His
implements for angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks
about the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, containing a
work on angling, much worn; a bible covered with canvass; an odd
volume or two of voyages; a nautical almanack; and a book of
songs.
His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, and a
parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated himself, in the
course of one of his voyages; and which uttered a variety of sea
phrases with the hoarse brattling tone of a veteran boatswain. The
establishment reminded me of that of the renowned Robinson
Crusoe;—it was kept in neat order, everything being “stowed away”
with the regularity of a ship of war; and he informed me that he
“scowred the deck every morning, and swept it between meals.”
I found him seated on a bench before the door, smoking his pipe
in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was purring soberly on the
threshold, and his parrot describing some strange evolutions in an
iron ring that swung in the centre of his cage. He had been angling
all day, and gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness
as a general would talk over a campaign; being particularly
animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a large
trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and wariness, and
which he had sent as a trophy to mine hostess of the Inn.
How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented old age; and
to behold a poor fellow, like this, after being tempest tost through
life, safely moored in a snug and quiet harbour in the evening of his
days. His happiness, however, sprung from within himself, and was
independent of external circumstances; for he had that inexhaustible
good nature, which is the most precious gift of heaven; spreading
itself like oil over the troubled sea of thought, and keeping the mind
smooth and equable in the roughest weather.
On inquiring further about him, I learnt that he was a universal
favourite in the village, and the oracle of the tap room; where he
delighted the rustics with his songs, and, like Sindbad, astonished
them with his stories of strange lands, and shipwrecks, and sea
ghts. He was much noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the
neighbourhood; had taught several of them the art of angling; and
was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole tenor of his life
was quiet and ino ensive, being principally passed about the
neighbouring streams when the weather and season were
favourable; at other times he employed himself at home, preparing
his shing tackle for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods,
nets, and ies for his patrons and pupils among the gentry.
He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays, though he
generally fell asleep during the sermon. He had made it his
particular request that when he died he should be buried in a green
spot, which he could see from his seat in church, and which he had
marked out ever since he was a boy and had thought of when far
from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for the shes
—it was the spot where his father and mother had been buried.
I have done, for I fear that my reader is growing weary; but I
could not refrain from drawing the picture of this worthy “brother
of the angle;” who has made me more than ever in love with the
theory, though I fear I shall never be adroit in the practice of his art:
and I will conclude this rambling sketch, in the words of honest
Izaak Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter’s master upon my
reader, “and upon all that are true lovers of virtue; and dare trust in
his providence; and be quiet; and go a angling.”

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more industrious and
devout employment than it is generally considered.—“For when ye purpose to go on
your disportes in shynge ye will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which
might let you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge
e ectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall eschew and also
avoyde many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall cause to induce man to many
other vices, as it is right well known.”

* J. Davors.5
 THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW
(Found among the Papers of the late Diedrich Knickerbocker)

A pleasing land of drowsy head it was,

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever ushing round a summer sky.

CASTLE OF INDOLENCE1

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which indent the

eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad expansion of the river
denominated by the ancient Dutch navigators the Tappaan Zee, and
where they always prudently shortened sail, and implored the
protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small
market town or rural port, which by some is called Greensburgh,
but which is more generally and properly known by the name of
Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, in former days, by
the good housewives of the adjacent country, from the inveterate
propensity of their husbands to linger about the village tavern on
market days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but
merely advert to it, for the sake of being precise and authentic. Not
far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little valley,
or rather lap of land among high hills, which is one of the quietest
places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it, with just
murmur enough to lull one to repose, and the occasional whistle of
a quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound that
ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.
I recollect that when a stripling, my rst exploit in squirrel
shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that shades one side of
the valley. I had wandered into it at noon time, when all nature is
peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it
broke the sabbath stillness around, and was prolonged and
reverberated by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat,
whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, and dream
quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none more
promising than this little valley.
From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar character of
its inhabitants, who are descendants from the original Dutch
settlers, this sequestered glen has long been known by the name of
SLEEPY HOLLOW, and its rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys
throughout all the neighbouring country. A drowsy, dreamy
in uence seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very
atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by a high
German doctor during the early days of the settlement; others, that
an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his tribe, held his
powwows there before the country was discovered by Master
Hendrick Hudson.2 Certain it is, the place still continues under the
sway of some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of
the good people, causing them to walk in a continual reverie. They
are given to all kinds of marvellous beliefs; are subject to trances
and visions, and frequently see strange sights, and hear music and
voices in the air. The whole neighbourhood abounds with local
tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; stars shoot and
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other part of the
country, and the nightmare, with her whole nine fold, seems to
make it the favourite scene of her gambols.3
The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region,
and seems to be commander in chief of all the powers of the air, is
the apparition of a gure on horseback without a head. It is said by
some to be the ghost of a Hessian4 trooper, whose head had been
carried away by a cannon ball, in some nameless battle during the
revolutionary war, and who is ever and anon seen by the country
folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the
wind. His haunts are not con ned to the valley, but extend at times
to the adjacent roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic historians of
those parts, who have been careful in collecting and collating the
oating facts concerning this spectre, allege, that the body of the
trooper having been buried in the church yard, the ghost rides forth
to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head, and that the
rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along the hollow,
like a midnight blast, is owing to his being belated, and in a hurry
to get back to the church yard before day break.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which
has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of
shadows; and the spectre is known, at all the country resides, by
the name of The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.
It is remarkable, that the visionary propensity I have mentioned is
not con ned to the native inhabitants of the valley, but is
unconsciously imbibed by everyone who resides there for a time.
However wide awake they may have been before they entered that
sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching
in uence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative—to dream
dreams, and see apparitions.
I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud; for it is in such
little retired Dutch valleys, found here and there embosomed in the
great state of New York, that population, manners, and customs,
remain xed, while the great torrent of migration and improvement,
which is making such incessant changes in other parts of this
restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. They are like those
little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we
may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly
revolving in their mimic harbour, undisturbed by the rush of the
passing current. Though many years have elapsed since I trod the
drowsy shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not
still nd the same trees and the same families vegetating in its
sheltered bosom.
In this by place of nature there abode, in a remote period of
American history, that is to say, some thirty years since, a worthy
wight of the name of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he
expressed it, “tarried,” in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of
instructing the children of the vicinity. He was a native of
Connecticut, a state which supplies the Union with pioneers for the
mind as well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of
frontier woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cognomen of
Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He was tall, but
exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands
that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served
for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His
head was small, and at at top, with huge ears, large green glassy
eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock
perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To
see him striding along the pro le of a hill on a windy day, with his
clothes bagging and uttering about him, one might have mistaken
him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some
scarecrow eloped from a corn eld.
His school house was a low building of one large room, rudely
constructed of logs; the windows partly glazed, and partly patched
with leaves of old copy books. It was most ingeniously secured at
vacant hours, by a with5 twisted in the handle of the door, and
stakes set against the window shutters; so that though a thief might
get in with perfect ease, he would nd some embarrassment in
getting out; an idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost
Van Houten, from the mystery of an eelpot.6 The school house stood
in a rather lonely but pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody
hill, with a brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree
growing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of his pupils’
voices conning over their lessons, might be heard of a drowsy
summer’s day, like the hum of a bee hive; interrupted now and then
by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or
command, or peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as
he urged some tardy loiterer along the owery path of knowledge.
Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the
golden maxim, “spare the rod and spoil the child”—Ichabod Crane’s
scholars certainly were not spoiled.
I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those
cruel potentates of the school, who joy in the smart of their subjects;
on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather
than severity; taking the burden o the backs of the weak, and
laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that
winced at the least ourish of the rod, was passed by with
indulgence; but the claims of justice were satis ed, by in icting a
double portion on some little, tough, wrong headed, broad skirted
Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen
beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their
parents;” and he never in icted a chastisement without following it
by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he
would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to
live.”
When school hours were over, he was even the companion and
playmate of the larger boys; and on holiday afternoons would
convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have
pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the
comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good
terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was
small, and would have been scarcely su cient to furnish him with
daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and though lank, had the
dilating powers of an Anaconda; but to help out his maintenance, he
was, according to country custom in those parts, boarded and
lodged at the houses of the farmers, whose children he instructed.
With these he lived successively a week at a time, thus going the
rounds of the neighbourhood, with all his worldly e ects tied up in
a cotton handkerchief.
 That all this might not be too onerous on the purses of his rustic
patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of schooling a grievous
burden, and schoolmasters as mere drones, he had various ways of
rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers
occasionally in the lighter labours of their farms, helped to make
hay mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows
from pasture, and cut wood for the winter re. He laid aside, too, all
the dominant dignity and absolute sway, with which he lorded it in
his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and
ingratiating. He found favour in the eyes of the mothers, by petting
the children, particularly the youngest, and like the lion bold, which
whilome so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a
child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot, for whole hours
together.
In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing master of
the neighbourhood, and picked up many bright shillings by
instructing the young folks in psalmody. It was a matter of no little
vanity to him on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church
gallery, with a band of chosen singers; where, in his own mind, he
completely carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, his
voice resounded far above all the rest of the congregation, and there
are peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and which may
even be heard half a mile o , quite to the opposite side of the mill
pond, of a still Sunday morning, which are said to be legitimately
descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by diverse little
make shifts, in that ingenious way which is commonly denominated
“by hook and by crook,” the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably
enough, and was thought, by all who understood nothing of the
labour of headwork, to have a wonderfully easy life of it.
The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the
female circle of a rural neighbourhood, being considered a kind of
idle gentleman like personage, of vastly superior taste and
accomplishments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior
in learning only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to
occasion some little stir at the tea table of a farm house, and the
addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or,
peradventure, the parade of a silver tea pot. Our man of letters,
therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country
damsels. How he would gure among them in the church yard,
between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the
wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting for their
amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones, or sauntering, with a
whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent mill pond;
while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back,
envying his superior elegance and address.
From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of travelling
gazette, carrying the whole budget of local gossip from house to
house; so that his appearance was always greeted with satisfaction.
He was, moreover, esteemed by the women as a man of great
erudition, for he had read several books quite through, and was a
perfect master of Cotton Mather’s History of New England
Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most rmly and potently
believed.7
He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness and simple
credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, and his powers of
digesting it, were equally extraordinary; and both had been
increased by his residence in this spellbound region. No tale was too
gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It was often his
delight, after his school was dismissed of an afternoon, to stretch
himself on the rich bed of clover, bordering the little brook that
whimpered by his school house, and there con over old Mather’s
direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made the printed
page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by
swamp and stream and awful woodland, to the farm house where he
happened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that witching
hour, uttered his excited imagination: the moan of the whip-poor-
will* from the hill side; the boding cry of the tree toad, that
harbinger of storm; the dreary hooting of the screech owl; or the
sudden rustling in the thicket, of birds frightened from their roost.
The re ies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest places,
now and then startled him, as one of uncommon brightness would
stream across his path; and if, by chance, a huge blockhead of a
beetle came winging his blundering ight against him, the poor
varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with the idea that he was
struck with a witch’s token. His only resource on such occasions,
either to drown thought, or drive away evil spirits, was to sing
psalm tunes;—and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they sat by
their doors of an evening, were often lled with awe, at hearing his
nasal melody, “in linked sweetness long drawn out,” oating from
the distant hill, or along the dusky road.
Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was, to pass long winter
evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they sat spinning by the re,
with a row of apples roasting and sputtering along the hearth, and
listen to their marvellous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted
elds and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges and haunted houses,
and particularly of the headless horseman, or galloping Hessian of
the Hollow, as they sometimes called him. He would delight them
equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and
portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed in the
earlier times of Connecticut; and would frighten them woefully with
speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and with the alarming
fact that the world did absolutely turn round, and that they were
half the time topsy-turvy!
But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly cuddling in the
chimney corner of a chamber that was all of a ruddy glow from the
crackling wood re, and where, of course, no spectre dared to show
its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his subsequent
walk homewards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path,
amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night!—With what
wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming across
the waste elds from some distant window!—How often was he
appalled by some shrub covered with snow, which like a sheeted
spectre beset his very path!—How often did he shrink with curdling
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath his
feet; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he should behold
some uncouth being tramping close behind him!—and how often
was he thrown into complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling
among the trees, in the idea that it was the galloping Hessian on one
of his nightly scourings.
All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, phantoms of
the mind, that walk in darkness; and though he had seen many
spectres in his time, and been more than once beset by Satan in
diverse shapes, in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put an end
to all these evils; and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in
despite of the Devil and all his works, if his path had not been
crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal man, than
ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches put together, and that
was—a woman.
Among the musical disciples who assembled, one evening in each
week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, was Katrina Van
Tassel, the daughter and only child of a substantial Dutch farmer.
She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge;
ripe and melting and rosy cheeked as one of her father’s peaches,
and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast
expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be
perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and
modern fashions, as most suited to set o her charms. She wore the
ornaments of pure yellow gold, which her great great grandmother
had brought over from Saardam;8 the tempting stomacher of the
olden time, and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the
prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.
Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart toward the sex; and it
is not to be wondered at, that so tempting a morsel soon found
favour in his eyes, more especially after he had visited her in her
paternal mansion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a
thriving, contented, liberal hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true,
sent either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of his
own farm; but within those everything was snug, happy, and well
conditioned. He was satis ed with his wealth, but not proud of it,
and piqued himself upon the hearty abundance, rather than the
style in which he lived. His strong hold was situated on the banks of
the Hudson, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks, in which
the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm tree spread its
broad branches over it, at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of
the softest and sweetest water, in a little well, formed of a barrel,
and then stole sparkling away through the grass, to a neighbouring
brook, that babbled along among elders and dwarf willows. Hard by
the farm house was a vast barn, that might have served for a
church; every window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth
with the treasures of the farm; the ail was busily resounding within
it from morning to night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering
about the eaves, and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned up,
as if watching the weather, some with their heads under their
wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, and cooing,
and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine on the
roof. Sleek unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and
abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth, now and then,
troops of sucking pigs, as if to snu the air. A stately squadron of
snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole
eets of ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through the farm
yard, and guinea fowls fretting about it like ill tempered
housewives, with their peevish discontented cry. Before the barn
door strutted the gallant cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior,
and a ne gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in
the pride and gladness of his heart—sometimes tearing up the earth
with his feet, and then generously calling his ever hungry family of
wives and children to enjoy the rich morsel which he had
discovered.
The pedagogue’s mouth watered, as he looked upon this
sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his devouring mind’s
eye, he pictured to himself every roasting pig running about with a
pudding in his belly, and an apple in his mouth; the pigeons were
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet
of crust; the geese were swimming in their own gravy; and the
ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married couples, with a
decent competency of onion sauce; in the porkers he saw carved out
the future sleek side of bacon, and juicy relishing ham; not a turkey,
but he beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its wing,
and, peradventure, a necklace of savoury sausages; and even bright
chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side dish, with
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter, which his chivalrous spirit
disdained to ask while living.
As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he rolled his
great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the rich elds of wheat,
of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened
with ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of Van
Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these
domains, and his imagination expanded with the idea, how they
might be readily turned into cash, and the money invested in
immense tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilderness.
Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopes, and presented to him
the blooming Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on
the top of a waggon loaded with household trumpery, with pots and
kettles dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a pacing
mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee,
or the Lord knows where!
When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart was
complete. It was one of those spacious farm houses, with high
ridged, but lowly sloping roofs, built in the style handed down from
the rst Dutch settlers. The low, projecting eaves formed a piazza
along the front, capable of being closed up in bad weather. Under
this were hung ails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and
nets for shing in the neighbouring river. Benches were built along
the sides for summer use; and a great spinning wheel at one end,
and a churn at the other, showed the various uses to which this
important porch might be devoted. From this piazza the wondering
Ichabod entered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion,
and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplendent pewter,
ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. In one corner stood a
huge bag of wool ready to be spun; in another a quantity of linsey-
woolsey just from the loom; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried
apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, mingled
with the gaud of red peppers; and a door left ajar, gave him a peep
into the best parlour, where the claw footed chairs, and dark
mahogany tables, shone like mirrors; andirons, with their
accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from their covert of
asparagus tops; mock oranges and conch shells decorated the
mantle-piece; strings of various coloured birds’ eggs were suspended
above it; a great ostrich egg was hung from the centre of the room,
and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, displayed immense
treasures of old silver and well mended china.
From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these regions of
delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, and his only study was
how to gain the a ections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In
this enterprize, however, he had more real di culties than
generally fell to the lot of a knight errant of yore, who seldom had
anything but giants, enchanters, ery dragons, and such like easily
conquered adversaries, to contend with; and had to make his way
merely through gates of iron and brass, and walls of adamant, to the
castle keep, where the lady of his heart was con ned; all which he
achieved as easily as a man would carve his way to the centre of a
Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her hand as a matter of
course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win his way to the heart of
a country coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and caprices,
which were for ever presenting new di culties and impediments,
and he had to encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real esh
and blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to
her heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each other, but
ready to y out in the common cause against any new competitor.
Among these, the most formidable, was a burly, roaring,
roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to the
Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the country round,
which rung with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was broad
shouldered and double jointed, with short curly black hair, and a
blu , but not unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun
and arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers of limb,
he had received the nick name of BROM BONES, by which he was
universally known. He was famed for great knowledge and skill in
horsemanship, being as dexterous on horseback as a Tartar.9 He was
foremost at all races and cock ghts, and with the ascendancy which
bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all disputes,
setting his hat on one side, and giving his decisions with an air and
tone admitting of no gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for
either a ght or a frolick; but had more mischief than ill will in his
composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a
strong dash of waggish good humour at bottom. He had three or
four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the
head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud
or merriment for miles round. In cold weather he was distinguished
by a fur cap, surmounted with a aunting fox’s tail, and when the
folks at a country gathering descried this well known crest at a
distance, whisking about among a squad of hard riders, they always
stood by for a squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing
along past the farm houses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like
a troop of Don Cossacks,10 and the old dames, startled out of their
sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry scurry had clattered
by, and then exclaim, “aye, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!”
The neighbours looked upon him with a mixture of awe, admiration,
and good will; and when any mad cap prank, or rustic brawl,
occurred in the vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted
Brom Bones was at the bottom of it.
This rantipole11 hero had for some time singled out the blooming
Katrina for the object of his uncouth gallantries, and though his
amorous toyings were something like the gentle caresses and
endearments of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not
altogether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his advances were
signals for rival candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross
a lion in his amours; insomuch, that when his horse was seen tied to
Van Tassel’s paling, of a Sunday night, (a sure sign that his master
was courting, or, as it is termed, “sparking,” within,) all other
suitors passed by in despair, and carried the war into other quarters.
Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod Crane had to
contend, and, considering all things, a stouter man than he would
have shrunk from the competition, and a wiser man would have
despaired. He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and
perseverance in his nature; he was in form and spirit like a supple
jack12—yielding, but tough; though he bent, he never broke; and
though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it
was away—jerk!—he was as erect, and carried his head as high as
ever.
To have taken the eld openly against his rival, would have been
madness; for he was not a man to be thwarted in his amours, any
more than that stormy lover, Achilles.13 Ichabod, therefore, made
his advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. Under cover
of his character of singing master, he made frequent visits at the
farm house; not that he had anything to apprehend from the
meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling
block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an easy indulgent
soul; he loved his daughter better even than his pipe, and like a
reasonable man, and an excellent father, let her have her way in
everything. His notable little wife too, had enough to do to attend to
her housekeeping and manage her poultry, for, as she sagely
observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be looked
after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus while the busy
dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning wheel at one
end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit smoking his evening pipe at
the other, watching the achievements of a little wooden warrior,
who, armed with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly ghting
the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, Ichabod
would carry on his suit with the daughter by the side of the spring
under the great elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so
favourable to the lover’s eloquence.
 I profess not to know how women’s hearts are wooed and won. To
me they have always been matters of riddle and admiration. Some
seem to have but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while
others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand
di erent ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the former, but a
still greater proof of generalship to maintain possession of the latter,
for a man must battle for his fortress at every door and window. He
who wins a thousand common hearts, is therefore entitled to some
renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the heart of a
coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with
the redoutable Brom Bones; and from the moment Ichabod Crane
made his advances, the interests of the former evidently declined;
his horse was no longer seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights,
and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the preceptor of
Sleepy Hollow.
Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his nature, would
fain have carried matters to open warfare, and have settled their
pretensions to the lady, according to the mode of those most concise
and simple reasoners, the knights errant of yore—by single combat;
but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his
adversary to enter the lists against him; he had overheard a boast of
Bones, that he would “double the schoolmaster up, and lay him on a
shelf of his own school house;” and he was too wary to give him an
opportunity. There was something extremely provoking in this
obstinately paci c system; it left Brom no alternative but to draw
upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposition, and to play o
boorish practical jokes upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of
whimsical persecution to Bones, and his gang of rough riders. They
harried his hitherto peaceful domains; smoked out his singing
school, by stopping up the chimney; broke into the school house at
night, in spite of its formidable fastenings of withe and window
stakes, and turned every thing topsy-turvy, so that the poor
schoolmaster began to think all the witches in the country held their
meetings there. But what was still more annoying, Brom took all
opportunities of turning him into ridicule in presence of his
mistress, and had a scoundrel dog, whom he taught to whine in the
most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of Ichabod’s, to
instruct her in psalmody.
In this way, matters went on for some time, without producing
any material e ect on the relative situations of the contending
powers. On a ne autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood,
sat enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually watched all
the concerns of his little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a
ferule,14 that sceptre of despotic power; the birch of justice reposed
on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to evil doers;
while on the desk before him might be seen sundry contraband
articles and prohibited weapons, detected upon the persons of idle
urchins, such as half munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, y cages,
and whole legions of rampant little paper game cocks. Apparently
there had been some appalling act of justice recently in icted, for
his scholars were all busily intent upon their books, or slyly
whispering behind them with one eye kept upon the master; and a
kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the school room. It was
suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a negro in tow cloth
jacket and trowsers, a round crowned fragment of a hat, like the cap
of Mercury15 and mounted on the back of a ragged, wild, half
broken colt, which he managed with a rope by way of halter. He
came clattering up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod
to attend a merry making, or “quilting frolick,” to be held that
evening at Mynheer Van Tassel’s, and having delivered his message
with that air of importance, and e ort at ne language, which a
negro is apt to display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed
over the brook, and was seen scampering away up the hollow, full
of the importance and hurry of his mission.
All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school room. The
scholars were hurried through their lessons, without stopping at
tri es; those who were nimble, skipped over half with impunity, and
those who were tardy, had a smart application now and then in the
rear, to quicken their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books
were ung aside, without being put away on the shelves; inkstands
were overturned, benches thrown down, and the whole school was
turned loose an hour before the usual time; bursting forth like a
legion of young imps, yelping and racketing about the green, in joy
at their early emancipation.
The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half hour at his
toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best, and indeed only suit of
rusty black, and arranging his looks by a bit of broken looking glass,
that hung up in the school house. That he might make his
appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he
borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated,
a choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, and thus
gallantly mounted, issued forth like a knight errant in quest of
adventures. But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic
story, give some account of the looks and equipments of my hero
and his steed. The animal he bestrode was a broken down plough
horse, that had outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He
was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe neck and a head like a hammer;
his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with burrs; one
eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring and spectral, but the other
had the gleam of a genuine devil in it. Still he must have had re
and mettle in his day, if we may judge from the name he bore of
Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his master’s,
the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, and had infused,
very probably, some of his own spirit into the animal, for, old and
broken down as he looked, there was more of the lurking devil in
him than in any young lly in the country.
Ichabod was a suitable gure for such a steed. He rode with short
stirrups, which brought his knees nearly up to the pommel of the
saddle; his sharp elbows stuck out like grasshoppers’; he carried his
whip perpendicularly in his hand, like a sceptre, and as his horse
jogged on, the motion of his arms was not unlike the apping of a
pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so
his scanty strip of forehead might be called, and the skirts of his
black coat uttered out almost to the horse’s tail. Such was the
appearance of Ichabod and his steed, as they shambled out of the
gate of Hans Van Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as
is seldom to be met with in broad day light.
It was, as I have said, a ne autumnal day, the sky was clear and
serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we
always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on
their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind
had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple,
and scarlet. Streaming les of wild ducks began to make their
appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard
from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the pensive whistle
of the quail at intervals from the neighbouring stubble eld.
The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. In the
fullness of their revelry, they uttered, chirping and frolicking, from
bush to bush, and tree to tree, capricious from the very profusion
and variety around them. There was the honest cock robin, the
favourite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous note;
and the twittering blackbirds ying in sable clouds; and the golden
winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, his broad black gorget,
and splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red tipt wings
and yellow tipt tail, and its little monteiro16 cap of feathers; and the
blue jay that noisy coxcomb, in his gay light blue coat and white
under clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding, and bobbing, and
bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with every songster of
the grove.
As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every
symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the
treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples,
some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, some gathered
into baskets and barrels for the market, others heaped up in rich
piles for the cider press. Further on he beheld great elds of Indian
corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and
holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; and the yellow
pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to
the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies;
and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat elds, breathing the
odour of the bee hive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations
stole over his mind of dainty slap jacks, well buttered, and
garnished with honey or treacle,17 by the delicate little dimpled
hand of Katrina Van Tassel.
Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and “sugared
suppositions,” he journeyed along the sides of a range of hills which
look out upon some of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson.
The sun gradually wheeled his broad disk down into the west. The
wide bosom of the Tappaan Zee lay motionless and glassy, excepting
that here and there a gentle undulation waved and prolonged the
blue shadow of the distant mountain: a few amber clouds oated in
the sky, without a breath of air to move them. The horizon was of a
ne golden tint, changing gradually into a pure apple green, and
from that into the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray
lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some
parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark grey and purple
of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping
slowly down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against the
mast, and as the re ection of the sky gleamed along the still water,
it seemed as if the vessel was suspended in the air.
It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle of the
Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the pride and
ower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, a spare, leathern faced
race, in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes
and magni cent pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames in
close crimped caps, long waisted short gowns, homespun petticoats,
with scissors and pin-cushions, and gay calico pockets, hanging on
the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as their mothers,
excepting where a straw hat, a ne ribband, or perhaps a white
frock, gave symptoms of city innovation. The sons, in short square
skirted coats with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair
generally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they could
procure an eel skin for the purpose, it being esteemed throughout
the country as a potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair.
 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, having come to
the gathering on his favourite steed Daredevil, a creature, like
himself, full of mettle and mischief, and which no one but himself
could manage. He was in fact noted for preferring vicious animals,
given to all kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of
his neck, for he held a tractable well broken horse as unworthy of a
lad of spirit.
Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst
upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state
parlour of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom
lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white: but the ample
charms of a genuine Dutch country tea table, in the sumptuous time
of autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost
indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives.
There was the doughty dough nut, the tenderer oly koek, and the
crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger
cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes.18 And then
there were apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides
slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of
preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to
mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of
milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I
have enumerated them, with the motherly tea pot sending up its
clouds of vapour from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want
breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too
eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so
great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.
He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart dilated in
proportion as his skin was lled with good cheer, and whose spirits
rose with eating, as some men’s do with drink. He could not help,
too, rolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with
the possibility that he might one day be lord of all this scene of
almost unimaginable luxury and splendour. Then, he thought, how
soon he’d turn his back upon the old school house; snap his ngers
in the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other niggardly patron,
and kick any itinerant pedagogue out of doors that should dare to
call him comrade!
Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests with a face
dilated with content and good humour, round and jolly as the
harvest moon. His hospitable attentions were brief, but expressive,
being con ned to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud
laugh, and a pressing invitation to “fall to, and help themselves.”
And now the sound of the music from the common room or hall,
summoned to the dance. The musician was an old grey headed
negro, who had been the itinerant orchestra of the neighbourhood
for more than half a century. His instrument was as old and battered
as himself. The greater part of the time he scraped away on two or
three strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a
motion of the head; bowing almost to the ground, and stamping
with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start.
Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as upon his
vocal powers. Not a limb, not a bre about him was idle, and to
have seen his loosely hung frame in full motion, and clattering
about the room, you would have thought Saint Vitus himself, that
blessed patron of the dance, was guring before you in person. He
was the admiration of all the negroes, who, having gathered, of all
ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighbourhood, stood forming
a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and window, gazing
with delight at the scene, rolling their white eye balls, and showing
grinning rows of ivory from ear to ear. How could the ogger of
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous; the lady of his heart
was his partner in the dance; and smiling graciously in reply to all
his amorous oglings, while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love
and jealousy sat brooding by himself in one corner.
When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted to a knot of
the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of
the piazza, gossipping over former times, and drawling out long
stories about the war.
 This neighbourhood, at the time of which I am speaking, was one
of those highly favoured places which abound with chronicle and
great men. The British and American line had run near it during the
war; it had, therefore, been the scene of marauding, and been
infested with refugees, cow boys, and all kinds of border chivalry.
Just su cient time had elapsed to enable each story teller to dress
up his tale with a little becoming ction, and in the indistinctness of
his recollection, to make himself the hero of every exploit.
There was the story of Do ue Martling, a large, blue bearded
Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate with an old iron
nine pounder from a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the
sixth discharge. And there was an old gentleman who shall be
nameless, being too rich a mynheer to be lightly mentioned, who in
the battle of Whiteplains,19 being an excellent master of defence,
parried a musket ball with a small sword, insomuch that he
absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance o at the hilt: in
proof of which, he was ready at any time to show the sword, with
the hilt a little bent. There were several more who had been equally
great in the eld, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had a
considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy termination.
But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and apparitions
that succeeded. The neighbourhood is rich in legendary treasures of
the kind. Local tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered,
long settled retreats; but are trampled under foot, by the shifting
throng that forms the population of most of our country places.
Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of our
villages, for they have scarce had time to nish their rst nap, and
turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving friends have
travelled away from the neighbourhood, so that when they turn out
of a night to walk the rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call
upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom hear of ghosts
except in our long established Dutch communities.
The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence of supernatural
stories in these parts, was doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy
Hollow. There was a contagion in the very air that blew from that
haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and
fancies infecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people
were present at Van Tassel’s, and, as usual, were doling out their
wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told about
funeral trains, and mournful cries and wailings heard and seen
about the great tree where the unfortunate Major André20 was
taken, and which stood in the neighbourhood. Some mention was
made also of the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at
Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights before a
storm, having perished there in the snow. The chief part of the
stories, however, turned upon the favourite spectre of Sleepy
Hollow, the headless horseman, who had been heard several times
of late, patroling the country; and it was said, tethered his horse
nightly among the graves in the church yard.
The sequestered situation of this church seems always to have
made it a favourite haunt of troubled spirits. It stands on a knoll,
surrounded by locust trees and lofty elms, from among which its
decent, whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian
purity, beaming through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope
descends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by high trees,
between which, peeps may be caught at the blue hills of the
Hudson. To look upon its grass grown yard, where the sunbeams
seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there at least the
dead might rest in peace. On one side of the church extends a wide
woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken rocks
and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the stream, not
far from the church, was formerly thrown a wooden bridge; the road
that led to it, and the bridge itself, were thickly shaded by
overhanging trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day
time; but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. Such was one of the
favourite haunts of the headless horseman, and the place where he
was most frequently encountered. The tale was told of old Brouwer,
a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the horseman
returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get
up behind him; how they gallopped over bush and brake, over hill
and swamp, until they reached the bridge, when the horseman
suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook,
and sprang away over the tree tops with a clap of thunder.
This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous
adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the gallopping Hessian
as an arrant jockey He a rmed, that on returning one night from
the neighbouring village of Sing-Sing, he had been overtaken by this
midnight trooper; that he had o ered to race with him for a bowl of
punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin
horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the
Hessian bolted, and vanished in a ash of re.
All these tales, told in that drowsy under tone with which men
talk in the dark, the countenances of the listeners only now and then
receiving a casual gleam from the glare of a pipe, sunk deep in the
mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with large extracts from
his invaluable author, Cotton Mather, and added many very
marvellous events that had taken place in his native state of
Connecticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly
walks about Sleepy Hollow.
The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers gathered
together their families in their wagons, and were heard for some
time rattling along the hollow roads, and over the distant hills.
Some of the damsels, mounted on pillions behind their favourite
swains, and their light hearted laughter mingling with the clatter of
hoofs, echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and
fainter until they gradually died away—and the late scene of noise
and frolick was all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lingered
behind, according to the custom of country lovers, to have a tête-a-
tête with the heiress; fully convinced that he was now on the high
road to success. What passed at this interview I will not pretend to
say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear me, must
have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, after no very great
interval, with an air quite desolate and chop-fallen—Oh these
women! these women! Could that girl have been playing o any of
her coquettish tricks?—Was her encouragement of the poor
pedagogue all a mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival?—
Heaven only knows, not I!—Let it su ce to say, Ichabod stole forth
with the air of one who had been sacking a hen roost, rather than a
fair lady’s heart. Without looking to the right or left to notice the
scene of rural wealth, on which he had so often gloated, he went
straight to the stable, and with several hearty cu s and kicks, roused
his steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters in
which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains of corn and
oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover.
It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, heavy hearted
and crest fallen, pursued his travel homewards, along the sides of
the lofty hills which rise above Tarry Town, and which he had
traversed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as dismal as
himself. Far below him the Tappaan Zee spread its dusky and
indistinct waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a
sloop, riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of
midnight, he could even hear the barking of the watch dog from the
opposite shore of the Hudson; but it was so vague and faint as only
to give an idea of his distance from this faithful companion of man.
Now and then, too, the long drawn crowing of a cock, accidentally
awakened, would sound far, far o , from some farm house away
among the hills—but it was like a dreaming sound in his ear. No
signs of life occurred near him, but occasionally the melancholy
chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a bull frog, from
a neighbouring marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning
suddenly in his bed.
All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the
afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. The night
grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky,
and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had
never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the
very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been
laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip tree, which
towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighbourhood,
and formed a kind of land mark. Its limbs were gnarled, and
fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting
down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was
connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had
been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the
name of Major Andre’s tree. The common people regarded it with a
mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the
fate of its ill starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange
sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.
As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to whistle; he
thought his whistle was answered: it was but a blast sweeping
sharply through the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer,
he thought he saw something white, hanging in the midst of the
tree: he paused and ceased whistling; but on looking more narrowly,
perceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed by
lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a groan
—his teeth chattered, and his knees smote against the saddle: it was
but the rubbing of one huge bough upon another, as they were
swayed about by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new
perils lay before him.
About two hundred yards from the tree, a small brook crossed the
road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded glen, known by the
name of Wiley’s Swamp. A few rough logs, laid side by side, served
for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the road where the
brook entered the wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted
thick with wild grape vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To
pass this bridge, was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot
that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of
those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who
surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted
stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass
it alone after dark.
As he approached the stream, his heart began to thump; he,
however, summoned up all his resolution, gave his horse half a
score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to dash briskly across the
bridge; but instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal
made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against the fence.
Ichabod, whose fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on
the other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot: it was all in
vain; his steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge to the
opposite side of the road into a thicket of brambles and alder
bushes. The schoolmaster now bestowed both whip and heel upon
the starvelling ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward,
snu ing and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge with a
suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling over his head.
Just at this moment a plashy tramp by the side of the bridge caught
the sensitive ear of Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the
margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black
and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom,
like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.
The hair of the a righted pedagogue rose upon his head with
terror. What was to be done? To turn and y was now too late; and
besides, what chance was there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such
it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind? Summoning
up, therefore, a show of courage, he demanded in stammering
accents—“who are you?” He received no reply. He repeated his
demand in a still more agitated voice.—Still there was no answer.
Once more he cudgelled the sides of the in exible Gunpowder, and
shutting his eyes, broke forth with involuntary fervour into a psalm
tune. Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and
with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of the
road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the
unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to
be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse
of powerful frame. He made no o er of molestation or sociability,
but kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the blind
side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and
waywardness.
Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight companion,
and bethought himself of the adventure of Brom Bones with the
gallopping Hessian, now quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving
him behind. The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an equal
pace; Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind
—the other did the same. His heart began to sink within him; he
endeavoured to resume his psalm tune, but his parched tongue clove
to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a stave.21 There was
something in the moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious
companion, that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which brought the
gure of his fellow traveller in relief against the sky, gigantic in
height, and mu ed in a cloak, Ichabod was horror struck, on
perceiving that he was headless! but his horror was still more
increased, on observing, that the head, which should have rested on
his shoulders, was carried before him on the pommel of the saddle!
His terror rose to desperation; he rained a shower of kicks and
blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his
companion the slip—but the spectre started full jump with him.
Away, then, they dashed, through thick and thin; stones ying, and
sparks ashing, at every bound. Ichabod’s imsy garments uttered
in the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his horse’s
head, in the eagerness of his ight.
They had now reached the road which turns o to Sleepy Hollow;
but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed with a demon, instead of
keeping up it, made an opposite turn, and plunged headlong down
hill to the left. This road leads through a sandy hollow shaded by
trees for about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge
famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green knoll on
which stands the whitewashed church.
As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful rider an
apparent advantage in the chace, but just as he had got half way
through the hollow, the girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it
slipping from under him; he seized it by the pommel, and
endeavoured to hold it rm, but in vain; and had just time to save
himself by clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled under foot by his pursuer.
For a moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper’s wrath passed across
his mind—for it was his Sunday saddle; but this was no time for
petty fears: the goblin was hard on his haunches; and (unskilful
rider that he was!) he had much ado to maintain his seat; sometimes
slipping on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes jolted
on the high ridge of his horse’s back bone, with a violence that he
verily feared would cleave him asunder.
An opening in the trees now cheered him with the hopes that the
Church Bridge was at hand. The wavering re ection of a silver star
in the bosom of the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He
saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the trees beyond.
He recollected the place where Brom Bones’ ghostly competitor had
disappeared. “If I can but reach that bridge,” thought Ichabod, “I am
safe” Just then he heard the black steed panting and blowing close
behind him; he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another
convulsive kick in the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprung upon the
bridge; he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained the
opposite side, and now Ichabod cast a look behind to see if his
pursuer should vanish, according to rule, in a ash of re and
brimstone. Just then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in
the very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavoured to
dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his cranium
with a tremendous crash—he was tumbled headlong into the dust,
and Gunpowder, the black steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like
a whirlwind.
The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and
with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his
master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast—
dinner hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the
schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no
schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness
about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set
on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces.
In one part of the road leading to the church, was found the saddle
trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the
road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge,
beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the
water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate
Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.
The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was
not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as executor of his estate,
examined the bundle which contained all his worldly e ects. They
consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or
two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small clothes; a
rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes, full of dog’s ears; and a broken
pitch pipe.22 As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they
belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s History of
Witchcraft, a New England Almanack, and a book of dreams and
fortune telling, in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled
and blotted, in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in
honour of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the
poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the ames by Hans Van
Ripper, who from that time forward determined to send his children
no more to school, observing, that he never knew any good come of
this same reading and writing. Whatever money the schoolmaster
possessed, and he had received his quarter’s pay but a day or two
before, he must have had about his person at the time of his
disappearance.
The mysterious event caused much speculation at the Church on
the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and gossips were collected in
the church yard, at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and
pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a
whole budget of others, were called to mind; and when they had
diligently considered them all, and compared them with the
symptoms of the present case, they shook their heads, and came to
the conclusion, that Ichabod had been carried o by the gallopping
Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in nobody’s debt, nobody
troubled his head any more about him, the school was removed to a
di erent quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned in
his stead.
 It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New York on a
visit several years after, and from whom this account of the ghostly
adventure was received, brought home the intelligence that Ichabod
Crane was still alive; that he had left the neighbourhood partly
through fear of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in
morti cation at having been suddenly dismissed by the heiress; that
he had changed his quarters to a distant part of the country; had
kept school and studied law at the same time; had been admitted to
the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers,
and nally had been made a Justice of the Ten Pound Court.23 Brom
Bones too, who, shortly after his rival’s disappearance, conducted
the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look
exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related,
and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin;
which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than
he chose to tell.
The old country wives, however, who are the best judges of these
matters, maintain to this day, that Ichabod was spirited away by
supernatural means; and it is a favourite story often told about the
neighbourhood round the winter evening re. The bridge became
more than ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the
reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as to
approach the church by the border of the millpond. The school
house being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was reported to be
haunted by the ghost of the unfortunate pedagogue; and the plough
boy loitering homeward of a still summer evening, has often fancied
his voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune among
the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow.
POSTSCRIPT

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in which I heard it
related at a corporation meeting of the ancient city of Manhattoes, at which
were present many of its sagest and most illustrious burghers. The narrator
was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper and salt clothes,
with a sadly humourous face, and one whom I strongly suspected of being
poor, he made such e orts to be entertaining. When his story was
concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly from
two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the greater part of the

time.24 There was, however, one tall, dry looking old gentleman, with
beetling eye brows, who maintained a grave and rather severe face
throughout; now and then folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking
down upon the oor, as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of
your wary men, who never laugh but upon good grounds—when they have
reason and the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the
company had subsided, and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the
elbow of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight,
but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the brow, what
was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove.
The story teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as a
refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his inquirer
with an air of in nite deference, and lowering the glass slowly to the table,
observed, that the story was intended most logically to prove,
“That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleasures,
provided we will but take a joke as we nd it:
“That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers, is likely to have
rough riding of it:
“Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a Dutch
heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state.”
The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after this
explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the syllogism;
while methought the one in pepper and salt eyed him with something of a
triumphant leer. At length he observed, that all this was very well, but still
he thought the story a little on the extravagant—there were one or two
points on which he had his doubts.
“Faith, sir,” replied the story teller, “as to that matter, I don’t believe one
half of it myself.”
D.K.
* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It receives its name from
its note which is thought to resemble those words.
 L’ENVOY*

Go, little booke, God send thee good passage,

And specially let this be thy prayere,
Unto them all that thee will read or hear,
Where thou art wrong, after their help to call,
Thee to correct in any part or all.

CHAUCER’S BELLE DAME SANS MERCIE1

In concluding a second volume of the Sketch Book, the Author

cannot but express his deep sense of the indulgence with which his
rst has been received, and of the liberal disposition that has been
evinced to treat him with kindness as a stranger. Even the critics,
whatever may be said of them by others, he has found to be a
singularly gentle and good natured race: it is true that each has in
turn objected to some one or two articles,—and that these
individual exceptions, taken in the aggregate, would amount almost
to a total condemnation of his work; but then he has been consoled
by observing, that what one has particularly censured, another has
as particularly praised; and thus, the encomiums being set o
against the objections, he nds his work, upon the whole,
commended far beyond its deserts.
He is aware that he runs a risk of forfeiting much of this kind
favour by not following the counsel that has been liberally bestowed
upon him; for where abundance of valuable advice is given gratis, it
may seem a man’s own fault if he should go astray. He can only say,
in his vindication, that he faithfully determined, for a time, to
govern himself in his second volume by the opinions passed upon
his rst; but he was soon brought to a stand by the contrariety of
excellent counsel. One kindly advised him to avoid the ludicrous;
another to shun the pathetic; a third assured him that he was
tolerable at description, but cautioned him to leave narrative alone;
while a fourth declared that he had a very pretty knack at turning a
story, and was really entertaining when in a pensive mood, but was
grievously mistaken if he imagined himself to possess a spirit of
humour.
Thus perplexed by the advice of his friends, who each in turn
closed some particular path, but left him all the world beside to
range in, he found that to follow all their counsels would, in fact, be
to stand still. He remained for a time sadly embarrassed; when, all
at once, the thought struck him to ramble on even as he had begun:
that his work being miscellaneous, and written for di erent
humours, it could not be expected that any one would be pleased
with the whole; but that if it should contain something to suit each
reader, his end would be completely answered. Few guests sit down
to a varied table with an equal appetite for every dish. One has an
elegant horror of a roasted pig; another holds a curry or a devil2 in
utter abomination; a third cannot tolerate the ancient avour of
venison and wild fowl; and a fourth, of truly masculine stomach,
looks with sovereign contempt on those knick-knacks, here and
there dished up for the ladies. Thus each article is condemned in its
turn; and yet, amidst this variety of appetites, seldom does a dish go
away from the table without being tasted and relished by some one
or other of the guests.
With these considerations he ventures to serve up this second
volume in the same heterogeneous way with his rst; simply
requesting the reader, if he should nd here and there something to
please him, to rest assured that it was written expressly for
intelligent readers like himself; but intreating him, should he nd
any thing to dislike, to tolerate it, as one of those articles which the
author has been obliged to write for readers of a less re ned taste.
 To be serious.—The author is conscious of the numerous faults
and imperfections of his work; and well aware how little he is
disciplined and accomplished in the arts of authorship. His
de ciencies are also increased by a di dence arising from his
peculiar situation. He nds himself writing in a strange land, and
appearing before a public which he has been accustomed, from
childhood, to regard with the highest feelings of awe and reverence.
He is full of solicitude to deserve their approbation, yet nds that
very solicitude continually embarrassing his powers, and depriving
him of that ease and con dence which are necessary to successful
exertion. Still the kindness with which he is treated encourages him
to go on, hoping that in time he may acquire a steadier footing; and
thus he proceeds, half venturing, half shrinking, surprized at his
own good fortune, and wondering at his own temerity.

THE END.

* Closing the second volume of the London edition.

 APPENDIX: SLEEPY HOLLOW

Washington Irving, under the pen name Geo rey Crayon, wrote this
reminiscence for Knickerbocker Magazine in 1839.

Having pitched my tent, probably for the remainder of my days, in

the neighborhood of Sleepy Hollow, I am tempted to give some few
particulars concerning that spellbound region; especially as it has
risen to historic importance, under the pen of my revered friend and
master, the sage historian of the New Netherlands. Besides, I nd
the very existence of the place has been held in question by many;
who, judging from its odd name, and from the odd stories current
among the vulgar concerning it, have rashly deemed the whole to be
a fanciful creation, like the Lubber Land of mariners. I must confess
there is some apparent cause for doubt, in consequence of the
coloring given by the worthy Diedrich, to his descriptions of the
Hollow; who, in this instance, has departed a little from his usually
sober if not severe style; beguiled, very probably, by his predilection
for the haunts of his youth, and by a certain lurking taint of
romance, whenever anything connected with the Dutch was to be
described. I shall endeavor to make up for this amiable error, on the
part of my venerable and venerated friend, by presenting the reader
with a more precise and statistical account of the Hollow; though I
am not sure that I shall not be prone to lapse, in the end, into the
very error I am speaking of, so potent is the witchery of the theme.
I believe it was the very peculiarity of the name, and the idea of
something mystic and dreamy connected with it, that rst led me, in
my boyish ramblings, into Sleepy Hollow. The character of the
valley seemed to answer to the name; the slumber of past ages
apparently reigned over it; it had not awakened to the stir of
improvement, which had put all the rest of the world in a bustle.
Here reigned good old long-forgotten fashions; the men were in
homespun garbs, evidently the product of their own farms, and the
manufacture of their own wives; the women were in primitive short
gowns and petticoats, with the venerable sun-bonnets of Holland
origin. The lower part of the valley was cut up into small farms,
each consisting of a little meadow and corn eld; an orchard of
sprawling, gnarled apple trees, and a garden, where the rose, the
marigold, and the hollyhock were permitted to skirt the domains of
the capacious cabbage, the aspiring pea, and the portly pumpkin.
Each had its proli c little mansion, teeming with children; with an
old hat nailed against the wall for the house-keeping wren; a
motherly hen, under a coop on the grass-plot, clucking to keep
around her a brood of vagrant chickens; a cool stone well, with the
moss-covered bucket suspended to the long balancing pole,
according to the antediluvian idea of hydraulics; and its spinning-
wheel humming within doors, the patriarchal music of home
manufacture.
The Hollow at that time was inhabited by families which had
existed there from the earliest times, and which, by frequent
intermarriage, had become so interwoven, as to make a kind of
natural commonwealth. As the families had grown larger, the farms
had grown smaller, every new generation requiring a new
subdivision, and few thinking of swarming from the native hive. In
this way, that happy golden mean had been produced, so much
extolled by the poets, in which there was no gold, and very little
silver. One thing which doubtless contributed to keep up this
amiable mean, was a general repugnance to sordid labor. The sage
inhabitants of Sleepy Hollow had read in their Bible, which was the
only book they studied, that labor was originally in icted upon man
as a punishment of sin; they regarded it, therefore, with pious
abhorrence, and never humiliated themselves to it, but in cases of
extremity. There seemed, in fact, to be a league and covenant
against it, throughout the Hollow, as against a common enemy. Was
anyone compelled, by dire necessity, to repair his house, mend his
fences, build a barn, or get in a harvest, he considered it a great
evil, that entitled him to call in the assistance of his friends. He
accordingly proclaimed a “bee,” or rustic gathering; whereupon all
his neighbors hurried to his aid, like faithful allies; attacked the task
with the desperate energy of lazy men, eager to overcome a job; and
when it was accomplished, fell to eating and drinking, ddling and
dancing, for very joy that so great an amount of labor had been
vanquished, with so little sweating of the brow. Yet let it not be
supposed that this worthy community was without its periods of
arduous activity. Let but a ock of wild pigeons y across the
valley, and all Sleepy Hollow was wide awake in an instant. The
pigeon season had arrived! Every gun and net was forthwith in
requisition. The ail was thrown down on the barn oor; the spade
rusted in the garden; the plough stood idle in the furrow; every one
was to the hill side, and stubble- eld, at day break, to shoot or
entrap the pigeons, in their periodical migrations.
So, likewise, let but the word be given that the shad were
ascending the Hudson, and the worthies of the Hollow were to be
seen launched in boats upon the river; setting great stakes, and
stretching their nets, like gigantic spider-webs, half across the
stream, to the great annoyance of navigators. Such are the wise
provisions of Nature, by which she equalizes rural a airs. A laggard
at the plough is often extremely industrious with the fowling-piece
and shing net; and whenever a man is an indi erent farmer, he is
apt to be a rst-rate sportsman. For catching shad and wild pigeons,
there were none throughout the country to compare with the lads of
Sleepy Hollow.
As I have observed, it was the dreamy nature of the name, that
rst beguiled me, in the holiday rovings of boyhood, into this
sequestered region. I shunned, however, the populous parts of the
Hollow, and sought its retired haunts, far in the foldings of the hills,
where the Pocantico “winds its wizard stream,” sometimes silently
and darkly, through solemn woodlands; sometimes sparkling
between grassy borders, in fresh green meadows; sometimes stealing
along the feet of rugged heights, under the balancing sprays of
beech and chestnut trees. A thousand crystal springs, with which
this neighborhood abounds, sent down from the hill-sides their
whimpering rills, as if to pay tribute to the Pocantico. In this stream
I rst essayed my unskilful hand at angling. I loved to loiter along it,
with rod in hand, watching my oat as it whirled amid eddies, or
drifted into dark holes, under twisted roots and sunken logs, where
the largest sh are apt to lurk. I delighted to follow it into brown
recesses of the woods; to throw by my shing gear, and sit upon
rocks beneath towering oaks and clambering grapevines; bathe my
feet in the cool current, and listen to the summer breeze playing
among the tree-tops. My boyish fancy clothed all nature around me
with ideal charms, and peopled it with the fairy beings I had read of
in poetry and fable. Here it was I gave full scope to my incipient
habit of day-dreaming, and to a certain propensity to weave up and
tint sober realities with my own whims and imaginings, which has
sometimes made life a little too much like an Arabian tale to me,
and this “working day world” rather like a region of romance.
The great gathering place of Sleepy Hollow, in those days, was the
church. It stood outside of the Hollow, near the great highway; on a
green bank, shaded by trees, with the Pocantico sweeping round it,
and emptying itself into a spacious mill-pond. At that time, the
Sleepy Hollow church was the only place of worship for a wide
neighborhood. It was a venerable edi ce, partly of stone and partly
of brick, the latter having been brought from Holland, in the early
days of the province, before the arts in the New Netherlands could
aspire to such a fabrication. On a stone above the porch, were
inscribed the names of the founders, Frederick Filipsen, a mighty
patroon of the olden time, who reigned over a wide extent of this
neighborhood, and held his seat of power at Yonkers; and his wife,
Katrina Van Courtlandt, of the no less potent line of the Van
Courtlandts of Croton, who lorded it over a great part of the
Highlands.
 The capacious pulpit, with its wide-spreading sounding board,
were likewise early importations from Holland; as also the
communion-table, of massive form and curious fabric. The same
might be said of a weathercock, perched on top of the belfry, and
which was considered orthodox in all windy matters, until a small
pragmatical rival was set up, on the other end of the church, above
the chancel. This latter bore, and still bears, the initials of Frederick
Filipsen, and assumed great airs in consequence. The usual
contradiction ensued that always exists among church weather-
cocks, which can never be brought to agree as to the point from
which the wind blows, having doubtless acquired, from their
position, the Christian propensity to schism and controversy. Behind
the church, and sloping up a gentle acclivity, was its capacious
burying-ground, in which slept the earliest fathers of this rural
neighborhood. Here were tombstones of the rudest sculpture; on
which were inscribed, in Dutch, the names and virtues of many of
the rst settlers, with their portraitures curiously carved in
similitude of cherubs. Long rows of grave-stones, side by side, of
similar names, but various dates, showed that generation after
generation of the same families had followed each other, and been
garnered together in this last gathering place of kindred.
Let me speak of this quiet grave yard with all due reverence, for I
owe it amends for the heedlessness of my boyish days. I blush to
acknowledge the thoughtless frolic with which, in company with
other whipsters, I have sported within its sacred bounds, during the
intervals of worship; chasing butter ies, plucking wild owers, or
vieing with each other who could leap over the tallest tomb stones;
until checked by the stern voice of the sexton.
The congregation was, in those days, of a really rural character.
City fashions were as yet unknown, or unregarded, by the country
people of the neighborhood. Steam boats had not as yet confounded
town with country. A weekly market-boat from Tarrytown, the
“Farmers’ Daughter,” navigated by the worthy Gabriel Requa, was
the only communication between all these parts and the metropolis.
A rustic belle in those days considered a trip to the city in much the
same light as one of our modern fashionable ladies regards a visit to
Europe; an event that may possibly take place once in the course of
a life time, but to be hoped for, rather than expected. Hence the
array of the congregation was chie y after the primitive fashions
existing in Sleepy Hollow, or if, by chance, there was a departure
from the Dutch sun-bonnet, or the apparition of a bright gown of
owered calico, it caused quite a sensation throughout the church.
As the dominie generally preached by the hour, a bucket of water
was providently placed on a bench near the door, in summer, with a
tin cup beside it, for the solace of those who might be athirst, either
from the heat of the weather, or the drouth of the sermon.
Around the pulpit, and behind the communion-table, sat the
elders of the church, reverend, gray-headed, leathern-visaged men,
whom I regarded with awe, as so many apostles. They were stern in
their sanctity, kept a vigilant eye upon my giggling companions and
myself, and shook a rebuking nger at any boyish device to relieve
the tediousness of compulsory devotion. Vain, however, were all
their e orts at vigilance. Scarcely had the preacher held forth for
half an hour, on one of his interminable sermons, than it seemed as
if the drowsy in uence of Sleepy Hollow breathed into the place:
one by one the congregation sank into slumber; the sancti ed elders
leaned back in their pews, spreading their handkerchiefs over their
faces, as if to keep o ies; while the locusts in the neighboring
trees would spin out their sultry summer notes, as if in imitation of
the sleep-provoking tones of the dominie.
I have thus endeavored to give an idea of Sleepy Hollow and its
church, as I recollect them to have been in the days of my boyhood.
It was in my stripling days, when a few years had passed over my
head, that I revisited them, in company with the venerable Diedrich.
I shall never forget the antiquarian reverence with which that sage
and excellent man contemplated the church. It seemed as if all his
pious enthusiasm for the ancient Dutch dynasty swelled within his
bosom at the sight. The tears stood in his eyes, as he regarded the
pulpit and the communion-table; even the very bricks that had come
from the mother country, seemed to touch a lial chord within his
bosom. He almost bowed in deference to the stone above the porch,
containing the names of Frederick Filipsen and Katrina Van
Courtlandt, regarding it as the linking together of those patronymic
names, once so famous along the banks of the Hudson; or rather as a
key stone, binding that mighty Dutch family connexion of yore, one
foot of which rested on Yonkers, and the other on the Croton. Nor
did he forbear to notice with admiration, the windy contest which
had been carried on, since time immemorial, and with real Dutch
perseverance, between the two weather cocks; though I could easily
perceive he coincided with the one which had come from Holland.
Together we paced the ample church yard. With deep veneration
would he turn down the weeds and branches that obscured the
modest brown grave stones, half sunk in earth, on which were
recorded, in Dutch, the names of the patriarchs of ancient days, the
Ackers, the Van Tassels, and the Van Warts. As we sat on one of the
tomb stones, he recounted to me the exploits of many of these
worthies; and my heart smote me, when I heard of their great
doings in days of yore, to think how heedlessly I had once sported
over their graves.
From the church, the venerable Diedrich proceeded in his
researches up the Hollow. The genius of the place seemed to hail its
future historian. All nature was alive with gratulation. The quail
whistled a greeting from the corn- eld; the robin carolled a song of
praise from the orchard; the loquacious cat-bird ew from bush to
bush, with restless wing, proclaiming his approach in every variety
of note, and anon would whisk about, and perk inquisitively into his
face, as if to get a knowledge of his physiognomy; the wood pecker,
also, tapped a tattoo on the hollow apple tree, and then peered
knowingly round the trunk, to see how the great Diedrich relished
his salutation; while the ground squirrel scampered along the fence,
and occasionally whisked his tail over his head, by way of a huzza!
The worthy Diedrich pursued his researches in the valley with
characteristic devotion; entering familiarly into the various cottages,
and gossipping with the simple folk, in the style of their own
simplicity. I confess my heart yearned with admiration, to see so
great a man, in his eager quest after knowledge, humbly demeaning
himself to curry favor with the humblest; sitting patiently on a
three-legged stool, patting the children, and taking a purring
grimalkin on his lap, while he conciliated the good will of the old
Dutch housewife, and drew from her long ghost stories, spun out to
the humming accompaniment of her wheel.
His greatest treasure of historic lore, however, was discovered in
an old goblin-looking mill, situated among rocks and water falls,
with clanking wheels, and rushing streams, and all kinds of uncouth
noises. A horse shoe, nailed to the door to keep o witches and evil
spirits, showed that this mill was subject to awful visitations. As we
approached it, an old negro thrust his head, all dabbled with our,
out of a hole above the water wheel, and grinned, and rolled his
eyes, and looked like the very hobgoblin of the place. The illustrious
Diedrich xed upon him, at once, as the very one to give him that
invaluable kind of information, never to be acquired from books. He
beckoned him from his nest, sat with him by the hour on a broken
mill stone, by the side of the waterfall, heedless of the noise of the
water, and the clatter of the mill; and I verily believe it was to his
conference with his African sage, and the precious revelations of the
good dame of the spinning wheel, that we are indebted for the
surprising though true history of Ichabod Crane and the headless
horseman, which has since astounded and edi ed the world.
But I have said enough of the good old times of my youthful days;
let me speak of the Hollow as I found it, after an absence of many
years, when it was kindly given me once more to revisit the haunts
of my boyhood. It was a genial day, as I approached that fated
region. The warm sunshine was tempered by a slight haze, so as to
give a dreamy e ect to the landscape. Not a breath of air shook the
foliage. The broad Tappan Sea was without a ripple, and the sloops,
with drooping sails, slept on its glassy bosom. Columns of smoke,
from burning brush-wood, rose lazily from the folds of the hills, on
the opposite side of the river, and slowly expanded in mid air. The
distant lowing of a cow, or the noontide crowing of a cock, coming
faintly to the ear, seemed to illustrate, rather than disturb, the
drowsy quiet of the scene.
I entered the Hollow with a beating heart. Contrary to my
apprehensions, I found it but little changed. The march of intellect,
which had made such rapid strides along every river and highway,
had not yet, apparently, turned down into this favored valley.
Perhaps the wizard spell of ancient days still reigned over the place,
binding up the faculties of the inhabitants in happy contentment
with things as they had been handed down to them from yore.
There were the same little farms and farm houses, with their old
hats for the house-keeping wren; their stone wells, moss-covered
buckets, and long balancing poles. There were the same little rills,
whimpering down to pay their tributes to the Pocantico; while that
wizard stream still kept on its course, as of old, through solemn
woodlands and fresh green meadows: nor were there wanting joyous
holiday boys, to loiter along its banks, as I had done; throw their
pin-hooks in the stream, or launch their mimic barks. I watched
them with a kind of melancholy pleasure, wondering whether they
were under the same spell of the fancy, that once rendered this
valley a fairy land to me. Alas! alas! to me every thing now stood
revealed in its simple reality. The echoes no longer answered with
wizard tongues; the dream of youth was at an end; the spell of
Sleepy Hollow was broken! I sought the ancient church, on the
following Sunday. There it stood, on its green bank, among the
trees; the Pocantico swept by it in a deep dark stream, where I had
so often angled; there expanded the mill-pond, as of old, with the
cows under the willows on its margin, knee-deep in water, chewing
the cud, and lashing the ies from their sides with their tails. The
hand of improvement, however, had been busy with the venerable
pile. The pulpit, fabricated in Holland, had been superseded by one
of modern construction, and the front of the semi-Gothic edi ce was
decorated by a semi-Grecian portico. Fortunately, the two weather
cocks remained undisturbed on their perches, at each end of the
church, and still kept up a diametrical opposition to each other, on
all points of windy doctrine.
 On entering the church, the changes of time continued to be
apparent. The elders round the pulpit were men whom I had left in
the gamesome frolic of youth, but who had succeeded to the
sanctity of station of which they once had stood so much in awe.
What most struck my eye, was the change in the female part of the
congregation. Instead of the primitive garbs of homespun
manufacture, and antique Dutch fashion, I beheld French sleeves,
French capes, and French collars, and a fearful uttering of French
ribbands. When the service was ended, I sought the church yard in
which I had sported in my unthinking days of boyhood. Several of
the modest brown stones, on which were recorded, in Dutch, the
names and virtues of the patriarchs, had disappeared, and had been
succeeded by others of white marble, with urns, and wreaths, and
scraps of English tomb stone poetry, marking the intrusion of taste,
and literature, and the English language, in this once
unsophisticated Dutch neighborhood.
As I was stumbling about among these silent yet eloquent
memorials of the dead, I came upon names familiar to me; of those
who had paid the debt of nature during the long interval of my
absence. Some I remembered, my companions in boyhood, who had
sported with me on the very sod under which they were now
mouldering; others who in those days had been the ower of the
yeomanry, guring in Sunday nery on the church green; others,
the white-haired elders of the sanctuary, once arrayed in awful
sanctity around the pulpit, and ever ready to rebuke the ill-timed
mirth of the wanton stripling, who, now a man, sobered by years,
and schooled by vicissitudes, looked down pensively upon their
graves. “Our Fathers,” thought I, “where are they!—and the
prophets, can they live for ever!”
I was disturbed in my meditations, by the noise of a troop of idle
urchins, who came gambolling about the place where I had so often
gambolled. They were checked, as I and my playmates had often
been, by the voice of the sexton, a man staid in years and demeanor.
I looked wistfully in his face; had I met him any where else, I should
probably have passed him by without remark; but here I was alive
to the traces of former times, and detected in the demure features of
this guardian of the sanctuary, the lurking lineaments of one of the
very playmates I have alluded to. We renewed our acquaintance. He
sat down beside me, on one of the tomb stones over which we had
leaped in our juvenile sports, and we talked together about our
boyish days, and held edifying discourse on the instability of all
sublunary things, as instanced in the scene around us. He was rich
in historic lore, as to the events of the last thirty years, and the
circumference of thirty miles, and from him I learned the appalling
revolution that was taking place throughout the neighborhood. All
this I clearly perceived he attributed to the boasted march of
intellect, or rather to the all-pervading in uence of steam. He
bewailed the times when the only communication with town was by
the weekly market-boat, the “Farmers’ Daughter,” which, under the
pilotage of the worthy Gabriel Requa, braved the perils of the
Tappan Sea. Alas! Gabriel and the “Farmers’ Daughter” slept in
peace. Two steam boats now splashed and paddled up daily to the
little rural port of Tarrytown. The spirit of speculation and
improvement had seized even upon that once quiet and unambitious
little dorp. The whole neighborhood was laid out into town lots.
Instead of the little tavern below the hill, where the farmers used to
loiter on market days, and indulge in cider and gingerbread, an
ambitious hotel, with cupola and verandahs, now crested the
summit, among churches built in the Grecian and Gothic styles,
showing the great increase in piety and polite taste in the
neighborhood. As to Dutch dresses and sun-bonnets, they were no
longer tolerated, or even thought of; not a farmer’s daughter but
now went to town for the fashions; nay, a city milliner had recently
set up in the village, who threatened to reform the heads of the
whole neighborhood.
I had heard enough! I thanked my old playmate for his
intelligence, and departed from the Sleepy Hollow church, with the
sad conviction that I had beheld the last lingerings of the good old
Dutch times, in this once favored region. If any thing were wanting
to con rm this impression, it would be the intelligence which has
just reached me, that a bank is about to be established in the
aspiring little port just mentioned. The fate of the neighborhood is,
therefore, sealed. I see no hope of averting it. The golden mean is at
an end. The country is suddenly to be deluged with wealth. The late
simple farmers are to become bank directors, and drink claret and
champagne; and their wives and daughters to gure in French hats
and feathers; for French wines and French fashions commonly keep
pace with paper money. How can I hope that even Sleepy Hollow
can escape the general inundation? In a little while, I fear the
slumber of ages will be at end; the strum of the piano will succeed
to the hum of the spinning wheel; the trill of the Italian opera to the
nasal quaver of Ichabod Crane; and the antiquarian visitor to the
Hollow, in the petulance of his disappointment, may pronounce all
that I have recorded of that once favored region, a fable.
 NOTES

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION

1. (1771-1832), the popular Scottish poet and novelist.

2. capture.
3. Ukranian peasants and soldiers who lived near the Don
River.
4. The English author and preacher John Bunyan (1628-
1688) wrote The Holy War in 1682.
5. A ctional character created by Irving in 1809 when he
named Knickerbocker as the author of his History of New
York.
6. unidenti ed author.
7. Irving’s beloved estate on the Hudson River.

TITLE PAGE

1. The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621) by Robert Burton (1577-

1640).

THE AUTHOR’S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF

1. Euphues and His England (1580) by John Lyly (1554-1606).

 2. In the eighteenth century the naturalist Comte de Bu on
claimed the animals and indigenous peoples of North
America were physiologically smaller and less energetic than
those of Europe. Thomas Je erson responded by shipping
huge mastodon fossils to Paris.
3. An Italian waterfall created when the ancient Romans
redirected the course of a river.

ROSCOE

1. William Roscoe (1753-1831), English historian,

businessman, and member of Parliament, whose major work
The Life of Lorenzo de Medici was published in 1795. Irving
had met Roscoe a few years earlier.
2. From James Thomson’s (1700-1748) play Sophonisba
(1730), II, i.
3. paradise.
4. A granite pillar in Egypt built to honor the Emperor
Diocletian in 302.

THE WIFE

1. Women, Beware Women (1625), III, i, by Thomas Middleton

(1570-1627).

RIP VAN WINKLE

1. See “Preface to the Revised Edition,” note 5.

2. middle-class townspeople, usually merchants.
3. Waterloo medals were silver medals given to all British
soldiers who fought against Napoleon at the Battles of Ligny
or Quatre Bras (June 16, 1815) or Waterloo (June 18, 1815).
Queen Anne’s farthings were small coins produced during the
reign of Queen Anne (1702-1714). Erroneously believed to be
collector’s items, these farthings were actually quite common.
4. William Cartwright (1611-1643), English poet and
playwright. This quotation has not been identi ed.
5. (1592-1672) Dutch governor of New Netherland (later
New Amsterdam), in what is now New York.
6. In 1655, Stuyvesant and the Dutch laid seige to this
Swedish fort on the Delaware River.
7. A tirade delivered by an irate wife.
8. Long loose pants worn in the sixteenth and seventeenth
centuries.
9. British monarch who reigned during the American
Revolution, 1760-1820.
10. A strong but domineering woman.
11. In Rip Van Winkle’s day a wallet was a small bag used for
carrying provisions.
12. Doublets were close- tting jackets worn by men from
around the sixteenth century to the late seventeenth century.
A sugarloaf hat is a tall, cone-shaped hat. A hanger is a short
sword worn on one’s belt.
13. gin.
14. ru ans.
15. Small, cone-shaped red caps worn by revolutionaries in
France and America to symbolize liberty.
16. One of the rst major engagements of the American
Revolution, the Battle of Bunker Hill actually took place at
Breed’s Hill, near Boston, on June 17, 1775.
 17. A reference to the Biblical Tower of Babel in Genesis
11:1-9, in response to which God “confounded the language
of all the earth” into separate tongues.
18. The two major political parties of the early American
republic. Federalists (led by Alexander Hamilton) were
generally social and economic conservatives who supported a
central national government while Democrats (led by Thomas
Je erson) were generally distinguished by agrarian ideals
and abstract principles of humanity’s natural rights. Though
he often held to the Federalist tenets with which he was
brought up, Irving claimed not to be partisan.
19. American colonists who supported the British monarchy
during the Revolutionary War, thus traitors from
revolutionaries’ point of view.
20. On July 16,1779, General Anthony Wayne attacked the
British fort on the promontory of Stony Point, about forty
miles north of New York. Antony’s Nose is a nearby rocky
peak on the Hudson River.
21. In 1609, the English navigator Henry Hudson explored
the Hudson River as far up as Albany on his ship the Half
Moon.
22. Frederick I, Holy Roman Emperor and German king from
1152 to 1190. According to legend, he did not die but merely
sleeps in the Ky häuser Mountains in Germany waiting to
restore Germany to international greatness.

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA

1. That is, Areopagitica (1644), which argues against

Parliamentary ordinances controlling printing.
2. A ctional city abounding in gold and precious jewels
believed by sixteenth- and seventeenth-century European
 explorers to exist in South America or what is now the
western United States.

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND

1. “The Task,” Bk 3, II. 290-292, by William Cowper (1731-

1796).
2. Though John Dryden believed this medieval poem to have
been written by Chaucer, its authorship remains uncertain.
3. The daughter of George IV, Princess Charlotte’s future
succession to the throne had been joyfully anticipated in
England. Rann Kennedy (1772-1851) was a liated with St.
Paul’s Chapel and was a friend of Irving’s.

THE BROKEN HEART

1. Blurt, Master Constable, III, i (1602), by Thomas Middleton

or his collaborator, Thomas Dekker. See “The Wife,” note 1.
2. In 1803, in response to economic exploitation and religious
prejudice, Robert Emmet (1778-1803) led an unsuccessful
uprising for Irish independence from British rule. Emmet was
captured and hanged when he came to visit Sarah Curran in
Dublin.
3. Sarah Curran, daughter of John Philpot Curran (1750-
1817).
4. Irish Melodies by Thomas Moore (1779-1852).
THE ART OF BOOK MAKING

1. Synesius (375-413), bishop of Cyrene. For Burton, see

“Title Page,” note 1.
2. A large book in which the pages are sheets of paper folded
once in the middle.
3. sorcerers.
4. An allusion to lines in The Faerie Queen by Edmund Spenser
(1552-1599).
5. “The Paradise of Dainty Devices” (1576) was a popular
collection of poetry. Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586), English
author, gentleman, and favorite at Queen Elizabeth’s court.
6. Gaiters are cloth leggings worn over shoes. The term
“arcadian hat” can refer to any sort of rustic headgear.
7. Primrose Hill o ers a panoramic view of London.
8. A book in which the pages are sheets of paper folded in
quarters.
9. The Englishmen Francis Beaumont (1584-1616) and John
Fletcher (1579-1625) collaborated on dozens of plays in a
variety of genres.
10. Twin heroes in Greek and Roman mythology known as
excellent warriors.
11. When he was a young man the English poet and
playwright Ben Jonson (1572-1637) fought with the English
and Dutch armies in Flanders and supposedly killed a Spanish
soldier in singlehanded combat.
12. Conglomerations of textual odds and ends.
13. A clown in Italian comic theater.
14. Because they were close friends, Achilles lent Patroclus
his best armor to use in the Trojan War. After Hector killed
Patroclus a great deal of dispute arose as to who among the
Trojans would take possession of his armor. Though Hector
 eventually acquired the armor, he was later killed by
Achilles. See The Iliad, Bks 16-18.

A ROYAL POET

1. Scholars have not identi ed the source for this quotation.

2. Reigned as king of England 1660-1685.
3. The Dutch-born Lely (1618-1680) was appointed English
court painter in 1661.
4. Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-1547), was beheaded
for treason.
5. From “Prisoned in Windsor, He Recounteth His Pleasure
There Passed,” written when Howard was imprisoned in 1537
for assault.
6. (1394-1437), reigned 1406-1437. As a boy, James ed to
France out of fear of his uncle, who wished to seize power
and later became a court prisoner of Henry IV and Henry V of
England.
7. (1506-1582), Scottish author of Rerum Scoticarum Historia
(1582) from which this quotation is taken.
8. The archdeacon John Ballenden (or Bellenden) translated a
history of Scotland by Hector Boyce (1465-1536), originally
written in Latin in 1527, into Scots.
9. Though in Irving’s time this song was attributed to the
Tory journalist Roger l’Estrange (1616-1704), its authorship
remains uncertain.
10. The Italian poet Torquato Tasso (1544-1595) wrote his
classic Jerusalem Freed m 1575 (it was not published until
1581).
11. (475-525) wrote his Consolations of Philosophy while
falsely imprisoned.
 12. morning prayers.
13. The English poet John Milton went blind while in his
forties and wrote such poems as “When I consider how my
light is spent” about his impairment.
14. The sun, so called after Phoebus Apollo, god of the sun.
15. John Gower (1330-1408), English poet and friend of
Chaucer.
16. A reference to the popularity of Sir Walter Scott’s novels
at the time. See “Preface to the Revised Edition,” note 1.
17. The home of the medieval Italian poet Petrarch, near
Avignon.
18. According to legend, the house of the Virgin Mary was
miraculously transported from the Holy Land to Loretto or
Loreto, Italy, by angels to protect it from being destroyed by
the Turks.

THE COUNTRY CHURCH

1. Comedy by John Fletcher, II, iii. See “The Art of Book

Making,” note 9.
2. November 9, the day the lord mayor of London o cially
takes o ce, traditionally celebrated by a parade and
banquet.
3. A light carriage drawn by two horses.
4. A member of the governing municipal body of a large town
or city.

THE WIDOW AND HER SON

 1. From the tragedy Tamburlaine, Part I by Christopher
Marlowe (1564-1593).
2. The Temple by George Herbert (1593-1633).
3. For Irving’s explanation of this sort of event see his
footnote to “The Christmas Dinner.”
4. Groups of men who “impressed,” or captured, young men
and forced them into service in the army or navy.
5. Decorative panels bearing a prominent deceased person’s
coat of arms.

A SUNDAY IN LONDON

1. A person charged with keeping order in an English church

and acting as usher.

THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN, EAST CHEAP

1. The tavern where many of the comic scenes are played out
in Shakespeare’s Henry the Fourth, Parts I and II. Operated by
Dame Quickly, the tavern is home to Sir John Falsta , a
comically fat and boastful knight who leads a band of rogues.
2. A 1594 comedy by John Lyly See “The Author’s Account of
Himself,” note 1.
3. A cheap tallow candle.
4. drunkard.
5. For many years Cock Lane was believed to be the home of
a vengeful spirit, but in the eighteenth century Samuel
Johnson claimed to have debunked this myth. The Old Jewry
was so named because it was the site of the Jewish Quarter of
London before the expulsion of the Jews from England in
1290. Guildhall, for hundreds of years the center of city
government, was guarded by the statues of the legendary
giants Gog and Magog. London Stone was the milestone of
the city when controlled by the Romans, or the point from
which roads were measured; it was later placed in the wall of
St. Swithin’s Church on Cannon Street.
6. Jack Cade led a popular uprising outside London in 1450
and was later executed. According to legend, when Cade rst
entered the city he struck the London Stone and proclaimed
himself “Lord of the City.”
7. John Stow, or Stowe (1525-1605), historian and antiquary,
wrote a number of works including the Survey of London
(1598), long considered a source of valuable information on
Elizabethan London.
8. psaltry.
9. For hundreds of years the site of London’s great sh
market.
10. candiemaker.
11. A 200-foot stone column built by Christopher Wren to
commemorate the great re of London, which virtually
destroyed the old city of London in September 1666.
12. An ex-soldier who appears at the Boar’s Head Tavern in
Henry IV, Part II
13. Though scholars attribute this reference to Paradise Lost,
Bk 2 (“Others apart sat on a Hill retir’d / In thoughts more
elevate, and reason’d high”), the reference is curious given
the fact that this section of Mil-ton’s epic concerns the
councils of fallen angels in Hell.
14. The tomb of the epic poet Virgil (70 B.C.—19 B.C.) is
supposedly at Naples. John Churchill, duke of Marlborough
(1650-1722), was considered one of England’s greatest
military commanders who particularly distinguished himself
during the War of the Spanish Succession. The monument of
the French marshall Henri, the Vicomte de Turenne (1611-
1675), who was killed at the Battle of Sasbach, is in Sasbach,
Germany.
15. In 1381, Walter Tyler led the Peasants’ Revolt, which
ultimately resulted in several burned buildings in London and
the death of the archbishop of Canterbury. Tyler was killed
by William Walworth, the mayor of London. “Sovereigns of
Cockney” refers here to the mayors of London in general.
16. A bartender or server.
17. verse.
18. The commanders of English militia which, though largely
discontinued in the seventeenth century, continued to operate
in some parts of London.
19. Greek god of wine.
20. Lacquered in glossy black.
21. An eighteenth- and ninteenth-century style of art
characterized by richly costumed gures and landscapes, or,
as in this case, an artist who works in this style.
22. From the Memoirs of the Extraordinary Life, Works and
Discoveries of Martinas Scriblerus (1741), a comic piece
produced by the English literary group the Scriblerus Club,
whose more famous members included Alexander Pope and
Jonathan Swift.
23. Holy Grail.
24. This character appears as one of Falsta ’s companions in
The Merry Wives of Windsor, Henry IV Parts I and II, and Henry
V.
25. See “Rip Van Winkle,” note 14.
26. A rst-century Roman funeral urn of violet and white
glass, so called because its owner, the Duke of Portland,
loaned it to the British Museum in 1810. For the shield of
Achilles, see “The Art of Book Making,” note 14.
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE

1. From an untitled 1616 sonnet by the Scottish poet William

Drummond (1585-1649). Irving quotes the poem somewhat
inaccurately.
2. O cials charged with caring for the interior of an English
church.
3. Properly called the Domesday Book, a survey of English
landowners and their property commissioned by William the
Conqueror in the eleventh century.
4. See “The Art of Book Making,” note 8.
5. The speaker references several medieval writers who
today, with the exception of Malmesbury are generally
unknown and unread. Robert Grosteste, or Grossesteste
(1175-1253), bishop of Lincoln, was a proli c writer on
physics, mathematics, poetry, and theology. Gyraldus
Cambrensis (1146-1223) was a Norman-Welsh historian,
poet, and theologian. Henry of Huntingdon (1084-1155),
archdeacon of Huntingdon, wrote Historia Anglorum. Joseph
of Exeter (dates of birth and death unknown, circa 1190) was
an English poet who wrote in Latin. John Wallis (dates of
birth and death unknown) taught at English Franciscan
schools in the mid-1200s, wrote theological works, and was
called the “Tree of Life” when he taught at Paris. William of
Malmesbury (1090-1143), librarian of Malmesbury Abbey,
wrote a History of the Kings of England. Simeon of Durham
(1060-1130) was a chronicler at the monastery of Durham.
Benedict of Peterborough was a twelfth-century historian of
Henry II and Thomas à Becket. John Hanvill (dates of birth
unknown, probably around 1180) was a Dominican monk
and archdeacon of Oxford.
6. Belgian-English printer who published over 700 books
between 1491 and 1534.
7. (1260-1300) chronicler who wrote in the vernacular.
 8. See “The Art of Book Making,” note 4.
9. In fact not written by Chaucer but by his contemporary
Thomas Usk.
10. Raphael Holinshed (d. 1580), completed his book
Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland in 1577.
Shakespeare is known to have used this text as a source for
historical material in some of his plays.
11. Persian king (d. 465 B.C.).
12. Arcadia is a prose romance, published in various forms
from 1590-1593. For Sidney, see “The Art of Book Making,”
note 5. Thomas Sackville (1536-1608) collaborated with
other playwrights on tragedies and wrote one of the stories
for A Mirror for Magistrates (1563), a verse anthology. For
Lyly see “The Author’s Account of Himself,” note 1.
13. Bellona was the Roman goddess of war while Suada was
goddess of persuasion.
14. A 1593 pamphlet by Gabriel Harvey (1545-1630) as part
of an ongoing argument between Puritans and the Church of
England.
15. The English economist Thomas Mai thus (1766-1834)
contended in his book An Essay on the Principle of Population
(1798, revised edition 1803) that poverty and distress would
increase in England due to overpopulation.
16. Thomas Churchyard (1520-1604), English soldier and
poet. The quotation has not been identi ed.

RURAL FUNERALS

1. Cymbeline, IV, ii.

2. Somewhat misquoted from Hamlet, IV, v.
3. wreath.
4. The quotation is taken from Antiquitates Vulgares by Henry
Bourne (1696-1733).
5. “The Dirge of Jephthah’s Daughter” in Noble Numbers
(1647) by Robert Herrick (1591-1674), one of the major
Cavalier poets, courtly lyricists who were rm supporters of
the English monarchy. Herrick appears to have been a
favorite of Irving’s as Irving quotes him often.
6. (1581-1613), wrote A Wife (1614), a sketch in verse
depicting the ideal wife.
7. (1619), I, i. The lines Irving quotes on the following page
are from II, i. See “The Art of Book Making,” note 9.
8. willows.
9. The diarist John Evelyn (1620-1706) wrote Sylvia in 1664
to plead for reforestation in England.
10. William Camden (1551-1623), antiquary and historian,
wrote Britannia, a survey of the British Isles in Latin, in 1586.
11. Hamlet, V, i.
12. Cymbeline, IV, ii.
13. Once called the “Shakespeare of the pulpit,” the English
bishop and theological writer Jeremy Taylor (1613-1667)
wrote a Funeral Sermon on the Countess of Carbery, from which
this quotation is taken.
14. Irving somewhat misquotes these lines from the poem
“Dirge in Cymbeline” by William Collins (1721-1759).
15. he week beginning with Pentecost.
16. Along with discovering Bright’s disease of the kidneys,
the English physician Richard Bright (1789-1858) authored
Travels from Vienna through Lower Hungary (1818).
17. August Wilhelm I and (1759-1814), German playwright.
THE INN KITCHEN

1. Henry IV, Part I, III, iii.

2. meerschaum, a white mineral.

THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM

1. A forest in what is now central Germany, the site of many

medieval castles.
2. “Book of Heroes,” a thirteenth-century compilation of
German romances.
3. Minne-lieders were courtly love songs performed by
Minnesingers, medieval German poets and musicians.
4. An elderly governess.
5. etiquette.
6. Rhein-wein and Fern-wein are German wines. The
Heidelburg tun, also known as the “Great Vat,” was built at
Heidelburg castle in 1751 and holds over 49,000 gallons of
wine.
7. boisterous merrymaking.
8. Armor worn on the chest.
9. A large vessel of German white wine.
10. Also called Lenore, the heroine of a 1773 ballad by
Gottfried Burger (1747-1794).
11. A hanging pan that contains burning oil.
12. A legendary specter who hunts the wild animals of the
Black Forest with his dogs.
13. A wooden plate used for serving food.
14. A riding horse, typically for women.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY

1. Thomas Bastard (1566-1618).

2. See “The Mutability of Literature,” note 2.
3. Joseph Addison (1672-1719) wrote for the English
gentlemen’s magazines The Tatler and The Spectator.
4. Bishops’ sta s, usually tipped with a cross.
5. A buckler is a small shield. A morion is a curved metal
helmet.
6. The monument to Lady Elizabeth Nightingale, who died in
1731, by the French sculptor Louis Roubillac (1695-1762), is
one of the most dramatic pieces in Westminster Abbey.
Nightingale had been struck by lightning, a fact Roubillac
conveys by depicting a skeleton aiming a dart at her.
7. Begun by Henry VII (reigned 1485-1509) for the body of
Henry VI.
8. Founded by Henry IV in 1399, the Order of Bath is still in
existence.
9. Elizabeth I reigned as Queen of England from 1558 to
1603. Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded in 1587 on
Elizabeth’s orders when she was implicated in a treasonous
plot. Their tombs in Westminster Abbey are supposedly
separated so that they cannot see each other.
10. unidenti ed.
11. At the heart of the Abbey, the tomb houses the body of
Edward, who reigned as king of England from 1042 to 1066.
12. Hydriotaphia, Urne Buriall (1658) by the physician
Thomas Brown (1605-1682).
13. Cambyses was a Persian king who invaded Egypt and
sacked Memphis in 525 B.C. In the Bible, Mizraim was a son
of Ham; the name signi ed Egypt in the ancient world.
Balsams are fragrant resins used for perfumes and medicines.
 14. Irving’s source is A True and Perfect Narrative of the
Strange and Unexpected Finding the Cruci x and Gold-Chain of
that Pious Prince, St. Edward, The King and Confessor, which
was found after 620 Years’ Internment: and Presented to His
Most Sacred Majesty, King James the Second, written by
Charles Taylour in 1688.
15. Or “Peter Pry,” a common term for a meddlesome fellow.
16. Londinium Redivivum (1802) by James Pellar Malcolm.
17. Daniel Pulteney, Lord of the Admiralty, who died in
1731.

CHRISTMAS

1. From an anonymous pamphlet entitled “Arraignment,

Conviction and Imprisoning of Christmas: … with An Hue
and Cry After Christmas …”(1645).
2. See the previous sketch, “The Boar’s Head Tavern, East
Cheap.”
3. carolers.
4. Hamlet, I, i.

THE STAGE COACH

1. “Every joy / No pains / It is time to play / The hour has

come / To put aside / Our books.”
2. Alexander the Great’s horse, legendary for his strength and
speed.
3. One who tends to travelers’ horses at an inn.
4. love letter.
 5. From Nicholas Breton’s The Fantasticks (1626).
6. A device for turning a spit on which to roast meat.
7. Poor Robins Almanack was the name given to many
lighthearted prophetic almanacs published in the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries. The authors of most of these
publications are unknown.

CHRISTMAS EVE

1. The Ordinary, III, i, by William Cartwright. See “Rip Van

Winkle,” note 4.
2. Henry Peacham’s work encourages the development of the
“cultured gentleman” who possesses a wide knowledge of
Greek and Latin classics, history, art, and mathematics, and
who speaks “the best and purest English” Philip Stanhope,
earl of Chester eld (1694-1773), on the other hand, was an
educational reformer who advised young men to learn
modern languages and acquire knowledge by experiencing
the world rather than attending to moral education.
3. An embroidered garment worn, usually by women, over
the chest.
4. King Lear, III, vi.
5. See “A Royal Poet,” note 2.
6. A student from Oxford University.
7. boisterous girls.
8. “Ceremonies for Christmasse,” in Hesperides (1648) by
Robert Herrick. See “Rural Funerals,” note 5.
9. Characters in a popular English children’s puppet show.
Punch was a violent husband and Judy his nagging wife.
10. assistant.
 11. See “Rip Van Winkle,” note 3.
12. canopy.

CHRISTMAS DAY

1. “A Christmas Caroll,” in Noble Numbers by Robert Herrick.

See “Rural Funerals,” note 5.
2. “A Thanksgiving to God, for his House,” in Noble Numbers
by Robert Herrick.
3. Sixteenth- and early-seventeenth-century “polite” guides of
conduct and information on horsemanship, hunting, and
agriculture for country gentlemen. For Walton’s Angler, see
Irving’s later sketch “The Angler.”
4. Thomas Tusser (1525-1580), widely known for his writings
on farming and country virtues.
5. William Caxton (1421-1491), the rst English printer to
print books in the English language. One of his most famous
productions was Le Morte d’Arthur. For Wynkin de Worde, see
“The Mutability of Literature,” note 6.
6. Theophilus (385-428), Cyprian (200-258), Chrysostom
(344-407), and Augustine (354-430), fathers of the early
Christian church who wrote classic works in defense of
Christian doctrine.
7. The Puritan Revolution or English Civil War (1642-1649)
was followed by the Protectorate of Oliver Cromwell and the
restoration of Charles II to the throne in 1660.
8. William Prynne (1600-1669) wrote pamphlets supporting
the Puritans against the Royalists during the English Civil
War, some of which opposed the excesses of the theater.
Prynne eventually, however, supported Charles II and became
a royal employee. “Roundheads” was the nickname given to
 Puritans during the English Civil War because of their close-
cropped hair.
9. See “The Stage Coach,” note 7.
10. boar meat.
11. Scholars have not identi ed the source for this quotation.
12. An eighteenth-century pamphlet subtitled “Christmas
Entertainments.”
13. A box in which were placed donations for apprentices
and servants at Christmas. The box was then broken open and
the contents shared. “Boxing Day” is still celebrated in
England.

THE CHRISTMAS DINNER

1. George Wither’s (1588-1667) Juvenilia was published in

1622.
2. “A Ballad upon a Wedding,” the most famous poem by Sir
John Suckling (1609-1642), poet and ardent supporter of the
English monarchy.
3. The extravagant Belshazzar was the last king of Babylon
whose doom, so the Bible reports, was foretold by Daniel.
4. Hans Holbein (1497-1543) and Albert Dürer (1471-1528)
were two of Renaissance Germany’s greatest artists. Holbein
excelled in portrait painting and Dürer in graphic arts.
5. See “Christmas Eve,” note 6.
6. City Madam, II, i, by Philip Massinger (1583-1640).
7. See “The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 4.
8. Archaeologia: or, Miscellaneous Tracts Relating to Antiquity,
Published by the Society of Antiquaries of London (1773).
9. A French song.
 10. See “The Stage Coach,” note 7.
11. See “The Country Church,” note 3.
12. Another name for the Thames once it reaches its upper
course.
13. By Richard Crimsall, published in 1640.
14. A popular collection of old, worn-out jokes.
15. See “The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 7.
16. Supporters of the 1638 Scottish Covenant or the 1643
English Solemn League and Covenant, both of which opposed
the Episcopal and Catholic churches.
17. See “Christmas Eve,” note 3.
18. A rough fabric resembling tweed.
19. A quickstep dance performed by two couples at a time.

LONDON ANTIQUES

1. The source and author of this quotation are not known.

2. Formed in the twelfth century during the Crusades, the
Knights Templars were a monastic military order.
3. See “Christmas Eve,” note 12.
4. See “The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 7.

LITTLE BRITAIN

1. Christ’s Tears Over Jerusalem. Whereunto is annexed a

comparative admonition to London (1593) by Thomas Nashe.
English tradition said that anyone born within the sound of
St. Mary le Bow’s church bulls was a true Londoner.
2. Traditionally the feast of St. Michael the archangel is on
September 29.
3. A reference to the celebration of Guy Fawkes Day in
England to commemorate the failure of Guy Fawkes’s attempt
to blow up the the king and members of Parliament in the
Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Because Fawkes claimed to be
acting on behalf of English Catholics, celebrants sometimes
burned the pope in e gy.
4. For hundreds of years a menagerie of unusual animals was
housed in the “Lion Tower” of the Tower of London. The
animals were removed in 1834. For “the Monument,” see
“The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 11. For “the wooden giants
in Guildhall,” see “The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 5.
5. Decorative aps worn on clothing.
6. Legendary English prophets. While it is uncertain whether
or not such gures actually existed, Shipton was credited
with predicting, among other events, the great re of London.
7. Ancient Greek prophetesses who related the prophecies of
oracles.
8. The “good old king” refers to George III, who died in 1820
after a sixty-year reign. The Peterloo Massacre occurred at
Manchester on August 16, 1819, when cavalry charged a
crowd demanding parliamentary reform; about a dozen were
killed and four hundred were injured. The Cato Street plot
refers to an 1820 conspiracy to assassinate the English
Cabinet. Also in 1820, Queen Caroline, the estranged wife of
George IV, returned to England from exile in Italy upon his
ascension to the throne.
9. A number of legends surround Richard Whittington (1358-
1423), a merchant who became Lord Mayor of London, one
of which relates that, while a poor youngster, he began
making his fortune by selling his only possession, a cat who
was a superb rat catcher, and another of which says that
 Whittington decided to return to London to seek his fortune
after hearing the sound of Bow bells.
10. Momus was the Greek god of laughter. For Bacchus, see
“The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 19.
11. (circa 1550s) one of the rst English comedies.
12. Begun in medieval times as a means of generating funds
to support the Hospital of St. Bartholomew’s, by the
eighteenth century the fair had become famous for its
debauchery and excessive revelry. For Lord Mayor’s Day, see
“The Country Church,” note 2.
13. diminutive.
14. Site of a gate that traditionally marked the entrance to
the city of London.
15. See “The Boar’s Head Tavern,” note 18.
16. Edmund Kean (1787-1833) was one of the most popular
tragic actors of his day. The Edinburgh Review was a popular
literary and political periodical that began publication in
1802.
17. Property set aside in a man’s will to be used for the
nancial support of his wife.

STRATFORD-ON-AVON

1. An ode composed by David Garrick (1717-1779), the

popular actor, theater manager, and playwright, for the
Stratford Jubilee of 1769, a celebration of Shakespeare that
virtually initiated Stratford as a tourist attraction.
2. See “The Inn Kitchen,” note 1.
3. An explorer, soldier, and author, Sir Walter Raleigh (1554-
1618) organized colonizing expeditions to the Americas and
was supposedly one of the rst Englishmen to advocate the
cultivation of tobacco.
4. In the eighteenth century a tree believed to have been
planted by Shakespeare was a popular tourist attraction at
Stratford.
5. See “A Royal Poet,” note 18.
6. Enclosed space around the altar of a church.
7. A character from Henry IV, Part II and The Merry Wives of
Windsor, Shallow is an old and sometimes dull-witted Justice
of the Peace. Falsta at one point tries to cheat him out of
money.
8. Samuel Ireland, eighteenth-century engraver whose son
became infamous for his forgeries of Shakespeare
manuscripts.
9. Cymbeline, II, iii.
10. Reginald Scot’s 1584 text is considered to be one of the
sources for Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
11. As You Like It, 11, v.
12. cornerstones.
13. A forti ed tower at the entrance to a castle or town.
14. Henry the Fourth, Part II, V, iii.
15. Seventeenth-century raiders of the bogs between England
and Scotland.
16. The Merry Wives of Windsor, I, i.
17. See “A Royal Poet,” note 3.
18. See “Christmas Eve,” note 3.
19. John Earle (1601-1665) was the chaplin for the exiled
Charles II during the Puritan Revolution and Protectorate.
The “Gilpin” referred to may be the Reverend William Gilpin,
but this reference remains unidenti ed.
20. A fellow justice of Shallow’s.
 21. Henry the Fourth, Part II, V, i. The quotation following is
from V, iii.
22. Jacques and Rosalind appear in Shakespeare’s romantic
comedy As You Like It. Abraham Slender is Justice Shallow’s
thick-headed cousin and Anne Page the center of the
romantic plot of The Merry Wives of Windsor.

TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER

1. Though written ve years before The Sketch Book was rst

published, this chapter, along with “Philip of Pokanoket,”
were added when it appeared as a two-volume English
edition.
2. This speech is attributed to Tahgahjute (or James Logan), a
Cayuga chief (1725-1780). After his relatives were massacred
in 1774, Tahgahjute fought with the British in the American
Revolution. When he and his allies were defeated at Point
Pleasant, Tahgahjute refused to attend the peace conference,
sending this speech instead.
3. Thomas Morton’s New English Canaan (1637).
4. The title for a chief or member of a ruling council in
Algonquian society.
5. burial mound.
6. A Narrative of the Troubles with the Indians in New England
(1677) by William Hubbard (1621-1704). An important
source of information and quotations for this chapter and
especially the following one, “Philip of Pokanoket” The
Pequod con ict described here probably refers to events
occurring in 1637.
PHILIP OF POKANOKET

1. “Gertrude of Wyoming” (1809) by the Scottish poet

Thomas Campbell (1777-1844).
2. See “Traits of Indian Character,” note 4.
3. Robert Southey Poet Laureate of England, wrote “Oliver
Newman, A New England Tale” in 1837.
4. (1580-1661).
5. Actually “Metacom” or “Metacomet.”
6. The study of ghosts and phantoms.
7. The father of Cotton Mather, the prominent Massachusetts
citizen Increase Mather (1639-1723) completed his History in
1676.
8. Wampum, strings of shells used by Native Americans as
currency, ornaments, and for ceremonial purposes.
9. In Connecticut.
10. This quotation, like a majority of those in this chapter, are taken
from William Hubbard, as is the reference to “the chronicler” on the
following page. See “Traits of Indian Character,” note 6.
11. In Massachusetts.

JOHN BULL

1. See “Little Britain,” note 1.

2. An angry, sullen mood.
3. Forced by poverty to live o public charity.
4. In the English currency of the period a farthing was the
equivalent of only one quarter of a penny while a guinea was
the equivalent of one pound and a shilling.
 5. Houses of worship for Protestants who had broken from
the Church of England.
6. minor faults.
7. A beef-eater, in this case, refers to a soldier. A pensioner is
one who lives o an allowance granted by another.
8. A digging tool with a at blade.
9. The top of the head.
10. Restriction of expenses.
11. “Tom” refers in a generic sense to an English soldier.
After the Napoleonic Wars of 1815, many soldiers were
retired with half pay.
12. stanza.

THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE

1. “The Dirge of Jephthah’s Daughter: Sung by the Virgins,”

in Noble Numbers by Robert Herrick. See “Rural Funerals,”
note 5.
2. In the Bible, Rachel was the wife of Jacob who died in
childbirth. Versions of this quotation appear in Jeremiah
31:15 and Matthew 2:18.
3. The Winters Tale, III, iv.
4. willows.

THE ANGLER

1. Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639), English poet and

ambassador. These lines are quoted by Walton in The
 Complete Angler.
2. First published in 1653, The Complete Angler by Izaak
Walton (1593-1683) became one of the most popular books
written in English, not only for its portrait of the sport of
angling but also for its depictions of the peace and beauty of
nature.
3. “A treatyse of Fysshynge with an Angle” (1496), the rst
English book on this subject, printed by Wynkyn de Worde.
4. In 1797 the British navy defeated the Dutch at
Camperdown.
5. This poem is actually by John Dennys, but in The Complete
Angler Walton himself attributes it to Davors.

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW

1. By James Thomson. See “Roscoe,” note 2.

2. See “Rip Van Winkle,” note 21.
3. A female goblin who attacks sleepers. Irving quotes loosely
from King Lear, III, iv, here.
4. German mercenary soldiers hired by the British to ght in
the American Revolution.
5. A willow twig used for binding.
6. A cylindrical or rectangular trap with a funneled entrance
used to catch eels.
7. The Boston theologian and historian Cotton Mather (1663-
1728) did not write a text with this particular title, but he did
write Memorable Providences Relating to Witchcraft and
Possessions in 1689. He also discussed witchcraft in his The
Wonders of the Invisible World (1693) and Magnalia Christi
Americana (1702).
8. Or “Zaandam,” a city near Amsterdam. For “stomacher,”
see “Christmas Eve,” note 3.
9. A Turkish warrior of Central Asia. In the Middle Ages the
Tartars invaded Western Asia and Eastern Europe. Later, the
term “Tartar” referred in general to a ferocious, violent
person.
10. See “Preface to the Revised Edition,” note 3.
11. wild, disorderly.
12. A tough, climbing shrub, sometimes used for making
walking sticks.
13. It is unclear to which legend Irving refers here. According
to one legend, Achilles entered into a dispute with his
commander Agamemnon over the captive girl Briseis.
According to another, Achilles, madly in love with the Trojan
princess Polyxena, was slain by her brother Paris while he
was attempting to negotiate their marriage in the temple of
Apollo.
14. A stick or cane for punishing children.
15. Traditionally, a cap with wings on either side to
symbolize Mercury’s role as messenger of the Gods.
16. Or “montero,” a hunter’s cap with ear aps.
17. molasses.
18. Fried sweet dough cakes.
19. In 1776, the British General William Howe defeated the
American army at White Plains, New York, though the
victory was not considered decisive as Washington was able
to make a successful retreat.
20. John André (1751-1780), the British spy who secretly
negotiated with Benedict Arnold to betray West Point to the
British. He was later captured by the Americans and hanged.
21. stanza.
 22. Stocks are long scarfs worn especially for riding. Pitch
pipes are small pipes used for tuning instruments or a group
of singers.
23. Small claims court.
24. For “aldermen,” see “The Country Church,” note 4. For
“burghers,” see “Rip Van Winkle,” note 2.

L’ENVOY

1. Though at one time attributed to Chaucer, this poem was

written by the French poet Alain Chartier in 1424.
2. heavy seasoning.
 READING GROUP GUIDE

1. Why does Irving call this collection The Sketch Book? What
e ect is he trying to achieve with the preponderance of visual
imagery?
2. How do the stories in The Sketch Book inform one another and
function as a collection? How do the stories set in America
—“The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” and “Rip Van Winkle”—
distinguish themselves from Geo rey Crayon’s vignettes about
his travels in England?
3. Alice Ho man says in her Introduction that Irving is thought
to have created the short-story genre in America. What
constitutes a short story, and what are the hallmarks of the
American short story? How does it break with its European
predecessors yet still work within the tradition?
4. Why do you think Washington Irving uses the writing and
narration of the ctional Diedrich Knickerbocker (the pen
name he used in writing his famous spoof A History of New
York) to bookmark “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”? What
e ect does this have on the story itself? Does it lend it
credulity or only make it more fantastic?
5. The poem that Irving quotes at the outset of “The Legend of
Sleepy Hollow”—“The Castle of Indolence” by James Thomson
—recounts the story of an enchanter who deprives all who
enter his castle of their free will and their resolve. Why do you
think Irving chose this particular poem? How does it inform
your reading of the story?
6. How is this story in uenced by the gothic literary tradition
that preceded it, and how—in its setting, mood, plot, and
message—does it embrace the gothic itself?
7. How has the village of Sleepy Hollow been a ected or,
conversely, una ected by the American Revolution? In what
context does the narrator refer to it?
8. Diedrich Knickerbocker concludes his postscript by quoting
the storyteller who says, “I don’t believe one half of it myself”
Can a reader say the same about Irving? Discuss the ways in
which he treads the line between send-up and sincerity, ction
and non ction, fantasy and reality.
THE MODERN LIBRARY EDITORIAL BOARD

Maya Angelou
•
Daniel J. Boorstin
•
A. S. Byatt
•
Caleb Carr
•
Christopher Cerf
•
Ron Chernow
•
Shelby Foote
•
Charles Frazier
•
Vartan Gregorian
•
Richard Howard
•
Charles Johnson
•
Jon Krakauer
•
Edmund Morris
•
Joyce Carol Oates
•
Elaine Pagels
•
John Richardson
•
Salman Rushdie
 •
Oliver Sacks
•
Arthur Schlesinger, Jr.
•
Carolyn See
•
William Styron
•
Gore Vidal
 Biographical note copyright © 2001 by Random House, Inc.
Notes and Reading Group Guide copyright © 2001 by Random House, Inc.
Introduction copyright © 2001 by Alice Ho man

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Published in the United States by Modern Library, an imprint of The Random House
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

MODERN LIBRARY and the TORCHBEARER Design are registered trademarks of Random House,
Inc.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Irving, Washington, 1783–1859.

[Sketch book of Geo rey Crayon, gent.]
The legend of Sleepy Hollow and other stories, or, The sketch book of Geo rey Crayon,
gent./Washington Irving, introduction by Alice Ho man; notes by William Etter.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-41578-3
1. Hudson River Valley (N.Y. and N.J.)—Fiction. 2. Irving, Washington, 1783–1859—
Journeys—England. 3. Americans—Travel—England—History—19th century. 4. England—
Description and travel. 5. Christmas—England. I. Title: Legend of Sleppy Hollow and other
stories.
II. Title: Sketch book of Geo rey Crayon, gent. III. Title.
PS2066.A1 2001
818′.207—dc21
2001030430

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