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Title: The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon

Author: Washington Irving

Release date: January 1, 2000 [eBook #2048]
Most recently updated: May 19, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2048

Credits: Produced by Nelson Nieves and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SKETCH-
BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON ***

THE SKETCH BOOK
of
GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

By Washington Irving

Original

Original

Original

Original

CONTENTS

THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON,
GENT.
PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

THE SKETCH BOOK.
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, EASTCHEAP.
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.*

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.”—BURTON.

Original

PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.

T
HE 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 first volume had appeared in this
occasional manner, they began to find their way across the Atlantic, and to
be inserted, with many kind encomiums, in the London 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 benefit of my superintendence and revision. I
accordingly took the printed numbers which I had received from the United
States, to Mr. John Murray, the eminent publisher, from whom I had already
received friendly attentions, and left them with him for examination,
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 filled with
workpeople at this time, and I have only an office 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 first I
determined to submit my work to Sir-Walter (then Mr.) Scott, being
encouraged to do so by the cordial reception I had experienced from him at
Abbotsford a few years previously, and by the favorable opinion he had
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 affairs which made the
successful exercise of my pen all-important to me; I begged him, therefore,
to look over the literary articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought
they would bear European republication, to ascertain whether Mr. Constable
would be inclined to be the publisher.

Original

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 first post I received a reply, before he had seen my work.
“I was down at Kelso,” said he, “when your letter reached Abbotsford. I
am now on my way to town, and will converse with Constable, and do all in
my power to forward your views—I 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 efficient 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 five hundred pounds sterling a year,
with the reasonable prospect of further advantages. This situation, being
apparently at his disposal, he frankly offered to me. The work, however, he
intimated, was to have somewhat of a political bearing, and he expressed an
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 qualified for
this important task, and perhaps because it will necessarily bring you to
Edinburgh. If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep the matter
secret and there is no harm done. ‘And for my love I pray you wrong me
not.’ If on the contrary you think it could be made to suit you, let me know
as soon as 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 crimp you, if it be possible. Some difficulties 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 modifications in the copy sent:
“I cannot express how much I am gratified by your letter. I had begun to
feel as if I had taken an unwarrantable liberty; but, somehow or other, there
is a genial sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into heart
and confidence. Your literary proposal both surprises and flatters me, as it
evinces a much higher opinion of my talents than I have myself.”
I then went on to explain that I found myself peculiarly unfitted for the
situation offered to me, not merely by my political opinions, but by the very

constitution and habits of my mind. “My whole course of life,” I observed,
“has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically recurring task, or
any stipulated labor of body or mind. I have no command of my talents,
such as they are, and have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would
those of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring me more into rule;
but at present I am as useless for regular service as one of my own country
Indians or a Don Cossack.
“I must, therefore, keep on pretty much as I have begun; writing 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 gypsy for the fruits of his prowlings, who
may at one time have nothing but a wooden bowl to offer, and at another
time a silver tankard.”
In reply, Scott expressed regret, but not surprise, at my declining 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 confidence 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 find him disposed to treat your overtures with every degree of
attention. Or, if you think it of consequence in the first place to see me, I
shall be in London in the course of a month, and whatever my 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.” *
* 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 have told you that Walter is
sweeping the firmament with a feather like a maypole and
indenting the pavement with a sword like a scythe—in other
words, he has become a whiskered hussar in the 18th
Dragoons.”

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 effect 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 effectually as Diabolus in John
Bunyan’s Holy War closed up the windows of my Lord Understanding’s
mansion. I am sure of one thing, that you have only to be known to the
British public to be admired by them, and I would not say so unless I really
was of that opinion.
“If you ever see a witty but rather local publication called Blackwood’s
Edinburgh Magazine, you will find some notice of your works in the last
number: the author is a friend of mine, to whom I have introduced you in
your literary capacity. His name is Lockhart, a young man of very
considerable talent, and who will soon be intimately connected with my
family. My faithful friend Knickerbocker is to be next examined and
illustrated. Constable was extremely willing to enter into consideration of a
treaty for your works, but I foresee will be still more so when
Your name is up, and may go
From Toledo to Madrid.

“——And that will soon be the case. I trust to be in London about the
middle of the month, and promise myself great pleasure in once again
shaking you by the hand.”

The first volume of the Sketch-Book was put to press in London, as I had
resolved, at my own risk, by a bookseller 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 first month was over, and the sale was
interrupted.
At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called to him for help, as I was
sticking in the mire, and, more propitious than Hercules, he put his own
shoulder to the wheel. Through his favorable representations, Murray was
quickly induced to undertake the future publication of the work which he
had previously declined. A further edition of the first volume was struck off
and the second volume was put to press, and from that time Murray became
my publisher, conducting himself in all his dealings with that fair, open, and
liberal spirit which had obtained for him the well-merited appellation of the
Prince of Booksellers.
Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir Walter Scott, I began my
literary career in Europe; and I feel that I am but discharging, in a trifling
degree, my debt of gratitude to the memory of that golden-hearted man in
acknowledging my obligations to him. But who of his literary
contemporaries ever applied to him for aid or counsel that did not
experience the most prompt, generous, and effectual assistance?
W. I. SUNNYSIDE, 1848.

Original

THE SKETCH BOOK.

Original

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 EUPHUES.
I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observing strange
characters and manners. Even when a mere child I began my travels, and
made many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown regions of
my native city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolument of
the town crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range of my
observations. My holiday afternoons were spent in rambles about the
surrounding country. I made myself familiar with all its places famous in
history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder or robbery had been
committed, or a ghost seen. I visited the neighboring villages, and added
greatly to my stock of knowledge, by noting their habits and customs, and
conversing with their sages and great men. I even journeyed one long
summer’s day to the summit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched my
eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was astonished to find how
vast a globe I inhabited.
This rambling propensity strengthened with my years. Books of voyages
and travels became my passion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected
the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would I wander about the
pier-heads in fine weather, and watch the parting ships, bound to distant
climes; with what longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, and
waft myself in imagination to the ends of the earth!

Original

Further reading and thinking, though they brought this vague inclination
into more reasonable bounds, only served to make it more decided. I visited
various parts of my own country; and had I been merely a lover of fine
scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for
on no country had the charms of nature been more prodigally lavished. Her
mighty lakes, her 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
magnificence; her skies, kindling with the magic of summer clouds and
glorious sunshine;—no, never need an American look beyond his own
country for the sublime and beautiful of natural scenery.
But Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical association.
There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly
cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom. My
native country was full of youthful promise; Europe was rich in the
accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of the 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, besides 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. A great man of Europe, thought I, must
therefore be as superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to
a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed by observing the
comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English travellers
among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in their own country.
I will visit this land of wonders, 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 gratified.
I have wandered through different 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 filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the
entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints and
memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost fails me,
at finding how my idle humor has led me astray from the great object
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 by-places. His sketch-book was
accordingly crowded with cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins; but
he had neglected to paint St. Peter’s, or the Coliseum, the cascade of Terni,
or the bay of Naples, and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole
collection.

Original

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 merchandise 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.

T
o 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 fitted to receive
new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters that separate
the hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is no gradual
transition by which, as in Europe, the features and population of one
country blend almost imperceptibly with those of another. From the
moment you lose sight of the land you have left, all is vacancy, until you
step on the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the bustle and
novelties of another world.
In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene, and a connected
succession of persons and incidents, that carry on the story of life, and
lessen the effect of absence and 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 lines of
my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had
closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for
meditation, before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing from my
view, which contained all most dear to me in life; what vicissitudes might

occur in it—what changes might take place in me, before I should visit it
again! Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he may be
driven by the uncertain currents of existence; or when he may return; or
whether it may be ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood?
I said, that at sea all is vacancy; I should correct the impression. 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 finny 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 fishermen and sailors.
Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the ocean, would be
another theme of idle speculation. How interesting this fragment of a world,
hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What a glorious monument
of human invention; which has in a manner triumphed over wind and wave;
has brought the ends of the world into communion; has established an
interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the
luxuries of the south; has diffused the light of knowledge, and the charities
of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those scattered portions of
the human race, between which nature seemed to have thrown an
insurmountable barrier.

Original

We one day descried 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 off
by the waves. There was no trace by which the name of the ship could be
ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about for many months;
clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at
its sides. But where, thought I, is the crew? Their struggle has long been
over—they have gone down amidst the roar of the 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 offered up at the
deserted fireside 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 that 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, everyone had his tale of
shipwreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a short one related by
the captain:
“As I was once sailing,” said he, “in a fine, stout ship, across the banks of
Newfoundland, one of those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered
it impossible for us to see far ahead, even in the daytime; but at night the
weather was so thick that we could not distinguish any object at twice the
length of the ship. I kept lights at the mast-head, and a constant watch
forward to look out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we
were going at a great rate through the water. 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 her broadside toward us. The
crew were all asleep, and had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just
amidships. 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
half-naked 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 fired 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.”

Original

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my fine fancies. The
storm increased with the night. The sea was lashed into tremendous
confusion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves and broken
surges. Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of clouds
overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning which quivered along
the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The
thunders 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 bulkheads, as the
ship labored 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 around this floating prison, seeking for his prey: the
mere starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, might give him entrance.
A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favoring breeze, soon put all
these dismal reflections to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening
influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked out
in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering gayly over the curling
waves, how lofty, how gallant, she appears—how she seems to lord it over
the deep!
I might fill a volume with 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 fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of “land!” was given
from the mast-head. None but those who have experienced it can form an
idea of the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an American’s
bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. There is a volume of
associations with the very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with
everything of which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious years
have pondered.

Original

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 reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My
eye dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and
green grass-plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy,
and the taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of a neighboring
hill;—all were characteristic of England.
The tide and wind were so favorable, that the ship was enabled to come
at once to her pier. It was thronged with people; some idle lookers-on;
others, eager expectants of friends or relations. 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
demeanor. She was leaning forward from among the crowd; her eye hurried
over the ship as it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance.
She seemed disappointed and sad; when I heard a faint voice call her name.
—It was from a poor sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited
the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather was fine, his
messmates had spread a mattress for him on deck in the shade, but of late
his illness had so increased that he had taken to his hammock, and only
breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. He had been
helped on deck as we came up 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 affection did not recognize him. But at the sound of
his voice, her eye darted on his features: it read, at once, a whole volume of
sorrow; she clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing
them in silent agony.
All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of 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.

Original

Original

ROSCOE.
——In the service of mankind to be
A guardian god below; still to employ
The mind’s brave ardor in heroic aims,
Such as may raise us o’er the grovelling herd,
And make us shine for ever—that is life.
THOMSON.

O
NE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in Liverpool is
the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and judicious plan; it
contains a good library, and spacious reading-room, and is the great
literary resort of the place. Go there at what hour you may, you are
sure to find it filled with grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the
study of newspapers.
As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention was
attracted to a person just entering the room. He was advanced in life, tall,
and of a form that might once have been commanding, but it was a little
bowed by time—perhaps by care. He had a noble Roman style of
countenance; a 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 beamed with the fire of a poetic soul. There was
something in his whole appearance that indicated a being of a different
order from the bustling race round 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 find, therefore, the elegant historian of the Medici mingling among
the busy sons of traffic, at first shocked my poetical ideas; but it is from the

very circumstances and situation in which he has been placed, that Mr.
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 dulness to maturity; and to glory
in the vigor and luxuriance of her chance productions. She scatters the seeds
of genius to the winds, and though some may perish among the stony places
of the world, and some be choked, by the thorns and brambles of early
adversity, yet others will now and then strike root even in the clefts of the
rock, struggle bravely up into sunshine, and spread over their sterile
birthplace 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 connections, 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 influence to
advance and embellish his native town.
Indeed, it is this last trait in his character which has given him the
greatest interest in my eyes, and induced me 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 or inconsistency. At best, they are prone to steal away from
the bustle and commonplace of busy existence; to indulge in the selfishness
of lettered eas; 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 elysium 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 laboring man may
turn aside from the dust and heat of the day, and drink of the living streams
of knowledge. There is a “daily beauty in his life,” on which mankind may
meditate, and grow better. It exhibits no lofty and almost useless, because

inimitable, example of excellence; but presents a picture of active, yet
simple and imitable virtues, which are within every man’s reach, but which,
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 purest 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 fixed 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 his fame the monuments of his virtues. Wherever you go, in
Liverpool, you perceive traces of his footsteps in all that is elegant and
liberal. He found the tide of wealth flowing merely in the channels of
traffic; he has diverted from it invigorating rills to refresh the garden of
literature. By his own example and constant exertions, he has effected that
union of commerce and the intellectual pursuits, so eloquently
recommended in one of his latest writings;* and has practically proved how
beautifully they may be brought to harmonize, and to benefit each other.
The noble institutions for literary and scientific purposes, which reflect such
credit on Liverpool, and are giving such an impulse to the public mind,
have mostly been originated, and have all been effectively promoted, by Mr.
Roscoe; and when we consider the rapidly increasing opulence and
magnitude of that town, which promises to vie in commercial importance
with the metropolis, it will be perceived that in awakening an ambition of
mental improvement among its inhabitants, he has effected a great benefit
to the cause of British literature.
* Address on the opening of the Liverpool Institution.

In America, we know Mr. Roscoe only as the author; in Liverpool he is
spoken of as the banker; and I was told of his having been unfortunate in
business. I could not pity him, as I heard some rich men do. I considered
him far above the reach of pity. Those who live only for the world, and in
the world, may be cast down by the frowns of 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 communion 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 off, 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 style, yet it had an air of elegance, and the situation was delightful. A
fine 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, blended with clouds, and melting
into distance, bordered the horizon.
This was Roscoe’s favorite residence during the days of his prosperity. It
had been the seat of elegant hospitality and literary retirement. The house
was now silent and deserted. I 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-favored 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 finding it dry and dusty, with the lizard and the toad brooding
over the shattered marbles.
I inquired 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 liked 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 in the regions of
learning. Pigmies rummaging the armory of a giant, and contending for the
possession of weapons which they could not wield. We might picture to
ourselves some knot of speculators, debating with calculating brow over the
quaint binding and illuminated margin of an obsolete author; of the air of
intense, but baffled sagacity, with which some successful purchaser
attempted to dive into the black-letter bargain he had secured.
It is a beautiful incident in the story of Mr. 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.

Original

I do not wish to censure; but, surely, if the people of Liverpool had been
properly sensible of what was due to Mr. Roscoe and themselves, his library
would never have been sold. Good worldly reasons may, doubtless, be
given for the circumstance, which it would be difficult to combat 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 difficult, however, to estimate a man of genius
properly who is daily before our eyes. He becomes mingled and
confounded with other men. His great qualities lose their novelty; we
become too familiar with the common materials which form the basis even
of the loftiest character. Some of Mr. Roscoe’s townsmen may regard him
merely as a man of business; others, as a politician; all find him engaged
like themselves in ordinary occupations, and surpassed, perhaps, by
themselves 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 inquires where Roscoe is to
be seen. He is the literary landmark of the place, indicating its existence to
the distant scholar.—He is like Pompey’s column at Alexandria, towering
alone in classic dignity.
The following sonnet, addressed by Mr. Roscoe to his books, on parting
with them, has already been alluded to. If anything can add effect to the
pure feeling and elevated thought here displayed, it is the conviction, that
the who leis no effusion of fancy, but a faithful transcript from the writer’s
heart.

Original

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 affliction’s dart;

Thus, loved associates, chiefs of elder art,
Teachers of wisdom, who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you; nor with fainting heart;

For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore:
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers.
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

Original

THE WIFE.
The treasures of the deep are not so precious
As are the concealed comforts of a man
Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air
Of blessings, when I came but near the house,
What a delicious breath marriage sends forth—
The violet bed’s no sweeter!
MIDDLETON.

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 spirit of a man, and prostrate him in the dust,
seem to call forth all the energies of the softer sex, and give such
intrepidity and elevation to their character, that at times it approaches to
sublimity. Nothing can be more touching, than to behold a soft and tender
female, who had been all weakness and dependence, and alive to every
trivial roughness, while threading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly
rising in mental force to be the comforter and support of her husband under
misfortune, and abiding with unshrinking firmness 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 caressing 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 affection. “I can wish you no better
lot,” said he, with enthusiasm, “than to have a wife and children. If you are
prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they
are to comfort you.” And, indeed, I have observed that a married man
falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than
a single one; partly, because he is more stimulated to exertion by the
necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for

subsistence, but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by
domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding, that,
though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world
of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single man is apt
to run to waste and self-neglect; to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and
his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an
inhabitant.
These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was
once a witness. My intimate friend, Leslie, had married a beautiful and
accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable
life. 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 difference 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 favor and acceptance. When leaning on his
arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall, manly person. The
fond, confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a
flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doated on his
lovely burden from its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on
the flowery path of early and well-suited marriage with a fairer prospect of
felicity.
It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his
property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months,
when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he
found himself reduced to almost 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 affection, that all was not well with
him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be

deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her
sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness;
but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to
love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her
wretched. A little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from that
cheek—the song will die away from those lips—the lustre of those eyes
will be quenched with 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 inquired:
“Does your wife know all this?”—At the question he burst into an agony of
tears. “For God’s sake!” cried he, “if you have any pity on me don’t
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 forego 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 refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect?
She has been the idol of society. Oh, it will break her heart—it will break
her heart!”

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow relieves
itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into
moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his
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 afflict you. I am sure you have never
placed your happiness in outward show—you have yet friends, warm
friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly
lodged: and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary—”
“I could be happy with her,” cried he, convulsively, “in a hovel!—I could
go down with her into poverty and the dust!—I could—I could—God bless
her!—God bless her!” cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and
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. Ay, 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 fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of
prosperity; but which kindles up, and beams, and blazes in the dark hour of
adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is—no man knows
what a ministering angel she is—until he has gone with her through the
fiery trials of this world.”
There was something in the earnestness of my manner, and the figurative
style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew
the auditor I had to deal with; and following up the impression I had made,
I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his
wife.
I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude
for the result. Who can calculate on the fortitude of one whose life has been
a round of 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 mortifications, to

which, in other ranks, it is a stranger. In short, I could not meet Leslie, the
next morning, without trepidation. He had made the disclosure.
“And how did she bear it?”
“Like an angel! It seemed rather to be a relief to her mind, for she threw
her arms around my neck, and asked if this was all that had lately made me
unhappy.—But, poor girl,” added he, “she cannot realize the change we
must undergo. She has no idea of poverty but in the abstract; she has only
read of it in poetry, where it is allied to love. She feels as yet no privation;
she suffers no loss of 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 suffer it, in anticipation, every hour in the day. It is
not poverty, so much as pretence, that harasses a ruined man—the struggle
between a proud mind and an empty purse-the keeping up a hollow show
that must soon come to an end. Have the courage to appear poor, and you
disarm 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 leaned 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 doating 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 his family story, and, as it was a fine evening, I offered to
accompany him.

He was wearied with the fatigues of the day, and, as we walked out, fell
into a fit of gloomy musing.
“Poor Mary!” at length broke, with a heavy sigh, from his lips.
“And what of her,” asked I, “has anything happened to her?”
“What,” said he, darting an impatient glance, “is it nothing to be reduced
to this paltry situation—to be caged in a miserable cottage—to be obliged
to toil almost in the menial concerns of her wretched habitation?”
Has she then repined at the change?
“Repined! she has been nothing but sweetness and good-humor. Indeed,
she seems in better spirits than I have ever known her; she has been to me
all love, and 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 first meeting at the cottage were over, I think
I could then be comfortable. But this is her first day of real experience; she
has been introduced into a humble dwelling,—she has been employed all
day in arranging its miserable equipments,—she has, for the first time,
known the fatigues of domestic employment,—she has, for the first time,
looked around her on a home destitute of every thing elegant—almost of
every thing 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.

Original

After turning from the main road up a narrow lane, so thickly shaded
with forest-trees as to give it a complete air of seclusion, we came in sight
of the cottage. It was 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 flowers tastefully disposed about the door,
and on the grass-plot in front. A small wicket-gate opened upon a footpath
that wound through some shrubbery to the door. Just as we approached, we
heard the sound of music—Leslie grasped my arm; we paused and listened.
It was Mary’s voice singing, in a style of the most 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 flowers were twisted in her fine hair; a fresh bloom was
on her cheek; her whole countenance beamed with smiles—I had never
seen her look so lovely.
“My dear George,” cried she, “I am so glad you are come; I have 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.

Original

Original

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—
CARTWRIGHT.

T
he following Tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich
Knickerbocker, 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 favorite topics; whereas he found the old
burghers, 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 first
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 labors.
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 neighbors, and grieve the

spirit of some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection,
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 offend. But
however his memory may be appreciated by critics, it is still held dear
among many folks, 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 the being stamped on a Waterloo medal, or a Queen Anne’s
farthing.]

Original

W
HOEVER 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 a 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 gray vapors 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 (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 figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter
Stuyvesant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. 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
neighbor, 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 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 fiery furnace of
domestic tribulation, and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffering. A termagant
wife may, therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing,
and if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed.

Original

Certain it is, that he was a great favorite 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 gossipings, 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 playthings, taught them to fly 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 neighborhood.
The great error in Rip’s composition was an insuperable aversion to all
kinds of profitable labor. It could not be for 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 fish 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 neighbor even in the roughest
toil, and was a foremost man in all country frolics 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, 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 fields than anywhere else; the rain always made a
point of setting in just as he had some out-door 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 neighborhood.
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-off
galligaskins, which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine
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
every thing 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 off his
forces, and take to the outside of the house—the only side which, in truth,
belongs to a henpecked husband.

Original

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
befitting in honorable dog, he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured
the woods—but what courage can withstand the evil-doing 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 flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would fly 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. 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
which 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 school-master, 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.

Original

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nicholas
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 sufficiently to
avoid the sun, and keep in the shade of a large tree; so that the neighbors
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 any thing that
was read or related displeased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe
vehemently, and to send forth frequent, and angry puffs; 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 vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token
of perfect approbation.
From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length routed by his
termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the
assemblage, and call the members all to nought; nor was that august

personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the daring tongue of this
terrible virago, 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 labor of the farm and the clamor 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 wallet with Wolf,
with whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer 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 fine autumnal day, Rip had
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Kaatskill
mountains. He was after his favorite sport of squirrel-shooting, and the still
solitudes had echoed and re-echoed 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 reflection
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 filled with fragments from the impending
cliffs, and scarcely lighted by the reflected 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 flight 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 figure
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 some one of the
neighborhood 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 pairs 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 shoulders 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 the 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 labored 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 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 sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little
red cock’s tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and colors. There was
one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with
a weather-beaten countenance; he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and
hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes,
with roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of the figures in an old
Flemish painting, in the parlor 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 a fixed statue-like 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 flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the company.
He obeyed with fear and trembling; they quaffed 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 fixed upon him, to taste the beverage which he found had
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. 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 flagon 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 waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had first 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 the keg of liquor—the mountain
ravine—the wild retreat among the rocks—the woe-begone party at
ninepins—the flagon—“Oh! that flagon! that wicked flagon!” 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 firelock lying by him, the barrel encrusted with rust,
the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the
grave roysterers of the mountains 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 rose to walk,
he found himself stiff 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 fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time with
Dame Van Winkle.” With some difficulty 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 filling 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 network in his path.
At length he reached to where the ravine had opened through the cliffs 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 flock of idle crows, sporting high in the air about a dry tree
that overhung a sunny precipice; and who, secure in their elevation, seemed
to look down and scoff 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 firelock, 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 new, which somewhat surprised him, for he had thought himself
acquainted with every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of a
different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. They all stared at
him with equal marks of surprise, and whenever they cast 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 gray 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 a 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 flagon last night,”
thought he, “has addled my poor head sadly!”

Original

It was with some difficulty 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 had fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off 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 rang 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 rickety 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 painted, “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 the
top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was fluttering a flag, 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 buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a sceptre, the head
was decorated with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted 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 tranquillity. He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas 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 handbills, was haranguing,

vehemently about rights of citizens-elections—members of Congress—
liberty—Bunker’s hill—heroes of seventy-six-and other words, which were
a perfect Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle.
The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty fowling-
piece, his uncouth dress, and the army of women and children at his heels,
soon attracted the attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round
him, eying him from head to foot, with great curiosity. The orator bustled
up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, inquired, “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, inquired in his ear, “whether he
was Federal or Democrat.” 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! hustle him! away with him!” It was with great difficulty that the
self-important man in the cocked hat restored order; and having assumed a
tenfold 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
neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern.
“Well—who are they?—name them.”
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, Where’s Nicholas
Vedder?
There was a silence for a little while, when an old man replied, in a thin,
piping voice, “Nicholas Vedder? why, he is dead and gone these eighteen
years! There was a wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all
about him, but that’s rotten and gone too.”
“Where’s Brom Dutcher?”

“Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the war; some say he
was killed at the storming of Stony-Point—others say he was drowned in a
squall at the foot of Antony’s Nose. I don’t know—he never came back
again.”
“Where’s Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?”
“He went off 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 finding 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-Stony-Point;—he had no courage
to ask after any more 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, and 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 by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, wink significantly,
and tap their fingers 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 with the cocked hat
retired with some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, comely
woman pressed through the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded 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 Cardenier.”
“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 more question 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
fit of passion at a New-England pedler.
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 neighbor. 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 neighbors 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 field, 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 neighborhood. 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 affirmed that the great Hendrick
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind of vigil
there every twenty years, with his crew of the Half-moon; being permitted
in this way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, 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 ninepins in the 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 any thing 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 favor.

Original

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 off
the yoke of old England—and that, instead of being a subject to 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 first, 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 neighborhood, 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 flighty. 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 ninepins;
and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighborhood,
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting
draught out of Rip Van Winkle’s flagon.
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; the subjoined note, however,
which had appended to the tale, shows that it is an absolute fact, narrated
with his usual fidelity.
“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 certificate on the subject taken
before a country justice, and signed with cross, in the justice’s own
handwriting. The story, therefore, is beyond the possibility of doubt.
“D. K.” POSTSCRIPT.

Original

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

T
he Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region full of
fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who
influenced 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 off from the crest of the mountain, flake after
flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float 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!

Original

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 kind 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 ragged rocks, and then spring off 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 rock or cliff on
the loneliest port of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which
clamber about it, and the wild flowers 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-lilies 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 off
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 dished to pieces, and the stream made its way to
the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day, being the identical
stream known by the name of the Kaaterskill.

Original

Original

ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA.
Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousting 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 mid-day beam.—MILTON ON THE LIBERTY OF THE
PRESS.

I
T 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 diffuse 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 description 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 candor, 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 confidence 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
neighbors, 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 profit 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 prejudicial accounts of America, is not a
matter of surprise. The themes it offers for contemplation, are too vast and
elevated for their capacities. The national character is yet in a state of
fermentation: it may have its frothiness 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 affected 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 gratifications. They miss some of the snug
conveniences and petty comforts which belong to an old, highly-finished,
and over-populous state of society; where the ranks of useful labor 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 diffused 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, 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 finding 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 difficulties of
nature, and the shrewdness of an intelligent and enterprising 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 underrate a society where there
are no artificial 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 inquiry 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 description 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 hackneyed topic; nor
should I have adverted to it, but for the undue interest apparently taken in it
by my countrymen, and certain injurious effects which I apprehend 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 off of itself. We have but to live on,
and every day we live a whole volume of refutation.

Original

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 diffusion 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 suffer ourselves to be so affected by the contumely she has
endeavored 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 laboring to convince her,
she is hereafter to find an invidious rival, and a gigantic foe, she may thank
those very writers for having provoked rivalship, and irritated hostility.
Every one knows the all-pervading influence 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
flesh, 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 trifling 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 offence. Trace these
to their cause, and how often will they be found to originate in the
mischievous effusions of mercenary writers, who, secure in their closets,
and for ignominious bread, concoct and circulate the venom that is to
inflame 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 whence the literature
of the language flows, 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 have
been diligently propagated by designing writers. There is, doubtless,
considerable political hostility, and a general soreness at the illiberality of
the English press; but, collectively speaking, the prepossessions of the
people are strongly in favor 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 confidence 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 birthplace 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 toward 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 allusion which might have kept us in mental vassalage;
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 affections of the child.
Short-sighted and injudicious, however, as the conduct or England may
be in this system of aspersion, recrimination on our part would be equally
ill-judged. I speak not of a prompt and spirited vindication of our country,
or 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 unprofitable 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 diffuse 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 gratification 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 flow 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
effect, 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 unbiassed judgments. From the peculiar nature of
our relations with England, we must have more frequent questions of a
difficult and delicate character with her, than with any other nation,—
questions that affect the most acute and excitable feelings: and as, in the
adjustment 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 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 different
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
forego the advantages of our birth, if we do not shake off the national
prejudices, as we would the local superstitions, of the old world.
But above all let us not be influenced 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 timeworn, or
overrun by abuses, there must be something solid in the basis, admirable in
the materials, and stable in the structure of an edifice 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 candor.
While they rebuke the indiscriminating bigotry with which some of our
countrymen admire and imitate every thing 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 thence golden maxims of practical wisdom, wherewith to
strengthen and to embellish our national character.

Original

Original

RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.
Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man,
Friendly to thought, to virtue and to peace,
Domestic life in rural pleasures past!
COWPER.

T
HE stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English
character, must not confine 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 humors.
In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the
nation; they are the only fixed 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 classes, where they devote a small portion of the
year to a hurry of gayety 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 diffused over the whole surface
of the kingdom, and the more retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the
different 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 flower-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 traffic, 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 flowers;
every spot capable of vegetation has its grass-plot and flower-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
unfavorable 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 to the morning. An immense metropolis, like London, is calculated
to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient
meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. They present but the
cold superfices of character—its rich and genial qualities have no time to be
warmed into a flow.
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 off his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous
and free-hearted. He manages to collect round him all the conveniences and
elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country-seat
abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful
gratification, 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 every one 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
discovered 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.

Original

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence 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, reflecting
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.

Original

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 effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing
and training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice
distribution of flowers 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 finishes up a favorite picture.
The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country, has
diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that descends to
the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip
of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass-plot
before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine
trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the
pot of flowers 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 fireside; all these bespeak the influence of taste,
flowing 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 effect upon the national character. I do not know a
finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and
effeminacy 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. The hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and
spirits, and 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 different orders of society seem to approach
more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favorably 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 noblemen, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors,
and substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and while it has
thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into 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 influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot
be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds 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 waive 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 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, 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 effect 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 is shut in by
groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small
landscapes of captivating loveliness.

Original

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.
Every thing 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
plough the same fields, 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 stile and foot-path leading from the
churchyard, across pleasant fields, and along shady hedgerows, according
to an immemorial right of way;—the neighboring 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, a hereditary transmission of homebred 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 fields, to behold the peasantry in their best
finery, 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 affection 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:

Original

Through each gradation, from the castled hall,
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade,
But chief from modest mansions numberless,
In town or hamlet, shelt’ring middle life,
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof’d shed;
This western isle has long been famed for scenes
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place;
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove,
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard,)
Can centre in a little quiet nest
All that desire would fly for through the earth;
That can, the world eluding, be itself
A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven;

That, like a flower deep hid in rock cleft,
Smiles, though ‘t is looking only at the sky.*

* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the
Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M.

Original

THE BROKEN HEART.
I never heard
Of any true affection, but ‘t was nipt
With care, that, like the caterpillar, eats
The leaves of the spring’s sweetest book, the rose.
MIDDLETON.

T 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 fictions of
novelists and poets. My observations on human nature have
induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me that,
Original 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 fires lurking in the depths of the
coldest bosom, which, when once enkindled, become impetuous, and are
sometimes desolating in their effects. 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
firmly 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 affections. 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 traffic of affection; 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 “fly to the
uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest.”
But woman’s is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and 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
affection. 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 her 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 find 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
find 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 first 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.
Every one must recollect the tragical story of young E——, the Irish
patriot; 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 every thing 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—and 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 affections of a
beautiful and interesting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister.
She loved him with the disinterested fervor of a woman’s first 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 sufferings. 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, whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.
But then the horrors of such a grave!—so frightful, so dishonored! 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 parting 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 parental roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices 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 occupation and amusement 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 that 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 revery, 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 find 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 woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to
cheat the poor heart into 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 every one 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
officer, who paid his addresses to her, and thought that one so true to the
dead, could not but prove affectionate 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.

Original

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 effort 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:

Original

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 loved awaking—
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking!

He had lived for his love—for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined 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 loved island of sorrow!

Original

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING.
If that severe doom of Synesius be true,—“It is a greater offence to steal
dead men’s labor, than their clothes,”—what shall become of most writers?
BURTON’S ANATOMY OF MELANCHOLY.
HAVE often wondered at the extreme fecundity of the press,
and how it comes to pass that so many heads, on which Nature
seems to have inflicted 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 finding out some very simple cause for some
great matter of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my
Original peregrinations about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a
scene which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book-making
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 some times 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-favored 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 all 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, and
occasionally the deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his position to
turn over the page of an old folio; doubtless arising from that hollowness
and flatulency incident to learned research.

Original

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, 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 sufficient for the purpose.
I found that these mysterious personages, whom I had mistaken for magi,
were principally authors, and were 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, undefiled,” 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 endeavoring to keep off 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-colored clothes, with a
chirping gossiping 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 off 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, fluttering 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 finger 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
first 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-field, are,
in fact, Nature’s carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In like
manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of ancient and obsolete authors are
caught up by these flights of predatory writers, and cast forth, again to
flourish 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 element 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 continue to
flourish. 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 soporific
emanations for 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 afflicted, so it was,
that I fell into a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, and
indeed the same scene continued 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
increased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in place of the sage magi, I
beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, such as may be seen plying about the
great repository of cast-off 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 finery.
There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I observed ogling
several mouldy polemical writers through an eyeglass. He soon contrived to
slip on the voluminous mantle of one of the old fathers, and having
purloined the gray beard of another, endeavored to look exceedingly 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 flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several
old court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another had trimmed
himself magnificently from an illuminated manuscript, had stuck a nosegay
in his bosom, culled from “The Paradise of Dainty Devices,” and having
put Sir Philip Sidney’s hat on one side of his head, strutted off 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 to catch their
air and spirit; but I grieve to say, that too many were apt to array
themselves, from top to toe, in the patchwork manner I have mentioned. I
shall not omit to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and an
Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the pastoral, but whose rural
wanderings had been confined to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and
the solitudes of the Regent’s Park. He had decked himself in wreaths and
ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging his head on one side,
went about with a fantastical, lackadaisical air, “babbling about green
field.” 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 puffing, elbowed his way through
the throng with a look of sturdy self-confidence, and, having laid hands

upon a thick Greek quarto, 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, first a head, then a
shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously for an instant upon the
motley throng, and then descended, with fury in their eyes, to claim their
rifled property. The scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all
description. The unhappy culprits endeavored 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 Fletcher, side by side,
raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy Ben Jonson enacted
more wonders than when a volunteer with the army in Flanders. As to the
dapper little compiler of farragos mentioned some time since, he had
arrayed himself in as many patches and colors as harlequin, and there was
as fierce a contention of claimants about him, as about the dead body of
Patroclus. I was grieved to see many men, to whom I had been accustomed
to look up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off 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
affright with half a score of authors in full cry after him. They were close
upon his haunches; in a twinkling off 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, “chopp’d bald shot,” and made his exit
with only a few tags and rags fluttering at his back.

Original

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of this learned
Theban that I burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, which broke the
whole illusion. The tumult and the scuffle 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
hookworms 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 first 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 license 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.

Original

A ROYAL POET.
Though your body be confined
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.
FLETCHER.

N 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 around 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, filling his mind with music, and disposing him to
quote poetry and dream of beauty. In wandering through the
magnificent saloons and long echoing galleries of the castle I
Original
passed with indifference by whole rows of portraits of warriors
and statesmen, but lingered in the chamber where hang the likenesses of the
beauties which graced the gay court of Charles the Second; 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 Lely, which had thus enabled
me to bask in the reflected 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, 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.”

In this mood of mere poetical susceptibility, I visited the ancient keep of
the castle, where James the First of Scotland, 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 flight of steps leads to the
interior. In the armory, a Gothic hall furnished with weapons of various
kinds and ages, I was shown a coat of armor hanging against the wall,
which had once belonged to James. Hence I was conducted up a staircase to
a suite of apartments, of faded magnificence, 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 fiction.

Original

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 bedchamber, he abstained from all
food, and in three days died of hunger and grief at Rothesay.” *
* Buchanan.

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 fight 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.” *
* Ballenden’s translation of Hector Boyce.

With this combination of manly and delicate accomplishments, fitting
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 powerful 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
confinement. 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.+

+ Roger L’Estrange.

Indeed, it is the divine attribute of the imagination, that it is irrepressible,
unconfinable—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; 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 a
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 find a monarch thus suing, as it were, for admission
into his closet, and seeking to win his favor by administering to his
pleasures. It is a proof of the honest equality of intellectual competition,
which strips off 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 find the simple affections 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 to
meditate their minds into poetry; and had James been brought up amidst the
adulation and gayety of a court, we should never, in all probability, have
had such a poem as the Quair.
* Quair, an old term for book.

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 first 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
fire 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
Philosophy, 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 favorite 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, purified by sorrow
and suffering, 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 fit of musing on the fickleness 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, 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 flow with a natural and
touching pathos, and are perhaps rendered more touching by their simple
brevity. They contrast finely with those elaborate and iterated repinings

which we sometimes meet with in poetry, the effusions of morbid minds
sickening under miseries of their own creating, and venting their bitterness
upon an unoffending 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
suffering that extorts the murmur. We sympathize with James, a romantic,
active, and accomplished prince, cut off 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.
Had not James evinced a deficiency of poetic artifice, we might almost
have suspected that these lowerings of gloomy reflection 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 flower, 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
daybreak, 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, “for, tired of thought, and woe-begone,” 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 arbors 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, swete 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 clear, the hymnis consecrate
Of lovis use, now soft, now loud among,
That all the garden and the wallis rung
Right of their song——

* Lyf, Person.

+ Twistis, small boughs or twigs. NOTE—The language of the
quotations is generally modernized.

It was the month of May, when every thing 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 relapses into one of those tender and undefinable reveries, which
fill 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 ecstasy and
song. If it really be so great a felicity, and if it be a boon thus generally
dispensed to the most insignificant beings, why is he alone cut off from its
enjoyments?
Oft would I think, O Lord, what may this be,
That love is of such noble myght and kynde?
Loving his folke, and such prosperitee,
Is it of him, as we in books do find;
May he oure hertes setten* and unbynd:
Hath he upon oure hertes such maistrye?
Or is all this but feynit fantasye?

For giff he be of so grete excellence
That he of every wight hath care and charge,
What have I gilt+ to him, or done offense,
That I am thral’d, and birdis go at large?

* Setten, incline.

+ Gilt, what injury have I done, etc.

In the midst of his musing, as he casts his eye downward, he beholds “the
fairest and the freshest young floure” 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 a 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.

Original

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 confined
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 fire 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 parlor favorite 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,
Bounty, richesse, and womanly feature:
God better knows than my pen can report,
Wisdom, largesse,+ estate,++ and cunning& sure.
In every point so guided her measure,
In word, in deed, in shape, in countenance,
That nature might no more her child advance.

* Wrought gold.

+ Largesse, bounty.

++ Estate, dignity.

& Cunning, discretion.

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, as he beautifully
expresses it, had “bade farewell to every leaf and flower,” he still lingers at
the window, and, laying his head upon the cold stone, gives vent to a
mingled flow 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.

Original

When he wakes from his trance, he rises from his stony pillow, and,
pacing his apartment, full of dreary reflections, 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 confirm
the promise of happier days, given him in his slumbers. Suddenly, a
turtledove of the purest whiteness comes flying in at the window, and
alights upon his hand, bearing in her bill a branch of red gilliflower, 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 first token of his succeeding happiness.
Whether this is a mere poetic fiction, or whether the Lady Jane did actually
send him a token of her favor in this romantic way, remains to be
determined according to the fate or fancy of the reader. He concludes his
poem by intimating that the promise conveyed in the vision and by the
flower, is fulfilled 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 which was 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, refinement, 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 flourished nearly about the time of Chaucer and Gower, 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 find 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
honors. 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 firmament 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 fiction has
made it a universal study) 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 own 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
affections 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 every thing
that could diffuse comfort, competency, and innocent enjoyment through
the humblest ranks of society. He mingled occasionally among the common
people in disguise; visited their firesides; 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 flagrant offences; and to bring
the whole into proper obedience to the Crown. For some time they bore this
with outward submission, but with 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 bedchamber 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
ineffectual 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 birthplace in this tower, that made me visit
the old pile with more than common interest. The suit of armor hanging up
in the hall, richly gilt and embellished, as if to figure 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 endeavored 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 first 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;
every thing 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 flourishes 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
arbors and shaded walks, as in the days of James, and the whole is
sheltered, blooming, and retired. There is a charm about the 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 around nature an odor 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-men, the benefactor of the human heart, stooping from his high
estate to sow the sweet flowers of poetry and song in the paths of common
life. He was the first to cultivate the vigorous and hardy plant of Scottish
genius, which has since become so prolific of the most wholesome and
highly flavored fruit. He carried with him into the sterner regions of the
north, all the fertilizing arts of southern refinement. He did every thing in
his power to win his countrymen to the gay, the elegant, and gentle arts,
which soften and refine 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 fulness 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 humor 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 floated his name to after-ages in the rich streams 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 Vaucluse with
as much enthusiasm as a pilgrim would visit the shrine at Loretto; 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.

Original

Original

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 BUSH.

HERE are few places more favorable 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
Original was one of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity, which gives
such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood in the
midst of a country filled 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 highborn dames, of gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies
in colored 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 neighboring 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; of the
villagers and peasantry, who filled the back seats and a small gallery beside
the organ; and of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches in the
aisles.
The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed vicar, who had a snug
dwelling near the church. He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the
neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country, until age
and good living had disabled him from doing anything more than ride to see
the hounds throw off, 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 on my neighbors.
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
and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refinement, but at the same
time a frank cheerfulness and engaging affability. 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 demeanor 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 field-sports in
which the gentlemen of the 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 difference 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 neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume all the style and
dignity of an 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 flaxen wig, curling close round 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 a 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 churchyard. There was a vast effect produced
at the turning of an angle of the wall—a great smacking of the whip,
straining and scrambling of the horses, glistening of harness, and flashing of
wheels through gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vainglory 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.

Original

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen to alight, pull down the
steps, and prepare everything for the descent on earth of this august family.
The old citizen first 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 fine, fleshy,
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
fine clothes, a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children—everything was
fine 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.
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 ultrafashionable 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 courtesies, which were returned in a manner that
showed they were but slight acquaintances.
I must not forget the two sons of this inspiring citizen, who came to
church in a dashing curricle with outriders. 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 every one 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 artificially, 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 them 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 with in this
country—the unpretending great, and the arrogant little. I have no respect
for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility of soul; but I
have remarked, in all countries where artificial distinctions exist, that 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 offensive as the aspirings of vulgarity,
which thinks to elevate itself by humiliating its neighbor.
As I have brought these families into contrast, I must notice their
behavior in church. That of the nobleman’s family was quiet, serious, and
attentive. Not that they appeared to have any fervor 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 flutter and
whisper; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, and the 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 these 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
alderman 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 fine,
preferred strolling home across the fields, 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 off almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried to right and left;
the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and the aspirin family was rapt out of
sight in a whirlwind.

Original

Original

THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honour and reverence evermore have rain’d.
MARLOWE’S TAMBURLAINE.

THOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters must
have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on
Sunday. The clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke
of the flail, the din of the blacksmith’s hammer, the whistling of
the ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of
rural labor are suspended. The very farm-dogs bark less
Original frequently, being less disturbed by passing travellers. At such
times I have almost fancied the wind 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 brigh’
The bridal of the earth and sky.

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 influence;
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 fit 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 decrepit old woman, bending
under the weight of years and infirmities. 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 could 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 laborers
who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote and
neglected corners of the churchyard, 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 coffin 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 indifference. There were no mock
mourners in the trappings of affected 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 endeavoring to comfort her. A
few of the neighboring 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.

Original

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 shuffled
through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeeling. 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 mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin 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 relics of her son with the yearnings of a mother’s heart.
Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There was that
bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief and affection;
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 waken the mother from a

wretched revery. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about with a faint
wildness. As the men approached with cords to lower the coffin 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 endeavoring 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
jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burst forth, as if any
harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of worldly suffering.
I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat—my eyes filled
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 churchyard, 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 affections
soon twine round 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 after-growth 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 churchyard. 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 affecting 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 staff and pride of their age. “Oh, sir!”
said the good woman, “he was such a comely lad, so sweet-tempered, so
kind to every one around 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 finer 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 neighboring river. He had not been long in this employ, when he
was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea. 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 infirm, 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 chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her little
garden, which the neighbors 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
seamen’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
wandering 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
sorrow and joy 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 any thing had been wanting to finish
the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would have been
sufficient. 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, offering every comfort and assistance that their humble
means afforded. 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.

Original

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 a son, that transcends all
other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor
daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by
ingratitude. She will sacrifice 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 off, 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 tranquillity of a child. In this way he died.
My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was to visit the
cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, if
possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, 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 surprise, I saw
the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the
steps of the altar.
She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son;
and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between pious
affection and utter poverty—a black ribbon 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 hatchments, the cold marble pomp with
which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned to
this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God,
and offering 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 afflictions. 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
neighborhood 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.*
* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.

IN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in
the country and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape; but
where is its sacred influence 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
fires of forges and manufactories are extinguished, and the sun,
no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke, pours down a
Original 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 flocks 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 prayer-books laid in the folds of their pocket-
handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window, admiring
the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and smile from her
young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city,
peradventure an alderman or a sheriff, and now the patter of many feet
announces it procession of charity scholars in uniforms of antique cut, and
each with a prayer-book 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 flocks are folded in ancient
churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded city, where
the vigilant beadle 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 effect 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, elevating 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 lesions to breathe the fresh
air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs. Satirists 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 first spread out these noble parks and
magnificent 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.

THE BOAR’S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.
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 BOMBIE.

I
T is a pious custom in some Catholic countries to honor the
memory of saints by votive lights burnt before their
pictures. The popularity of a saint, therefore, may be
Original known by the number of these offerings. 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 effigy; while the whole
blaze of adoration is lavished at the shrine of some beatified 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 satisfied that sufficient light is thrown upon the deceased
unless he hangs 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 officiousness 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 rushlight of eulogy or research to
swell the cloud of incense and of smoke.
As I honor 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 different ways, and
perplexed beyond the reach of elucidation; and as to fine passages, they had
all been amply praised by previous admirers; nay, so completely had the
bard, of late, been overlarded with panegyric by a great German critic that it
was difficult now to find 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 IV., and was, in a moment,
completely lost in the madcap revelry of the Boar’s Head Tavern. So vividly
and naturally are these scenes of humor 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 roisterers ever enlivened the dull neighborhood of
Eastcheap.

Original

For my part, I love to give myself up to the illusions of poetry. A hero of
fiction that never existed is just as valuable to me as a hero of history that

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 hair-brained prowess, which I have neither the
opportunity nor the inclination to follow. But, old Jack Falstaff! kind Jack
Falstaff! sweet Jack Falstaff! has enlarged the boundaries of human
enjoyment; he has added vast regions of wit and good-humor, 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 Eastcheap,”
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 toper enjoys in smelling to the
empty cask, once filled 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 Cock Lane; 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 Stone,
and struck my staff upon it in imitation of that arch-rebel Jack Cade.
Let it suffice to say, that I at length arrived in merry Eastcheap, 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 Eastcheap, says old Stow, “was always famous for its convivial
doings. The cookes cried hot ribbes of beef roasted, 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 Falstaff and
old Stow! The madcap roisterer has given place to the plodding tradesman;
the clattering of pots and the sound of “harpe and sawtrie,” to the din of
carts and the accurst dinging of the dustman’s bell; and no song is heard,
save, haply, the strain of some syren from Billingsgate, chanting the eulogy
of deceased mackerel.

I sought, in vain, for the ancient abode of Dame Quickly. The only relict
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 abode of good fellowship I was referred to a
tallow-chandler’s widow opposite, who had been born and brought up on
the spot, and was looked up to as the indisputable chronicler of the
neighborhood. I found her seated in a little back parlor, the window of
which looked out upon a yard about eight feet square laid out as a flower-
garden, while a glass door opposite afforded a distant view of the street,
through a vista of soap and tallow candles—the two views, which
comprised, in all probability, her prospects in 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 Eastcheap, great and little, from London
Stone even unto the Monument, 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 neighborhood.
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 until the great fire of London
when it was unfortunately burnt down. It was soon rebuilt, and continued to
flourish 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, endeavored to make his peace with
Heaven by bequeathing the tavern to St. Michael’s Church, Crooked Lane,
toward 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 finally
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 Eastcheap, 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 difficulty and much curious inquiry 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 twinkling 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 churchwardens 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,
and settling the affairs 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 finished 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’s, 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 Turenne.
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 Smithfield—a hero worthy of honorable blazon,
as almost the only Lord Mayor on record famous for deeds of arms, the
sovereigns of Cockney being generally renowned as the most pacific of all
potentates.*

* The following was the ancient inscription on the monument
of this worthy, which, unhappily, was destroyed in the great
conflagration.

Hereunder lyth a man of Fame,
William Walworth callyd by name:
Fishmonger he was in lyfftime here,
And twise Lord Maior, as in books appere;
Who, with courage stout and manly myght,
Slew Jack Straw in Kyng Richard’s sight.
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 lyff the yere of our God
Thirteen hundred 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
find in ancient and good records. The principal leaders, or captains, of the
commons, were Wat Tyler, as the first man; the second was John, or Jack,
Straw, etc., etc.”—STOW’S London.
Adjoining the church, in a small cemetery, immediately under the back
window of what was once the Boar’s Head, stands the tombstone of Robert
Preston, whilom drawer 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 weathercocks, 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 churchyard, 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 stave from the “mirre garland of
Captain Death;” to the discomfiture of sundry train-band captains and the
conversion of an infidel 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 churchyards
and by-corners of this old metropolis are very much infested with perturbed
spirits; and every one 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 nimbletongued 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 Falstaff, the veracity of
whose taste no man will venture to impeach, flatly accuses Francis of
putting lime in his sack, whereas honest Preston’s epitaph lands 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 significant wink and a dubious shake
of the head.
* 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.

Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise,
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 inclined,
Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind.
He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots,
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults.
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence,
Pray copy Bob in measure and attendance.

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’s. “Marry and amen,” said I,
“here endeth my research!” So I was giving the matter up, with the air of a
baffled antiquary, when my friend the sexton, perceiving me to be curious
in everything relative to the old tavern, offered 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 neighborhood.
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 neighborhood. We entered the barroom, which was
narrow and darkling, for in these close lanes but few rays of reflected 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 fire, before which a breast of lamb was roasting. A row of bright
brass candlesticks and pewter mugs glistened along the mantelpiece, and an
old fashioned clock ticked in one corner. There was something primitive in
this medley of kitchen, parlor, 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 superintendence of a notable
English housewife. A group of amphibious-looking beings, who might be
either fishermen 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 upstairs to the archives of her house, where the
precious vessels of the parish club were deposited, she returned, smiling
and courtesying, with them in her hands.

The first she presented me was a japanned 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 suffered to be profaned by
vulgar hands, or used on common occasions, I received it with becoming
reverence, but what was my delight at 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 fidelity and force
with which the portraits of renowned generals and commodores are
illustrated on tobacco-boxes, for the benefit of posterity. Lest, however,
there should be any mistake, the cunning limner had warily inscribed the
names of Prince Hal and Falstaff on the bottoms of their chairs.

Original

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
beautified by his successor, Mr. John Packard, 1767.” Such is a faithful
description of this august and venerable relic, and I question whether the
learned Scriblerius contemplated his Roman shield, or the Knights of the
Round Table the long-sought San-greal, with more exultation.
While I was meditating on it with enraptured gaze, Dame Honeyball,
who was highly gratified 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 with the red nose and oilcloth hat,
and whom I strongly suspected of being a lineal descendant from the
variant Bardolph. He suddenly aroused from his meditation on the pot of

porter, and casting a knowing look at the goblet, exclaimed, “Ay, ay! the
head don’t ache now that made that there article.”
The great importance attached to this memento of ancient revelry by
modern churchwardens, at first 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 Falstaff 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.*
* “Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting
in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal
fire, on Wednesday, in Whitsun-week, when the prince broke
thy head for likening his father to a singing man at
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?”—Henry IV., Part 2.

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 roisterers of Eastcheap,
and, like so many commentators, utter clouds of smoke in honor of
Shakespeare. These I forbear to relate, lest my readers should not be as
curious in these matters as myself. Suffice it to say, the neighbors, one and
all, about Eastcheap, believe that Falstaff 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. M’Kash, 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 inquiries, 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 fixed wistfully on the
savory breast of lamb, roasting in dripping richness before the fire.

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
goodness, 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 skilful illustrator of the immortal bard
would have swelled the materials I have touched upon to a good
merchantable bulk, comprising the biographies of William Walworth, Jack
Straw, and Robert Preston; some notice of the eminent fishmongers of St.
Michael’s; the history of Eastcheap, 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 ankle);—the whole
enlivened by the riots of Wat Tyler, and illuminated by the great fire 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 subject of future engravings, and almost as
fruitful of voluminous dissertations and disputes as the shield of Achilles or
the far-famed Portland Vase.

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 periods shall return to nought.
I know that all the muses’ heavenly rays,
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 HAWTHORNDEN.

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 reflection, 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
Original refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper into the
solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the vergers 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 Doomsday Book 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 difficulty,
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 floor, 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 fireplace. 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 fitted 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
school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, 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, 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 indifference, 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 reflection! And all for what? To occupy an inch of
dusty shelf—to have the titles 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 rumor, a local sound; like the tone
of that bell which has tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a
moment, lingering transiently in echo, and then passing away, like a thing
that was not!

Original

While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditating, these unprofitable
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
awaking from a deep sleep, then a husky hem, and at length began to talk.
At first 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 fluent, 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 endeavor, 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
suffered to languish in obscurity, and other such commonplace 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, trifled 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 off 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
their contemporary mortals, left to the ordinary course of Nature, have long
since returned to dust.”
“Sir,” said the little tome, ruffling 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, suffer me
to add, instead of likening to harems, you might more properly and
gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to religious
establishments for the benefit of the old and decrepit, 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 Giraldus 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 labors. What of
Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides 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——”
“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. I was written in my own
native tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed; 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 infinite difficulty 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, who
wrote his history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon.+ Even now many talk of
Spenser’s ‘well of pure English undefiled,’ as if the language ever sprang
from a well or fountain-head, and was not rather a mere confluence 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 fleeting. 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 finds
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 favorites 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, filled with new works in all the bravery of rich gilding and binding,
I feel disposed to sit down and weep, like the good Xerxes, when he
surveyed his army, pranked out in all the splendor of military array, and
reflected that in one hundred years not one of them would be in existence.”
* “In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great
delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but
certes there ben some that speaken their poisye in French,
of which speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as w
ave in hearying of Frenchmen’s Englishe.”—CHAUCER’S
Testament of Love.

+ Holinshed in his Chronicle, observes, “Afterwards, also,
by diligent vell f Geffry 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 mortal commendation.”

“Ah,” said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, “I see how it is: these in
modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors. I suppose
nothing is read nowadays but Sir Philip Sidney’s Arcadia, Sackville’s
stately plays and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun euphuisms of the
‘unparalleled John Lyly.’”

“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, was
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
fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the gratification of the
curious.
* “Live ever sweete booke; the simple 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
daintyest flowers of witt and arte, the pith of morale and
intellectual virtues, the arme of Bellona in the field, the
tongue of Suada in the chamber, the spirits of Practise in
esse, and the paragon of excellence in print.”—Harvey
Pierce’s Supererogation.

“For my part,” I continued, “I consider this mutability of language a wise
precaution of Providence for the benefit 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, flourishing, adorning the fields
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 flourished 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 unprofitable craft, pursued chiefly
by monks in the leisure and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of
manuscripts was slow and costly, and confined 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 every one a writer, and enabled every
mind to pour itself into print, and diffuse 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 five or six hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but what
would you say to libraries, such as actually exist, containing three or 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 prolific, I
tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation of language will not be
sufficient. Criticism may do much; it increases with the increase of
literature, and resembles one of those salutary checks on population spoken
of by economists. 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 lifetime merely to learn their names. Many a man of passable
information at the present day reads scarcely 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 Shakespeare. 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 rise 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-flowing current, and hold up many a neighboring plant,
and perhaps worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the case with
Shakespeare, 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 indifferent author, merely from having flourished 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 plethoric fit of laughter that had wellnigh 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 fit of laughter.
I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness, which, however, I
pardoned on account of his having flourished 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
crowded with commonplaces, and their thoughts expanded into tediousness.
But with the true poet every thing 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,
filled 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
endeavored to draw it into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all
this rambling colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another of
those old day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never, to this moment,
been able to discover.
* 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 comb that bee doth make
Is not so sweet in hyve,
As are the golden leves
That drops from poet’s head!
Which doth surmount our common talke
As farre as dross doth lead.
Churchyard.

RURAL FUNERALS.
Here’s a few flowers! but about midnight more:

The herbs that have oil them cold dew o’ the night
Are strewings fitt’st for graves——
You were as flowers now withered; even so
These herblets shall, which we upon you strow.
CYMBELINE.

AMONG the beautiful and simple-hearted customs of rural
life which still linger in some parts of England are those of
strewing flowers 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 affection,
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.
Original In Glamorganshire, we are told, the bed whereon the corpse
lies is covered with flowers, 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 flowers;
Which be-wept to the grave did go,
With true love showers.

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 chaplet of white flowers 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 flowers, 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 finished their course with joy, and are become
conquerors.” This, I am informed, is observed in some of the northern
counties, particularly in Northumberland, and it has a pleasing, though
melancholy effect 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 harmless and unhaunted ground,
And as we sing thy dirge, we will,
The daffodill
And other flowers lay upon
The altar of our love, thy stone.
HERRICK.

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 finely
evidenced in these pathetic customs, and in the solicitude shown by the
common people for an honored 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 Overbury, 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 flowers 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, 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 flowers, she, with a sigh, will tell

Her servants, what a pretty place it were
To bury lovers in; and made her maids
Bluck ‘em, and strew her over like a corse.

Original

The custom of decorating graves was once universally prevalent: osiers
were carefully bent over them to keep the turf uninjured, and about them
were planted evergreens and flowers. “We adorn their graves,” says Evelyn,
in his Sylva, “with flowers 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 dishonor, rise, again in glory.” This usage has
now become extremely rare in England; but it may still be met with in the
churchyards of retired villages, among the Welsh mountains; and I recollect
an instance of it at the small town of Ruthven, 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 flowers, 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 flowers 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 tombstones.
There was formerly a melancholy fancifulness in the arrangement of
these rustic offerings, 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 flower,” said 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
color of the flowers, and of the ribbons 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 specifies the decorations he intends to
use:
A garland shall be framed
By art and nature’s skill,
Of sundry-colored flowers,
In token of good-will.

And sundry-colored ribbons
On it I will bestow;
But chiefly blacke and yellowe
With her to grave shall go.

I’ll deck her tomb with flowers
The rarest ever seen;
And with my tears as showers
I’ll keep them fresh and green.

The white rose, we are told, was planted at the grave of a virgin; her
chaplet was tied with white ribbons, in token of her spotless innocence,
though sometimes black ribbons 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 churchyard is now full of them.”
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 flowers
were strewn, they were of the most melancholy colors. Thus, in poems by
Thomas Stanley, Esq. (published in 1651), is the following stanza:
Yet strew
Upon my dismall grave
Such offerings as you have,
Forsaken cypresse and yewe;
For kinder flowers 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 firm,
From my hour of birth;
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth.

The natural effect of sorrow over the dead is to refine and elevate the
mind; and we have a proof of it in the purity of sentiment and the
unaffected elegance of thought which pervaded the whole of these funeral
observances. Thus it was an especial precaution that none but sweet-scented
evergreens and flowers 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 refined 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 flesh
May violets spring.

Herrick, also, in his “Dirge of Jephtha,” pours forth a fragrant flow 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 frankincense.

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 flowers!
May virgins, when they come to mourn
Male incense burn
Upon thine altar! then return
And leave thee sleeping in thy 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 Shakespeare, even though it
should appear trite, which illustrates the emblematical meaning often
conveyed in these floral tributes, and at the same time possesses that magic
of language and appositeness of imagery for which he stands pre-eminent.
With fairest flowers,
Whilst summer lasts, and I live here, Fidele,
I’ll sweeten thy sad grave; thou shalt not lack
The flower that’s like thy face, pale primrose; nor
The azured harebell like thy veins; no, nor
The leaf of eglantine; whom not to slander,
Outsweetened not thy breath.

There is certainly something more affecting in these prompt and
spontaneous offerings of Nature than in the most costly monuments of art;
the hand strews the flower while the heart is warm, and the tear falls on the
grave as affection is binding the osier round the sod; but pathos expires
under the slow labor 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
insignificant 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 affecting

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 neighborhood, and when the daies are finished, they
shall be, and they shall be remembered no more.” The associate in the gay
and crowded city is soon forgotten; the hurrying succession of new
intimates and new pleasures effaces him from our minds, and the very
scenes and circles in which he moved are incessantly fluctuating. 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 fixed 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;
Beloved till life can charm no more,
And mourn’d till pity’s self be dead.

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 flowers is still
practised, it is always renewed on Easter, Whitsuntide, 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 neighbor yields assistance, it
would be deemed an insult to offer compensation.
I have dwelt upon this beautiful rural custom, because as it is one of the
last, so is it one of the holiest, offices of love. The grave is the ordeal of true
affection. 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 affection rises, purified from
every sensual desire, and returns, like a holy flame, to illumine and sanctify
the heart of the survivor.

Original

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 affliction to
forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open, this affliction 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 stifled griefs—its noiseless attendance—its mute, watchful
assiduities. The last testimonies of expiring love! The feeble, fluttering,
thrilling—oh, how thrilling!—pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering
accents, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The
last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us even from the threshold of
existence!
Ay, go to the grave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account
with thy conscience for every past benefit 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 affectionate 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
confided 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 flowers 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 affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and
affectionate 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 flowers 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
affectation. Bright, in his travels in Lower Hungary, tells of monuments of
marble and recesses formed for retirement, with seats placed among bowers
of greenhouse plants, and that the graves generally are covered with the
gayest flowers of the season. He gives a casual picture of filial 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 Iffland 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 figure of this affectionate 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 footpaths. The whole force
of the republic did not exceed six hundred fighting 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 affixed miniatures,
rudely executed, but evidently attempts at likenesses of the deceased. On
the crosses were hung chaplets of flowers, 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
unaffected offerings 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
fulfilling one of the most fanciful rites of poetical devotion, and that he was
practically a poet.

THE INN KITCHEN.
Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?
FALSTAFF.

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 relics 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
Original
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 almanac 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. Every one that has travelled on the Continent must know how
favorite 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 fire
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 round 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 flitch of bacon or were reflected 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.

Original

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 endeavor 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 a-kimbo, the other holding a curiously twisted tobacco-pipe
formed of genuine ecume de mer, 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.

Original

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.

O
N the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and
romantic tract of Upper Germany that lies not far from the
confluence 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 firs; 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 neighboring country.
The baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,+
and inherited the relics 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 endeavored 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 neighbors, on account of disputes
that had happened between their great-great-grandfathers.
* 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, a circumstance
said to have taken place in Paris.

+ I.e., CAT’S ELBOW—the name of a family of those parts,
and very powerful in former times. The appellation, we are
told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the
family, celebrated for a fine arm.

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 superintendence 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 branches of knowledge necessary to the education of a
fine 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 difficulty, and had
spelled her way through several Church legends and almost all the chivalric
wonders of the Heldenbuch. She had even made considerable proficiency 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 knicknacks 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 Minnelieders by heart.
Her aunts, too, having been great flirts 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 duenna so rigidly prudent and
inexorably decorous as a superannuated coquette. She was rarely suffered
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 a 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 effects 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
rosebud 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 affectionate 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 filled 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 firm 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 affair 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. 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 youthful bridegroom could desire, and the flutter of
expectation heightened the lustre of her charms.
The suffusions 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 affairs 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 infinite 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 fly
on a warm summer’s day.
In the mean time the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung with
the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the
cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferre-wein; and
even the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under contribution. Everything
was ready to receive the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus 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 forest 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 floating 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 off in a different direction.
The last ray of sunshine departed, the bats began to flit 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 labor.
While the old castle of Landshort was in this state of perplexity a very
interesting scene was transacting in a different 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 toward matrimony when his
friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off 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 off 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 fled, 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 neighboring convent who was famous for his skill
in administering to both soul and body; but half of his skill was superfluous;
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
his 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 endeavored 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 engagements, 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 enterprise 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 filled
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 mortified that he should have come in
this simple, solitary style. His dignity for a moment was ruffled, 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 pacified
himself, however, 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
eloquence. The stranger attempted once or twice to stem the torrent of
words, but in vain, so he bowed his head and suffered it to flow 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 effort 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-favored portraits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and
the trophies which they had gained in the field, and in the chase. Hacked
corselets, 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 crossbows 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 scarcely 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 effect
upon the young lady. Her color 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 sidelong glance at his romantic
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evident
that the young couple were completely enamored. The aunts, who were
deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen in
love with each other at first 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 effect. 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 dignified to utter any joke but a dull one;
it was always enforced, however, by a bumper of excellent Hockheimer,
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—a dreadful 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 fixed 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 finished 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 different chamber to-night.”
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 offer, and,
waving his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the hall. The
maiden aunts were absolutely petrified; 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, 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 a lone,” 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 some one in your place?”
“It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in person; I must away to
Wurtzburg cathedral——”
“Ay,” said the baron, plucking up spirit, “but not until to-morrow—to-
morrow 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 banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of some that this might
be the wild huntsman, famous in German legend. 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 infidel;
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
confirming 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 filled 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 figure 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 affections of a lovesick 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 first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still quoted
in the neighborhood 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
flown!

Original

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 labors of the trencher, when the

aunt, who had at first 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 off 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 grandchildren. As usual, he was completely bewildered,
and all the castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to take horse and
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, 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 off a noble figure of manly
symmetry. He was no longer pale and melancholy. His fine countenance
was flushed 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 suffered 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 inflexible, 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
find 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 exemplified, but attributed it all to their
negligence in not having the windows grated. One of them was particularly
mortified 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 flesh and blood. And so the
story ends.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
When I behold, with deep astonishment,
To famous Westminster how there resorte,
Living in brasse or stoney monument,
The princes and the worthies of all sorte;
Doe not I see reformde nobilitie,
Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation,
And looke upon offenselesse majesty,
Naked of pomp 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 frost of cold felicitie,
And death the thaw of all our vanitie.
CHRISTOLERO’S EPIGRAMS, BY T. B. 1598.

O
N 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 magnificence 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 massive walls. Through
this dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with the figure of an
old verger in his black gown moving along their shadowy vaults, and
seeming like a spectre from one of the neighboring 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 gray walls are discolored 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 funeral
emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of
the arches; the roses which adorned the keystones 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 dusky splendor. 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.

Original

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this mingled picture of
glory and decay, and sometimes endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on
the tombstones which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my eye was
attracted to three figures rudely carved in relief, but nearly worn away by
the footsteps of many generations. They were the effigies of three of the
early abbots; the epitaphs were entirely effaced; 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 relics 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 the 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
eyes gaze 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 insignificance in comparison with his own
handiwork. The spaciousness and gloom of this vast edifice 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 filled 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 jostled 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 artifices 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.

Original

I passed some time in Poet’s 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 afford no striking themes for the sculptor.
Shakespeare and Addison 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 remained 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 fellowmen is ever new, active, and immediate.
He has lived for them more than for himself; he has sacrificed 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 Poet’s 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 effigies—some
kneeling in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon the tombs, with
hands piously pressed together; warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle;
prelates, with crosiers 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 effigy of a knight in
complete armor. 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; 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 fiction, between
the history and the fairytale. 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 fiction, the
chivalrous pomp and pageantry which poetry has spread over the wars for
the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of times utterly gone by, of
beings passed from recollection, of customs and manners with which ours
have no affinity. 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 effigies on Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death or in the
supplication of the dying hour. They have an effect infinitely more
impressive on my feelings than the fanciful attitudes, the over wrought
conceits, the 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 honorable lineage than
one which affirms of a noble house that “all the brothers were brave and all
the sisters virtuous.”
In the opposite transept to Poet’s 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. 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 fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking
into her affrighted husband’s arms, who strives with vain and frantic effort
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
effect 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. A flight of steps leads up to it
through a deep and gloomy but magnificent 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
labor 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, richly carved of oak, though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic
architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed 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
splendor of gold and purple and crimson with the cold gray fretwork of the
roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum stands the sepulchre of its
founder—his effigy, 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 magnificence, 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 valor and beauty of the land, glittering with the splendor
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 honors—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. 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 figure 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.

Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring 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 fills 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 floated 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
round 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 flight of steps
which lead into the body of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine
of Edward the Confessor, 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 artifice to produce an effect 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 dishonor 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 coffin of Edward the Confessor
has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal
ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of the imperious
Elizabeth; and the effigy 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 dishonored.
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 effigies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble
figures 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 Poet’s 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, filled the whole building with echoes.
I endeavored 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 off 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 relics 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 to-day 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 Browne, “find their graves in our short memories, and sadly tell us
how we may be buried in our survivors.” 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.” *
What then is to ensure 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 sunbeam shall break into these 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 passes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale
that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.
* Sir T. Browne.

Original

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 CHRISTMAS.
A man might then behold
At Christmas, in each hall
Good fires to curb the cold,
And meat for great and small.
The neighbors were friendly bidden,
And all had welcome true,
The poor from the gates were not chidden
When this old cap was new.
OLD SONG.

N
OTHING 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 flavor 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 fervor 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 effect of
music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ
performing a Christmas anthem in a cathedral, and filling 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
connections, 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 affections, 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
everywhere.” 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 it deep
delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,—all fill 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 gratifications 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 pleasure 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 loving-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
filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze
diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up
each countenance in 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 fireside? 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 habit throughout every
class of society, have always been found 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 humors, 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 flow 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 fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting the
passengers 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 effects of modern refinement is the havoc it has
made among the hearty old holiday customs. It has completely taken off 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 Falstaff, are
become matters of speculation and dispute among commentators. They
flourished 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 flowed 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 fireside 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 parlor, but are unfitted to the light
showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa.

Original

Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive honors, 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 effect in producing fond
associations and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound of the
Waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mid-watches of a
winter night with the effect 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
influences, 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 hallow’d and so gracious is the time.”

Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the spirits, and stir of
the affections 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 fire of hospitality in the hall, but the genial flame 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 fields 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 influence of the
season beaming into my soul from the happy looks of those around me.
Surely happiness is reflective, 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 selfish gratification, but he wants the genial and social
sympathies which constitute the charm of a merry Christmas.

Original

THE STAGE-COACH.
Omne bene
Sine poena
Tempua est ludendi.
Venit hora
Absque mora
Libros deponendi.
OLD HOLIDAY SCHOOL-SONG.

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
Original 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 fine rosy-cheeked school boys for my fellow-passengers inside, full of
the buxom health and manly spirit which I have observed in the children of
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 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. 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 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 cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He wears a
broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat; a huge roll of colored handkerchief
about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the bosom; and has in
summer-time a large bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole, the present, most
probably, of some enamored country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of
some bright color, striped, and his small-clothes extend far below the knees,
to meet a pair of jockey boots which reach about halfway 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 ostler, his duty being merely to
drive from one stage to another. When off the box his hands are thrust into
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 ostlers, stableboys, 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, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage.
Every ragamuffin 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
the 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 house-
maid an odd-shaped billet-doux from some rustic admirer. As the coach
rattles through the village every one 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 suffer the iron to grow cool; and the
sooty spectre in brown paper cap laboring 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 grocers’, butchers’, and fruiterers’
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 preparation: “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
broth. 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 fire. The country maid
leaves half her market, and must be sent again if she forgets a pack of cards
on Christmas Eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy whether master
or dame wears the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and if the
cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his fingers.”

Original

I was roused from this fit 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, recognizing 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 end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in livery
waiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated pointer and by
the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony with a shaggy mane and
long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the roadside, 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 difficulty that John arranged that
they should ride by turns and the eldest should ride first.

Off 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 known neither 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-fire 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
flitches of bacon were suspended from the ceiling; a smoke-jack made its
ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, 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, while others sat smoking and gossiping
over their ale on two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim
housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under the directions of
a fresh bustling landlady, but still seizing an occasional moment to
exchange a flippant word and have a rallying laugh with the group round
the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin’s humble idea of the
comforts of midwinter:
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 fire,
Are things this season doth require.*

* Poor Robin’s Almanack, 1684.

I had not been long at the inn when a post-chaise drove up to the door. A
young gentleman stept 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-humored 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, finding 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.

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.
CARTWRIGHT.

IT was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our
chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the postboy
smacked his whip incessantly, and a part of the time his horses
were on 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,
Original and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English
hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with
nowadays 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 textbook, instead of Chesterfield; he determined in his
own mind that there was no condition more truly honorable 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 on the subject. Indeed,
his favorite range of reading is among the authors who flourished 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 humor without molestation.
Being representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, 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 eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd.”
* Peacham’s Complete Gentleman, 1622.

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, magnificent old style, of iron
bars fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square
columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the family crest. Close
adjoining was the porter’s lodge, sheltered under dark fir trees and almost
buried in shrubbery.
The postboy rang a large porter’s bell, which resounded though 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, 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 moonbeams caught a frosty crystal,
and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent vapor stealing up from the
low grounds and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape.
My companion looked around 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
filial 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 clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts and
sizes, “mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of lower degree,” that
disturbed by the ring 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!’”

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.

Original

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
different 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’s 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 artificial
flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone
balustrades, 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 finery in all its original state. He admired this fashion in gardening;
it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting 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 leveling system. I could not help smiling at
this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some
apprehension that I should find 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 mistletoe with its white
berries hung up, to the imminent peril of all the pretty housemaids.*
* The mistletoe 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.

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 officer in the army, home on a leave of absence; the
other an Oxonian, just from the university. The squire was a fine healthy-
looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid
countenance, in which the 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 affectionate; 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 different branches of a numerous family
connection, where there were the usual proportion of old uncles and aunts,
comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country
cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding-school hoydens.
They were variously occupied—some at a round game of cards; others
conversing around the fireplace; 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 floor showed traces of a troop
of little fairy beings who, having frolicked through a happy day, had been
carried off to slumber through a peaceful night.
While the mutual greetings were going on between young Bracebridge
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
endeavored to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over the heavy
projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior in armor, 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, fishing-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 floor had been carpeted, so that the whole presented an odd
mixture of parlor and hall.
The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace to
make way for a fire 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.*
* 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 fireplace, and lighted with the
brand of 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 fire.
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 metric, merrie boys,
The Christmas Log to the firing;
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your hearts’ desiring.

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 barefooted, it is considered an ill omen. The brand
remaining from the Yule-clog is carefully put away to light the next year’s
Christmas fire.
It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his hereditary
elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside 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 floor, and stretch himself again to sleep, confident 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 panels 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 find my old friend, minced pie, in the retinue of the feast
and, finding 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 humors 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 frostbitten 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 infinite merriment by
harping 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 to him in a continual agony of
stifled 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; 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 briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an old
bachelor, of a small independent income, which by careful management
was sufficient 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

connections 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 favorite 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, and
whom he particularly delighted by jumping with his humor 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 neighbors 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 every one 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 figured down several couple
with a partner with whom he affirmed 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 endeavoring 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 madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite among
the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the young officer
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 officers 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. 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 fireplace 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 effort of memory, struck into another strain, and with a
charming air of gallantry gave Herrick’s “Night-Piece to Julia:”

Original

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

No Will-o’-the-Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee;
But on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright 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 floor. Her face was suffused, 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
indifference that she amused herself with plucking to pieces a choice
bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the time the song was concluded the
nosegay lay in ruins on the floor.
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 panelled, with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers 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, 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
neighboring village. They went round the house, playing under the
windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The
moonbeams 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 moonlight. 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.

Original

CHRISTMAS DAY.
Dark and dull night, flie hence away,
And give the honor to this day
That sees December turn’d to May.
. . . . . . .
Why does the chilling winter’s morne
Smile like a field beset with corn?
Or smell like to a meade new-shorne,
Thus on the sudden?—come and see
The cause why things thus fragrant be.
HERRICK.

WHEN I woke 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
Original 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
fingers, 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.

Original

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy feelings in this
stronghold 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 fine 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 vapor of the preceding evening had
been precipitated by the cold, and covered all the trees and every blade of
grass with its fine crystalizations. The rays of a bright morning sun had a
dazzling effect 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 scarcely 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. Bracebridge
himself had constructed from a poem of his favorite 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 effect was extremely
pleasing, but I was particularly gratified 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 guiltless mirth,
And givest me Wassaile bowles to drink
Spiced to the brink;
Lord, ‘tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soiles my land:
And giv’st me for my bushell sowne,
Twice ten for one.”

I afterwards understood that early morning service was read on every
Sunday and saint’s day throughout the year, either by Mr. Bracebridge 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 keynote 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 effeminacy

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 gentlemanlike 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 to Master
Simon’s buttonhole, 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 balustrades, 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 flock 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 flight 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,
chiefly 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 favorites
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
magnificence 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 balustrade.
Master Simon had now to hurry off, 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 flow 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
every-day reading. I mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge,
who told me with a smile that Master Simon’s whole stock of erudition was
confined 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 fit, as
he sometimes had on 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
Angler, 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 chiefly 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 neighborhood.
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 a 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 neighbors, the great with the small.”

“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 ‘sweet-mouths,’ he

has culled-with curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighborhood;
though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult to keep in tune, your
pretty female singer being exceedingly wayward and capricious, and very
liable to accident.”

Original

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and clear, the most of
the family walked to the church, which was a very old building of gray
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 off from each ear; so that his head
seemed to have shrunk away within it, like a dried filbert 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 Wynkyn de Worde 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; indifferent 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 reflected 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 gray-
headed sexton for having used mistletoe 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 unfit 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 effigy of a warrior in
armor 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 fireplace 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 connections. I observed too that he turned over the leaves of a folio
prayer-book with something of a flourish; possibly to show off an enormous
seal-ring which enriched one of his fingers and which had the look of a
family relic. But he was evidently most solicitous about the musical part of
the service, keeping his eye fixed 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 tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and
chin, who played on the clarinet, and seemed to have blown his face to a
point; and there was another, a short pursy man, stooping and laboring 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 fiddles, 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
fiddler 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 expectation. Unluckily, there was a blunder at the very outset: the
musicians became flurried; 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
happened 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 Caesarea, St. Cyprian, St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, 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, when the Puritans made such a fierce 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 fiery persecution of poor mince-
pie throughout the land; when plum porridge was denounced as “mere
popery,” and roast beef as anti-christian, 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 ardor of his contest and the
host of imaginary foes with whom he had to combat; he had a stubborn
conflict with old Prynne and two or three other forgotten champions of the
Roundheads on the subject of Christmas festivity; and concluded by urging
his hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to stand to the
traditional customs of their fathers and feast and make merry on this joyful
anniversary of the Church.
* From the “Flying Eagle,” a small gazette, published
December 24, 1652: “The House spent much time this day about
the business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea,
and before they rose, were presented with a terrible
remonstrance against Christmas day, grounded upon divine
Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; I Cor. xv. 14, 17; and in honor of
the Lord’s Day, grounded upon these Scriptures, John xx. I;
Rev. i. 10; Psalms cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11; Mark xv.
8; Psalms lxxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti-
christ’s masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who
observe it, etc. In consequence of which parliament spent
some time in consultation about the abolition of Christmas
day, passed orders to that effect, and resolved to sit on
the following day, which was commonly called Christmas day.”

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently with more immediate
effects, 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 churchyard, 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 doffed 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.
* “Ule! Ule!
Three puddings in a pule;
Crack nuts and cry ule!”

Original

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed 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
sufficient to inspire philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the
morning the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired sufficient 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 selfishness and thawing every heart into a flow. 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 in his malediction on every churlish
enemy to this honest festival:
“‘Those who at Christmas do repine,
And would fain hence dispatch 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 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 effect 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.’”

“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-humor 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.”
* “An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day—
i.e. on Christmas Day in the morning—had all his tenants
and neighbors enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer
was broached, and the black-jacks went plentifully about,
with toast, sugar and 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
shamed of her laziness.”—Round about our Sea-Coal Fire.

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
neighborhood in one week than the parish officers could get rid of in a year.
Since then he had contented himself with inviting the decent part of the
neighboring 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 ribbons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their hands,
was 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 flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of the dance
and rattling a Christmas box with many antic gesticulations.

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
neighborhood, and had encouraged its revival; though, to tell the truth, it
was too apt to be followed up by the 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 neighborhood. He was a visitor at every farmhouse
and cottage, gossiped with the farmers and their wives, romped with their
daughters, and, like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the humblebee, tolled
the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round.
The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before good cheer and
affability. There is something genuine and affectionate 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 or
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 months 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, coloring up, ran off
with an air of roguish affected confusion.

Original

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’l bury ‘t in a Christmas pye,
And evermore be merry.
WITHERS, Juvenilia.

I HAD finished 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
Original His summons did obey;
Each serving-man, with dish in hand,
March’d boldly up, like our train-band,
Presented and away.*

* Sir John Suckling.

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the squire always held
his Christmas banquet. A blazing crackling fire of logs had been heaped on
to warm the spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and
wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great picture of the crusader
and his white horse had been profusely decorated with greens for the
occasion, and holly and ivy had like-wise 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 armor 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 armor,
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 armor 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: “flagons, 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 first magnitude; other lights
were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered like a firmament
of silver.
We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the sound of minstrelsy,
the old harper being seated on a stool beside the fireplace 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-favored visage. I always consider an old English
family as well worth studying as a collection of Holbein’s portraits or
Albert Durer’s prints. 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 demeanor, with a high Roman
nose and an antique vinegar aspect, who was a great favorite of the squire’s,
being, as he said, a Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of
his ancestors who figured 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 flourish; at the conclusion of which the
young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the squire, gave, with an air of the
most comic gravity, an old carol, the first verse of which was as follows

Original

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
apprised 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 in their black gowns; many of whom, poor lads! are now in their
graves.”

Original

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 affirmed was
different 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 first to the company at large; but, finding
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 plateful of turkey.*
* 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 favored 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, etc.

Our steward hath provided this
In honor of the King of Bliss,
Which on this day to be served is
In Reginensi Atrio.
Caput apri defero, etc., etc., etc.

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and presented an epitome
of country abundance in this season of overflowing 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 traditional in their
embellishments, but about which, as I did not like to appear overcurious, I
asked no questions.
I could not, however, but notice a pie magnificently 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.*
* 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 enterprise, whence came the
ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, “by cock and pie.”

The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; and
Massinger, in his “City Madam,” 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 carcases of three
fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock!

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 makeshifts or this worthy old humorist, by
which he was endeavoring 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 humors of its lord, and
most probably looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established
laws of honorable 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 toper leap within him, being composed of
the richest and raciest wines, highly spiced and sweetened, with roasted
apples bobbing about the surface.*
* 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 Wool;
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger,
With store of ale too,
And thus ye must doe
To make the Wassaile a swinger.

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 every one to follow his example, according
to the primitive style, pronouncing it “the ancient fountain of good feeling,
where all hearts met together.” *
* “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 chappell (chaplain) was to answer with
a song.”—Archaeologia.

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:

Original

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 fill all out-a.

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

* From Poor Robin’s Almanack.

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 flirtation. 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 undertone,
that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine woman and drove her own
curricle.
The dinner-time passed away in this flow 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 diffuse
pleasure around him! and how truly is a kind heart a fountain of gladness,
making everything 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 humor 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 affirm 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-humor 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 effort of imagination to figure such a
little dark anatomy of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap gambol.
Indeed, the two college chums presented pictures of what men may be made
by their different 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 flourished on to a hearty and florid 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 fire 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, the old gentleman
made an “alphabet of faces,” which, as far as I could decipher his
physiognomy, I verily believe was indicative of laughter; indeed, I have
rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute offence 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 humor as a grasshopper filled 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 first verse was to effect.
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.

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several
attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller that was pat to the
purpose; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the
latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the effects of
good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze and his wig sitting
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-buff. Master Simon, who was the
leader of their revels, and seemed on all occasions to fulfill the office 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 Falstaff,
pinching him, plucking at the skirts of his coat, and tickling him with

straws. One fine blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in
beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock half torn off 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.
* 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 worshipper were he spirituall or
temporall.—STOW.

When I returned to the drawing-room I found the company seated round
the fire listening to the parson, who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed
oaken chair, the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had been
brought from the library for his particular accommodation. From this
venerable piece of furniture, with which his shadowy figure and dark
weazen face so admirably accorded, he was dealing out 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 filled with the marvelous and supernatural. He
gave us several anecdotes of the fancies of the neighboring peasantry
concerning the effigy 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
churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it thundered; and one old
woman, whose cottage bordered on the churchyard, 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 endeavored to break his way to the coffin at night, but just
as he reached it received a violent blow from the marble hand of the effigy,

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 churchyard.
From these and other anecdotes that followed the crusader appeared to be
the favorite 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 fixed 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, affirmed that in her young days she
had often heard say that on Midsummer Eve, when it was 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 dairymaids 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 neighboring gossips with
infinite gravity, and held the porter’s wife in high favor 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 flew
open, and a train came trooping into the room that might almost have been
mistaken for the breaking up of the court of Faery. 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 masking; and having called
in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, who were equally
ripe for anything that should occasion romping and merriment, they had

carried it into instant effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; the
antique clothespresses and wardrobes rummaged and made to yield up the
relics of finery that had not seen the light for several generations; the
younger part of the company had been privately convened from the parlor
and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out into a burlesque imitation
of an antique mask.*
* Maskings or mummeries were favorite 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.”

Master Simon led the van, as “Ancient Christmas,” quaintly apparelled in
a ruff, 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 figured in the days of the Covenanters.
From under this his nose curved boldly forth, flushed 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 magnificence of a faded brocade, long stomacher, peaked hat,
and high-heeled shoes. The young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a
sporting dress of Kendal green 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 finery of the ancient belles of the
Bracebridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt cork, and
gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, and full-bottomed wigs, to
represent the character of Roast Beef, Plum Pudding, and other worthies
celebrated in ancient maskings. 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. Different centuries were
figuring at cross hands and right and left; the Dark Ages were cutting
pirouettes and rigadoons; 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 Pavon, 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 off his apathy and catching once more the
freshness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the scene from the
consideration that these fleeting 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.+
* 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 first 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 in the skirts of
Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he passed the Christmas
holidays. The reader will find some notice of them in the
author’s account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey.

But enough of Christmas and its gambols; it is time for me to pause in
this garrulity. Methinks I hear the questions 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 laboring 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
in 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 film of misanthropy, prompt a benevolent view of human nature,
and make my reader more in good-humor with his fellow-beings and
himself—surely, surely, I shall not then have written entirely in vain.

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

I AM somewhat of an antiquity-hunter, and am fond of
exploring London in quest of the relics 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
Original 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
buffeting 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 flesh 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 fit of desperation I tore my way
through the crowd, plunged into a by-lane, and, after passing through
several obscure nooks and angles, emerged into a quaint and quiet court
with a grassplot 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 effigies of warriors in armor. Some had the
hands devoutly crossed upon the breast; others grasped the pommel 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, strangely situated in
the very centre of sordid traffic; and I do not know a more impressive
lesson for the many of the world than thus suddenly to turn aside from the
highway of busy money-seeking life, and sit down among these shadowy
sepulchres, where all is twilight, dust, and forget-fullness.
In a subsequent tour of observation I encountered another of these relics
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 gateway of mouldering antiquity. It opened into a spacious
quadrangle forming the courtyard of a stately Gothic pile, the portal of
which stood invitingly open.
It was apparently a public edifice, 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 fireplace, 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 ruff, and a
venerable gray 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 flood of yellow sunshine, checkered 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 edifice. 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 panelled door in an arch at
the upper end of the hall was opened, and a number of gray-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
dilapidated cloisters, for the main edifice 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 gray 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 stuffed alligators; bottled
serpents and monsters decorated the mantelpiece; while on the high tester of
an old-fashioned bedstead grinned a human skull, flanked on each side by a
dried cat.
I approached to regard more narrowly this mystic chamber, which
seemed a fitting 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 gray,
wiry, projecting eyebrows. I at first 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-mage
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 mantelpiece? He proved, however, to be
anything but a conjurer, 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 final nestling-place of his old age with relics 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 munificence, 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, whose work I have consulted on the subject, speaking of the
obligations of the gray-headed pensioners, says, “They are not to
intermeddle with any business touching the affairs 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 ruffian-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 fixed 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 snuff-colored coat, with whom I became acquainted
shortly after my visit to the Charter House. I confess I was a little dubious
at first whether it was not one of those apocryphal tales often passed off
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.

Original

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 be out of charity with me. NASH.
IN the centre of the great City of London lies a small
neighborhood, 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; Smithfield 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
Original yawning gulf of Bull-and-Mouth Street separates it from
Butcher Lane and the regions of Newgate. 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 Brittany. As London increased, however, rank
and fashion rolled off 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 prolific race of
booksellers: these also gradually deserted it, and, emigrating beyond the
great strait of Newgate Street, settled down in Paternoster Row and St.
Paul’s Churchyard, 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 splendor. There are several houses ready to tumble down, the fronts
of which are magnificently enriched with old oaken carvings of hideous
faces, unknown birds, beasts, and fishes, and fruits and flowers 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 finery in great rambling time-
stained apartments with fretted ceilings, gilded cornices, and enormous
marble fireplaces. 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 doorways.*
* It is evident that the author of this interesting
communication has included, in his general title of Little
Britain, man of those little lanes and courts that belong
immediately to Cloth Fair.

In this most venerable and sheltered little nest have I passed several quiet
years of existence, comfortably lodged in the second floor of one of the
smallest but oldest edifices. My sitting-room is an old wainscoted chamber,
with small panels and set off 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 figured 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 neighbors, 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 indifferent
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 neighborhood, and,
being curious to learn the internal state of a 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
stronghold of true John Bullism. It is a fragment of London as it was in its
better days, with its antiquated folks and fashions. Here flourish in great
preservation many of the holiday games and customs of yore. The
inhabitants most religiously eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday, hot cross-

buns on Good Friday, and roast goose at Michaelmas; they send love-letters
on Valentine’s Day, burn the Pope on the Fifth of November, and kiss all the
girls under the mistletoe 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 figures that strike the hours at St.
Dunstan’s clock; the Monument; the lions in the Tower; and the wooden
giants in Guildhall. 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 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, 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 conjurer because he has two or three stuffed
alligators hanging up in his shop and several snakes in bottles. He is a great
reader of almanacs and newspapers, and is much given to pore over
alarming accounts of plots, conspiracies, fires, 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 Shipton 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