THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

by WASHINGTON IRVING.




"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.




PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION.



THE following papers, with two exceptions, were written in
England, and formed but part of an intended series for which I
had made notes and memorandums. Before I could mature a plan,
however, circumstances compelled me to send them piecemeal to
the United States, where they were published from time to time
in portions or numbers. It was not my intention to publish them
in England, being conscious that much of their contents could be
interesting only to American readers, and, in truth, being
deterred by the severity with which American productions had
been treated by the British press.

By the time the contents of the 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.

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
  emitted. 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.




CONTENTS.

Preface
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
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
Statford-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.

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 I 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!

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
ok 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.



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.

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he has to make
is an excellent preparative. The temporary absence of worldly
scenes and employments produces a state of mind peculiarly
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.

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
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."

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.

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.



ROSCOE.

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

ONE of the first places to which a stranger is taken in
Liverpool is the Athenaeum. It is established on a liberal and
judicious plan; it contains a good library, and spacious
reading-room, and is the great literary resort of the place. Go
there at what hour you may, you are sure to find it filled with
grave-looking personages, deeply absorbed in the study of
newspapers.

As I was once visiting this haunt of the learned, my attention
was attracted to a person just entering the room. He was
advanced in life, tall, and of a form that might once have been
commanding, but it was a little bowed by time--perhaps by care.
He had a noble Roman style of countenance; a 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.

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.

                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.



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 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.

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.



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. [The
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.]

WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the
Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great
Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river,
swelling up to 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.

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.

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.

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!"

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, be 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 be soon grew into great favor.

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.

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

The Kaatsberg or Catskill mountains have always been a region
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits,
who 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!

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.



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.

IT is with feelings of deep regret that I observe the literary
animosity daily growing up between England and America. Great
curiosity has been awakened of late with respect to the United
States, and the London press has teemed with volumes of travels
through the Republic; but they seem intended to 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.

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.



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.

THE 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.

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.

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.

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:

    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.



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.

IT is a common practice with those who have outlived the
susceptibility of early feeling, or have been brought up in the
gay heartlessness of dissipated life, to laugh at all love
stories, and to treat the tales of romantic passion as mere
fictions of novelists and poets. My observations on human nature
have induced me to think otherwise. They have convinced me that,
however the surface of the character may be chilled and frozen
by the cares of the world, or cultivated into mere smiles by the
arts of society, still there are dormant 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.

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:

    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!



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.

I 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 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.

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.

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.



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.

ON a soft sunny morning in the genial month of May I made an
excursion to Windsor Castle. It is a place full of storied and
poetical associations. The very external aspect of the proud old
pile is enough to inspire high thought. It rears its irregular
walls and massive towers, like a mural crown 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 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 bad 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.

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.

* Quair, an old term for book.

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.

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 manlv 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.

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.

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 n 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.



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.

THERE 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 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.

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.



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
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.

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.

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 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.

IT 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 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.

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.

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
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!

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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 ver
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.



THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.

A TRAVELLER'S TALE.*

    He that supper for is dight,
    He lyes full cold, I trow, this night!
    Yestreen to chamber I him led,
    This night Gray-steel has made his bed!
   SIR EGER, SIR GRAHAME, and SIR GRAY-STEEL.

ON the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, 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, howover, 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!

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 be was tenacious of paternal authority and
devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; but be 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 he 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.

ON one of those sober and rather melancholy days in the latter
part of autumn when the shadows of morning and evening almost
mingle together, and throw a gloom over the decline of the year,
I passed several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey.
There was something congenial to the season in the mournful
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.

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.

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 gradally
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.



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.

NOTHING in England exercises a more delightful spell over my
imagination than the lingerings of the holiday customs and rural
games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to
draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the
world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had
painted it; and they bring with them the 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.

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.



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 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."

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, 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.

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:"

        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 misligbt 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.



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
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.

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."

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 coinpanion; 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 banded 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!"

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.



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
        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

        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."

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,
    Bodeck'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:

    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 Derbvshire 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 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 bead 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-mago who ruled over this
magical fraternity.

Seeing me pausing before the door, he rose and invited me to
enter. I obeyed with singular hardihood, for how did I know
whether a wave of his wand might not metamorphose me into some
strange monster or conjure me into one of the bottles on his
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.



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 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 last comet over the heads of
his customers and disciples until they were nearly frightened
out of their wits. He has lately got hold of a popular legend or
prophecy, on which he has been unusually eloquent. There has
been a saying current among the ancient sibyls, who treasure up
these things, that when the grasshopper on the top of the
Exchange shook hands with the dragon on the top of Bow Church
steeple, fearful events would take place. This strange
conjunction, it seems, has as strangely come to pass. The same
architect has been engaged lately on the repairs of the cupola
of the Exchange and the steeple of Bow Church; and, fearful to
relate, the dragon and the grasshopper actually lie, cheek by
jole, in the yard of his workshop.

"Others," as Mr. Skryme is accustomed to say, "may go
star-gazing, and look for conjunctions in the heavens, but here
is a conjunction on the earth, near at home and under our own
eyes, which surpasses all the signs and calculations of
astrologers." Since these portentous weathercocks have thus laid
their heads together, wonderful events had already occurred. The
good old king, notwithstanding that he had lived eighty-two
years, had all at once given up the ghost; another king had
mounted the throne; a royal duke had died suddenly; another, in
France, had been murdered; there had been radical meetings in
all parts of the kingdom; the bloody scenes at Manchester; the
great plot in Cato Street; and, above all, the queen had
returned to England! All these sinister events are recounted by
Mr. Skyrme with a mysterious look and a dismal shake of the
head; and being taken with his drugs, and associated in the
minds of his auditors with stuffed-sea-monsters, bottled
serpents, and his own visage, which is a title-page of
tribulation, they have spread great gloom through the minds of
the people of Little Britain. They shake their heads whenever
they go by Bow Church, and observe that they never expected any
good to come of taking down that steeple, which in old times
told nothing but glad tidings, as the history of Whittington and
his Cat bears witness.

The rival oracle of Little Britain is a substantial
cheesemonger, who lives in a fragment of one of the old family
mansions, and is as magnificently lodged as a round-bellied mite
in the midst of one of his own Cheshires. Indeed, he is a man of
no little standing and importance, and his renown extends
through Huggin lane and Lad lane, and even unto Aldermanbury.
His opinion is very much taken in affairs of state, having read
the Sunday papers for the last half century, together with the
Gentleman's Magazine, Rapin's History of England, and the Naval
Chronicle. His head is stored with invaluable maxims which have
borne the test of time and use for centuries. It is his firm
opinion that "it is a moral impossible," so long as England is
true to herself, that anything can shake her: and he has much to
say on the subject of the national debt, which, somehow or
other, he proves to be a great national bulwark and blessing. He
passed the greater part of his life in the purlieus of Little
Britain until of late years, when, having become rich and grown
into the dignity of a Sunday cane, he begins to take his
pleasure and see the world. He has therefore made several
excursions to Hampstead, Highgate, and other neighboring towns,
where he has passed whole afternoons in looking back upon the
metropolis through a telescope and endeavoring to descry the
steeple of St. Bartholomew's. Not a stage-coachman of
Bull-and-Mouth Street but touches his hat as he passes, and he
is considered quite a patron at the coach-office of the Goose
and Gridiron, St. Paul's Churchyard. His family have been very
urgent for him to make an expedition to Margate, but he has
great doubts of those new gimcracks, the steamboats, and indeed
thinks himself too advanced in life to undertake sea-voyages.

Little Britain has occasionally its factions and divisions, and
party spirit ran very high at one time, in consequence of two
rival "Burial Societies" being set up in the place. One held its
meeting at the Swan and Horse-Shoe, and was patronized by the
cheesemonger; the other at the Cock and Crown, under the
auspices of the apothecary: it is needless to say that the
latter was the most flourishing. I have passed an evening or two
at each, and have acquired much valuable information as to the
best mode of being buried, the comparative merits of
churchyards, together with divers hints on the subject of patent
iron coffins. I have heard the question discussed in all its
bearings as to the legality of prohibiting the latter on account
of their durability. The feuds occasioned by these societies
have happily died of late; but they were for a long time
prevailing themes of controversy, the people of Little Britain
being extremely solicitous of funeral honors and of lying
comfortably in their graves.

Besides these two funeral societies there is a third of quite a
different cast, which tends to throw the sunshine of good-humor
over the whole neighborhood. It meets once a week at a little
old-fashioned house kept by a jolly publican of the name of
Wagstaff, and bearing for insignia a resplendent half-moon, with
a most seductive bunch of grapes. The whole edifice is covered
with inscriptions to catch the eye of the thirsty wayfarer; such
as "Truman, Hanbury, and Co's Entire," "Wine, Rum, and Brandy
Vaults," "Old Tom, Rum, and Compounds," etc. This indeed has
been a temple of Bacchus and Momus from time immemorial. It has
always been in the family of the Wagstaffs, so that its history
is tolerably preserved by the present landlord. It was much
frequented by the gallants and cavalieros of the reign of
Elizabeth, and was looked into now and then by the wits of
Charles the Second's day. But what Wagstaff principally prides
himself upon is that Henry the Eighth, in one of his nocturnal
rambles, broke the head of one of his ancestors with his famous
walking-staff. This, however, is considered as rather a dubious
and vain-glorious boast of the landlord.

The club which now holds its weekly sessions here goes by the
name of "the Roaring Lads of Little Britain." They abound in old
catches, glees, and choice stories that are traditional in the
place and not to be met with in any other part of the
metropolis. There is a madcap undertaker who is inimitable at a
merry song, but the life of the club, and indeed the prime wit
of Little Britain, is bully Wagstaff himself. His ancestors were
all wags before him, and he has inherited with the inn a large
stock of songs and jokes, which go with it from generation to
generation as heirlooms. He is a dapper little fellow, with
bandy legs and pot belly, a red face with a moist merry eye, and
a little shock of gray hair behind. At the opening of every club
night he is called in to sing his "Confession of Faith," which
is the famous old drinking trowl from "Gammer Gurton's Needle."
He sings it, to be sure, with many variations, as he received it
from his father's lips; for it has been a standing favorite at
the Half-Moon and Bunch of Grapes ever since it was written;
nay, he affirms that his predecessors have often had the honor
of singing it before the nobility and gentry at Christmas
mummeries, when Little Britain was in all its glory.*

* As mine host of the Half-Moon's Confession of Faith may not be
  familiar to the majority of readers, and as it is a specimen
  of the current songs of Little Britain, I subjoin it in its
  original orthography. I would observe that the whole club
  always join in the chorus with a fearful thumping on the table
  and clattering of pewter pots.

        I cannot eate but lytle meate,
            My stomacke is not good,
        But sure I thinke that I can drinke
            With him that weares a hood.
        Though I go bare, take ye no care,
            I nothing am a colde,
        I stuff my skyn so full within,
            Of joly good ale and olde. Chorus. Backe and syde go
bare, go bare,
            Both foote and hand go colde,
        But, belly, God send thee good ale ynoughe,
            Whether it be new or olde.

        I have no rost, but a nut brawne toste
            And a crab laid in the fyre;
        A little breade shall do me steade,
            Much breade I not desyre.
        No frost nor snow, nor winde, I trowe,
            Can hurte mee, if I wolde,
        I am so wrapt and throwly lapt
            Of joly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

        And Tyb my wife, that, as her lyfe,
            Loveth well good ale to seeke,
        Full oft drynkes shee, tyll ye may see,
            The teares run downe her cheeke.
        Then doth shee trowle to me the bowle,
            Even as a mault-worme sholde,
        And sayth, sweete harte, I took my parte
            Of this jolly good ale and olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

        Now let them drynke, tyll they nod and winke,
            Even as goode fellowes sholde doe,
        They shall not mysse to have the blisse,
            Good ale doth bring men to;
        And all poore soules that have scowred bowles,
            Or have them lustily trolde,
        God save the lyves of them and their wives,
            Whether they be yonge or olde.
Chorus. Backe and syde go bare, go bare, etc.

It would do one's heart good to hear, on a club night, the
shouts of merriment, the snatches of song, and now and then the
choral bursts of half a dozen discordant voices, which issue
from this jovial mansion. At such times the street is lined with
listeners, who enjoy a delight equal to that of gazing into a
confectioner's window or snuffing up the steams of a cook-shop.

There are two annual events which produce great stir and
sensation in Little Britain: these are St. Bartholomew's Fair
and the Lord Mayor's Day. During the time of the Fair, which is
held in the adjoining regions of Smithfield, there is nothing
going on but gossiping and gadding about. The late quiet streets
of Little Britain are overrun with an irruption of strange
figures and faces; every tavern is a scene of rout and revel.
The fiddle and the song are heard from the taproom morning,
noon, and night; and at each window may be seen some group of
boon companions, with half-shut eyes, hats on one side, pipe in
mouth and tankard in hand, fondling and prosing, and singing
maudlin songs over their liquor. Even the sober decorum of
private families, which I must say is rigidly kept up at other
times among my neighbors, is no proof against this saturnalia.
There is no such thing as keeping maid-servants within doors.
Their brains are absolutely set madding with Punch and the
Puppet-Show, the Flying Horses, Signior Polito, the Fire-Eater,
the celebrated Mr. Paap, and the Irish Giant. The children too
lavish all their holiday money in toys and gilt gingerbread, and
fill the house with the Lilliputian din of drums, trumpets, and
penny whistles.

But the Lord Mayor's Day is the great anniversary. The Lord
Mayor is looked up to by the inhabitants of Little Britain as
the greatest potentate upon earth, his gilt coach with six
horses as the summit of human splendor, and his procession, with
all the sheriffs and aldermen in his train, as the grandest of
earthly pageants. How they exult in the idea that the king
himself dare not enter the city without first knocking at the
gate of Temple Bar and asking permission of the Lord Mayor; for
if he did, heaven and earth! there is no knowing what might be
the consequence. The man in armor who rides before the Lord
Mayor, and is the city champion, has orders to cut down
everybody that offends against the dignity of the city; and then
there is the little man with a velvet porringer on his head, who
sits at the window of the state coach and holds the city sword,
as long as a pikestaff. Odd's blood! if he once draws that
sword, Majesty itself is not safe.

Under the protection of this mighty potentate, therefore, the
good people of Little Britain sleep in peace. Temple Bar is an
effectual barrier against all interior foes; and as to foreign
invasion, the Lord Mayor has but to throw himself into the
Tower, call in the train-bands, and put the standing army of
Beef-eaters under arms, and he may bid defiance to the world!

Thus wrapped up in its own concerns, its own habits, and its own
opinions, Little Britain has long flourished as a sound heart to
this great fungous metropolis. I have pleased myself with
considering it as a chosen spot, where the principles of sturdy
John Bullism were garnered up, like seed corn, to renew the
national character when it had run to waste and degeneracy. I
have rejoiced also in the general spirit of harmony that
prevailed throughout it; for though there might now and then be
a few clashes of opinion between the adherents of the
cheesemonger and the apothecary, and an occasional feud between
the burial societies, yet these were but transient clouds and
soon passed away. The neighbors met with good-will, parted with
a shake of the hand, and never abused each other except behind
their backs.

I could give rare descriptions of snug junketing parties at
which I have been present, where we played at All-Fours,
Pope-Joan, Tom-come-tickle-me, and other choice old games, and
where we sometimes had a good old English country dance to the
tune of Sir Roger de Coverley. Once a year also the neighbors
would gather together and go on a gypsy party to Epping Forest.
It would have done any man's heart good to see the merriment
that took place here as we banqueted on the grass under the
trees. How we made the woods ring with bursts of laughter at the
songs of little Wagstaff and the merry undertaker! After dinner,
too, the young folks would play at blindman's-buff and
hide-and-seek, and it was amusing to see them tangled among the
briers, and to hear a fine romping girl now and then squeak from
among the bushes. The elder folks would gather round the
cheesemonger and the apothecary to hear them talk politics, for
they generally brought out a newspaper in their pockets to pass
away time in the country. They would now and then, to be sure,
get a little warm in argument; but their disputes were always
adjusted by reference to a worthy old umbrella-maker in a double
chin, who, never exactly comprehending the subject, managed
somehow or other to decide in favor of both parties.

All empires, however, says some philosopher or historian, are
doomed to changes and revolutions. Luxury and innovation creep
in, factions arise, and families now and then spring up whose
ambition and intrigues throw the whole system into confusion.
Thus in letter days has the tranquillity of Little Britain been
grievously disturbed and its golden simplicity of manners
threatened with total subversion by the aspiring family of a
retired butcher.

The family of the Lambs had long been among the most thriving
and popular in the neighborhood: the Miss Lambs were the belles
of Little Britain, and everybody was pleased when Old Lamb had
made money enough to shut up shop and put his name on a brass
plate on his door. In an evil hour, however, one of the Miss
Lambs had the honor of being a lady in attendance on the Lady
Mayoress at her grand annual ball, on which occasion she wore
three towering ostrich feathers on her head. The family never
got over it; they were immediately smitten with a passion for
high life; set up a one-horse carriage, put a bit of gold lace
round the errand-boy's hat, and have been the talk and
detestation of the whole neighborhood ever since. They could no
longer be induced to play at Pope-Joan or blindman's-buff; they
could endure no dances but quadrilles, which nobody had ever
heard of in Little Britain; and they took to reading novels,
talking bad French, and playing upon the piano. Their brother,
too, who had been articled to an attorney, set up for a dandy
and a critic, characters hitherto unknown in these parts, and he
confounded the worthy folks exceedingly by talking about Kean,
the Opera, and the "Edinburgh Review."

What was still worse, the Lambs gave a grand ball, to which they
neglected to invite any of their old neighbors; but they had a
great deal of genteel company from Theobald's Road, Red Lion
Square, and other parts towards the west. There were several
beaux of their brother's acquaintance from Gray's Inn Lane and
Hatton Garden, and not less than three aldermen's ladies with
their daughters. This was not to be forgotten or forgiven. All
Little Britain was in an uproar with the smacking of whips, the
lashing of in miserable horses, and the rattling and jingling of
hackney-coaches. The gossips of the neighborhood might be seen
popping their night-caps out at every window, watching the crazy
vehicles rumble by; and there was a knot of virulent old cronies
that kept a look-out from a house just opposite the retired
butcher's and scanned and criticised every one that knocked at
the door.

This dance was a cause of almost open war, and the whole
neighborhood declared they would have nothing more to say to the
Lambs. It is true that Mrs. Lamb, when she had no engagements
with her quality acquaintance, would give little humdrum
tea-junketings to some of her old cronies, "quite," as she would
say, "in a friendly way;" and it is equally true that her
invitations were always accepted, in spite of all previous vows
to the contrary. Nay, the good ladies would sit and be delighted
with the music of the Miss Lambs, who would condescend to strum
an Irish melody for them on the piano; and they would listen
with wonderful interest to Mrs. Lamb's anecdotes of Alderman
Plunket's family, of Portsoken Ward, and the Miss Timberlakes,
the rich heiresses of Crutched Friars but then they relieved
their consciences and averted the reproaches of their
confederates by canvassing at the next gossiping convocation
everything that had passed, and pulling the Lambs and their rout
all to pieces.

The only one of the family that could not be made fashionable
was the retired butcher himself. Honest Lamb, in spite of  the
meekness of his name, was a rough, hearty old fellow, with the
voice of a lion, a head of black hair like a shoe-brush, and a
broad face mottled like his own beef. It was in vain that the
daughters always spoke of him as "the old gentleman,' addressed
him as "papa" in tones of infinite softness, and endeavored to
coax him into a dressing-gown and slippers and other gentlemanly
habits. Do what they might, there was no keeping down the
butcher. His sturdy nature would break through all their
glozings. He had a hearty vulgar good-humor that was
irrepressible. His very jokes made his sensitive daughters
shudder, and he persisted in wearing his blue cotton coat of a
morning, dining at two o'clock, and having a "bit of sausage
with his tea."

He was doomed, however, to share the unpopularity of his family.
He found his old comrades gradually growing cold and civil to
him, no longer laughing at his jokes, and now and then throwing
out a fling at "some people" and a hint about "quality binding."
This both nettled and perplexed the honest butcher; and his wife
and daughters, with the consummate policy of the shrewder sex,
taking advantage of the circumstance, at length prevailed upon
him to give up his afternoon's pipe and tankard at Wagstaff's,
to sit after dinner by himself and take his pint of port--a
liquor he detested--and to nod in his chair in solitary and
dismal gentility. The Miss Lambs might now be seen flaunting
along the streets in
French bonnets with unknown beaux, and talking and laughing so
loud that it distressed the nerves of every good lady within
hearing. They even went so far as to attempt patronage, and
actually induced a French dancing master to set up in the
neighborhood; but the worthy folks of Little Britain took fire
at it, and did so persecute the poor Gaul that he was fain to
pack up fiddle and dancing-pumps and decamp with such
precipitation that he absolutely forgot to pay for his lodgings.

I had flattered myself, at first, with the idea that all this
fiery indignation on the part of the community was merely the
overflowing of their zeal for good old English manners and their
horror of innovation, and I applauded the silent contempt they
were so vociferous in expressing for upstart pride, French
fashions and the Miss Lambs. But I grieve to say that I soon
perceived the infection had taken hold, and that my neighbors,
after condemning, were beginning to follow their example. I
overheard my landlady importuning her husband to let their
daughters have one quarter at French and music, and that they
might take a few lessons in quadrille. I even saw, in the course
of a few Sundays, no less than five French bonnets, precisely
like those of the Miss Lambs, parading about Little Britain.

I still had my hopes that all this folly would gradually die
away, that the Lambs might move out of the neighborhood, might
die, or might run away with attorneys' apprentices, and that
quiet and simplicity might be again restored to the community.
But unluckily a rival power arose. An opulent oilman died, and
left a widow with a large jointure and a family of buxom
daughters. The young ladies had long been repining in secret at
the parsimony of a prudent father, which kept down all their
elegant aspirings. Their ambition, being now no longer
restrained, broke out into a blaze, and they openly took the
field against the family of the butcher. It is true that the
Lambs, having had the first start, had naturally an advantage of
them in the fashionable career. They could speak a little bad
French, play the piano, dance quadrilles, and had formed high
acquaintances; but the Trotters were not to be distanced. When
the Lambs appeared with two feathers in their hats, the Miss
Trotters mounted four and of twice as fine colors. If the Lambs
gave a dance, the Trotters were sure not to be behindhand; and,
though they might not boast of as good company, yet they had
double the number and were twice as merry.

The whole community has at length divided itself into
fashionable factions under the banners of these two families.
The old games of Pope-Joan and Tom-come-tickle-me are entirely
discarded; there is no such thing as getting up an honest
country dance; and on my attempting to kiss a young lady under
the mistletoe last Christmas, I was indignantly repulsed, the
Miss Lambs having pronounced it "shocking vulgar." Bitter
rivalry has also broken out as to the most fashionable part of
Little Britain, the Lambs standing up for the dignity of
Cross-Keys Square, and the Trotters for the vicinity of St.
Bartholomew's.

Thus is this little territory torn by factions and internal
dissensions, like the great empire whose name it bears; and what
will be the result would puzzle the apothecary himself, with all
his talent at prognostics, to determine, though I apprehend that
it will terminate in the total downfall of genuine John Bullism.

The immediate effects are extremely unpleasant to me. Being a
single man, and, as I observed before, rather an idle
good-for-nothing personage, I have been considered the only
gentleman by profession in the place. I stand therefore in high
favor with both parties, and have to hear all their cabinet
counsels and mutual backbitings. As I am too civil not to agree
with the ladies on all occasions, I have committed myself most
horribly with both parties by abusing their opponents. I might
manage to reconcile this to my conscience, which is a truly
accommodating one, but I cannot to my apprehension: if the Lambs
and Trotters ever come to a reconciliation and compare notes, I
am ruined!

I have determined, therefore, to beat a retreat in time, and am
actually looking out for some other nest in this great city
where old English manners are still kept up, where French is
neither eaten, drunk, danced, nor spoken, and where there are no
fashionable families of retired tradesmen. This found, I will,
like a veteran rat, hasten away before I have an old house about
my ears, bid a long, though a sorrowful adieu to my present
abode, and leave the rival factions of the Lambs and the
Trotters to divide the distracted empire of LITTLE BRITAIN.



STRATFORD-ON-AVON.

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
                                                 GARRICK.

TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he
can truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of
something like independence and territorial consequence when,
after a weary day's travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his
feet into slippers, and stretches himself before an inn-fire.
Let the world without go as it may, let kingdoms rise or fall,
so long as he has the wherewithal to pay his bill he is, for the
time being, the very monarch of all he surveys. The armchair is
his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlor, some
twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel of
certainly snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of life;
it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day: and he
who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence knows
the importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of
enjoyment. "Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I,
as I gave the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and
cast a complacent look about the little parlor of the Red Horse
at Stratford-on-Avon.

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing through my mind
as the clock struck midnight from the tower of the church in
which he lies buried. There was a gentle tap at the door, and a
pretty chambermaid, putting in her smiling face, inquired, with
a hesitating air, whether I had rung. I understood it as a
modest hint that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute
dominion was at an end; so abdicating my throne, like a prudent
potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the Stratford
Guide-Book under my arm as a pillow companion, I went to bed,
and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, the jubilee, and David
Garrick.

The next morning was one of those quickening mornings which we
sometimes have in early spring, for it was about the middle of
March. The chills of a long winter had suddenly given way; the
north wind had spent its last gasp; and a mild air came stealing
from the west, breathing the breath of life into Nature, and
wooing every bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and
beauty.

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My first visit
was to the house where Shakespeare was born, and where,
according to tradition, he was brought up to his father's craft
of wool-combing. It is a small mean-looking edifice of wood and
plaster, a true nestling-place of genius, which seems to delight
in hatching its offspring in by-corners. The walls of its
squalid chambers are covered with names and inscriptions in
every language by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and
conditions, from the prince to the peasant, and present a simple
but striking instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of
mankind to the great poet of Nature.

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady in a frosty red face,
lighted up by a cold blue, anxious eye, and garnished with
artificial locks of flaxen hair curling from under an
exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly assiduous in
exhibiting the relics with which this, like all other celebrated
shrines, abounds. There was the shattered stock of the very
matchlock with which Shakespeare shot the deer on his poaching
exploits. There, too, was his tobacco-box, which proves that he
was a rival smoker of Sir Walter Raleigh: the sword also with
which he played Hamlet; and the identical lantern with which
Friar Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb. There
was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry tree, which
seems to have as extraordinary powers of self-multiplication as
the wood of the true cross, of which there is enough extant to
build a ship of the line. The most favorite object of curiosity,
however, is Shakespeare's
chair. It stands in a chimney-nook of a small gloomy chamber
just behind what was his father's shop. Here he may many a time
have sat when a boy, watching the slowly revolving spit with all
the longing of an urchin, or of an evening listening to the
cronies and gossips of Stratford dealing forth churchyard tales
and legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. In
this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the house
to sit: whether this be done with the hope of imbibing any of
the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say; I merely
mention the fact, and mine hostess privately assured me that,
though built of solid oak, such was the fervent zeal of devotees
the chair had to be new bottomed at least once in three years.
It is worthy of notice also, in the history of this
extraordinary chair, that it partakes something of the volatile
nature of the Santa Casa of Loretto, or the flying chair of the
Arabian enchanter; for, though sold some few years since to a
northern princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way
back again to the old chimney-corner.

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever willing
to be deceived where the deceit is pleasant and costs nothing. I
am therefore a ready believer in relics, legends, and local
anecdotes of goblins and great men, and would advise all
travellers who travel for their gratification to be the same.
What is it to us whether these stories be true or false, so long
as we can persuade ourselves into the belief of them and enjoy
all the charm of the reality? There is nothing like resolute
good-humored credulity in these matters, and on this occasion I
went even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine
hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, unluckily for
my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own composition,
which set all belief in her own consanguinity at defiance.

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought me to his
grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the parish church, a
large and venerable pile, mouldering with age, but richly
ornamented. It stands on the banks of the Avon on an embowered
point, and separated by adjoining gardens from the suburbs of
the town. Its situation is quiet and retired; the river runs
murmuring at the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow
upon its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An
avenue of limes, the boughs of which are curiously interlaced,
so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, leads up from
the gate of the yard to the church-porch. The graves are
overgrown with grass; the gray tombstones, some of them nearly
sunk into the earth, are half covered with moss, which has
likewise tinted the reverend old building. Small birds have
built their nests among the cornices and fissures of the walls,
and keep up a continual flutter and chirping; and rooks are
sailing and cawing about its lofty gray spire.

In the course of my rambles I met with the gray-headed sexton,
Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get the key of the church.
He had lived in Stratford, man and boy, for eighty years, and
seemed still to consider himself a vigorous man, with the
trivial exception that he had nearly lost the use of his legs
for a few years past. His dwelling was a cottage looking out
upon the Avon and its bordering meadows, and was a picture of
that neatness, order, and comfort which pervade the humblest
dwellings in this country. A low whitewashed room, with a stone
floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlor, kitchen, and hall.
Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along the dresser.
On an old oaken table, well rubbed and polished, lay the family
Bible and prayer-book, and the drawer contained the family
library, composed of about half a score of well-thumbed volumes.
An ancient clock, that important article of cottage furniture,
ticked on the opposite side of the room, with a bright
warming-pan hanging on one side of it, and the old man's
horn-handled Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual,
was wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's granddaughter sewing, a
pretty blue-eyed girl, and in the opposite corner was a
superannuated crony whom he addressed by the name of John Ange,
and who, I found, had been his companion from childhood. They
had played together in infancy; they had worked together in
manhood; they were now tottering about and gossiping away the
evening of life; and in a short time they will probably be
buried together in the neighboring churchyard. It is not often
that we see two streams of existence running thus evenly and
tranquilly side by side; it is only in such quiet "bosom scenes"
of life that they are to be met with.

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of the bard
from these ancient chroniclers, but they had nothing new to
impart. The long interval during which Shakespeare's writings
lay in comparative neglect has spread its shadow over his
history, and it is his good or evil lot that scarcely anything
remains to his biographers but a scanty handful of conjectures.

The sexton and his companion had been employed as carpenters on
the preparations for the celebrated Stratford Jubilee, and they
remembered Garrick, the prime mover of the fete, who
superintended the arrangements, and who, according to the
sexton, was "a short punch man, very lively and bustling." John
Ange had assisted also in cutting down Shakespeare's mulberry
tree, of which he had a morsel in his pocket for sale; no doubt
a sovereign quickener of literary conception.

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak very
dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the Shakespeare house.
John Ange shook his head when I mentioned her valuable and
inexhaustible collection of relics, particularly her remains of
the mulberry tree; and the old sexton even expressed a doubt as
to Shakespeare having been born in her house. I soon discovered
that he looked upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to
the poet's tomb, the latter having comparatively but few
visitors. Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset,
and mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into different
channels even at the fountain-head.

We approached the church through the avenue of limes, and
entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented, with carved doors
of massive oak. The interior is spacious, and the architecture
and embellishments superior to those of most country churches.
There are several ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over
some of which hang funeral escutcheons and banners dropping
piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is in the
chancel. The place is solemn and sepulchral. Tall elms wave
before the pointed windows, and the Avon, which runs at a short
distance from the walls, keeps up a low perpetual murmur. A flat
stone marks the spot where the bard is buried. There are four
lines inscribed on it, said to have been written by himself, and
which have in them something extremely awful. If they are indeed
his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of the grave
which seems natural to fine sensibilities and thoughtful minds:

    Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbeare
    To dig the dust inclosed here.
    Blessed be he that spares these stones,
    And curst be he that moves my bones.

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death and considered as a
resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and serene, with a
finely-arched forehead; and I thought I could read in it clear
indications of that cheerful, social disposition by which he was
as much characterized among his contemporaries as by the
vastness of his genius. The inscription mentions his age at the
time of his decease, fifty-three years--an untimely death for
the world, for what fruit might not have been expected from the
golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it was from the
stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in the sunshine of
popular and royal favor?

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without its
effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains from the
bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, which was at one
time contemplated. A few years since also, as some laborers were
digging to make an adjoining vault, the earth caved in, so as to
leave a vacant space almost like an arch, through which one
might have reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to
meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a malediction; and
lest any of the idle or the curious or any collector of relics
should be tempted to commit depredations, the old sexton kept
watch over the place for two days, until the vault was finished
and the aperture closed again. He told me that he had made bold
to look in at the hole, but could see neither coffin nor
bones--nothing but dust. It was something, I thought, to have
seen the dust of Shakespeare.

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favorite daughter,
Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a tomb close by, also,
is a full-length effigy of his old friend John Combe, of
usurious memory, on whom he is said to have written a ludicrous
epitaph. There are other monuments around, but the mind refuses
to dwell on anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. His
idea pervades the place; the whole pile seems but as his
mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and thwarted by
doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence: other traces of him
may be false or dubious, but here is palpable evidence and
absolute certainty. As I trod the sounding pavement there was
something intense and thrilling in the idea that in very truth
the remains of Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It
was a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave the
place; and as I passed through the churchyard I plucked a branch
from one of the yew trees, the only relic that I have brought
from Stratford.

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's devotion, but
I had a desire to see the old family seat of the Lucys at
Charlecot, and to ramble through the park where Shakespeare, in
company with some of the roisterers of Stratford, committed his
youthful offence of deer-stealing. In this harebrained exploit
we are told that he was taken prisoner and carried to the
keeper's lodge, where he remained all night in doleful
captivity. When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy his
treatment must have been galling and humiliating; for it so
wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough pasquinade which
was affixed to the park gate at Charlecot.*

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

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

This flagitious attack upon the dignity of the knight so
incensed him that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick to put the
severity of the laws in force against the rhyming deer-stalker.
Shakespeare did not wait to brave the united puissance of a
knight of the shire and a country attorney. He forthwith
abandoned the pleasant banks of the Avon and his paternal trade;
wandered away to London; became a hanger-on to the theatres;
then an actor; and finally wrote for the stage; and thus,
through the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an
indifferent wool-comber and the world gained an immortal poet.
He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of the harsh
treatment of the lord of Charlecot, and revenged himself in his
writings, but in the sportive way of a good-natured mind. Sir
Thomas is said to be the original of Justice Shallow, and the
satire is slyly fixed upon him by the justice's armorial
bearings, which, like those of the knight, had white luces* in
the quarterings.

* The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about
  Charlecot.

Various attempts have been made by his biographers to soften and
explain away this, early transgression of the poet; but I look
upon it as one of those thoughtless exploits natural to his
situation and turn of mind. Shakespeare, when young, had
doubtless all the wildness and irregularity of an ardent,
undisciplined, and undirected genius. The poetic temperament has
naturally something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself
it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything eccentric
and licentious. It is often a turn up of a die, in the gambling
freaks of fate, whether a natural genius shall turn out a great
rogue or a great poet; and had not Shakespeare's mind
fortunately taken a literary bias, he might have as daringly
transcended all civil as he has all dramatic laws.

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running like an
unbroken colt about the neighborbood of Stratford, he was to be
found in the company of all kinds of odd anomalous characters,
that he associated with all the madcaps of the place, and was
one of those unlucky urchins at mention of whom old men shake
their heads and predict that they will one day come to the
gallows. To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was
doubtless like a foray to a Scottish knight, and struck his
eager, and as yet untamed, imagination as something delightfully
adventurous.*

* A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his
  youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked
  up at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his
  "Picturesque Views on the Avon."

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

    Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston,
    Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton,
    Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford,
    Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford.

  "The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, "still bear the
  epithets thus given them: the people of Pebworth are still
  famed for their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now
  called Haunted Hilborough; and Grafton is famous for the
  poverty of its soil."

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding park still
remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and are peculiarly
interesting front being connected with this whimsical but
eventful circumstance in the scanty history of the bard. As the
house stood at little more than three miles' distance from
Stratford, I resolved to pay it a pedestrian visit, that I might
stroll leisurely through some of those scenes from which
Shakespeare must have derived his earliest ideas of rural
imagery.

The country was yet naked and leafless, but English scenery is
always verdant, and the sudden change in the temperature of the
weather was surprising in its quickening effects upon the
landscape. It was inspiring and animating to witness this first
awakening of spring; to feel its warm breath stealing over the
senses; to see the moist mellow earth beginning to put forth the
green sprout and the tender blade, and the trees and shrubs, in
their reviving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of
returning foliage and flower. The cold snow-drop, that little
borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with its chaste
white blossoms in the small gardens before the cottages. The
bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly heard from the
fields. The sparrow twittered about the thatched eaves and
budding hedges; the robin threw a livelier note into his late
querulous wintry strain; and the lark, springing up from the
reeking bosom of the meadow, towered away into the bright fleecy
cloud, pouring forth torrents of melody. As I watched the little
songster mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a
mere speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was
still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's
exquisite little song in Cymbeline:

    Hark! hark! the lark at heav'n's gate sings,
        And Phoebus 'gins arise,
    His steeds to water at those springs,
        On chaliced flowers that lies.

    And winking mary-buds begin
        To ope their golden eyes;     With every thing that
pretty bin,
        My lady sweet arise!

Indeed, the whole country about here is poetic ground:
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. Every old
cottage that I saw I fancied into some resort of his boyhood,
where he had acquired his intimate knowledge of rustic life and
manners, and heard those legendary tales and wild superstitions
which he has woven like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his
time, we are told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings
"to sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights,
queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves,
cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars."*

* Scot, in his "Discoverie of Witchcraft," enumerates a of these
  fireside fancies: "And they have so fraid us with host
  bull-beggars, spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies,
  satyrs, pans, faunes, syrens, kit with the can sticke,
  tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, imps, calcars, conjurors,
  nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin-goodfellow, the spoorne,
  the mare, the man in the oke, the hell-waine, the fier drake,
  the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom Tumbler, boneless, and
  such other bugs, that we were afraid of our own shadowes."

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, which
made a variety of the most fancy doublings and windings through
a wide and fertile valley--sometimes glittering from among
willows which fringed its borders; sometimes disappearing among
groves or beneath green banks; and sometimes rambling out into
full view and making an azure sweep round a slope of
meadow-land. This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale
of the Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems
to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening landscape
lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the Avon.

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned off into
a footpath, which led along the borders of fields and under
hedgerows to a private gate of the park; there was a stile,
however, for the benefit of the pedestrian, there being a public
right of way through the grounds. I delight in these hospitable
estates, in which every one has a kind of property--at least as
far as the footpath is concerned. It in some measure reconciles
a poor man to his lot, and, what is more, to the better lot of
his neighbor, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds thrown
open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air as freely and
lolls as luxuriously under the shade as the lord of the soil;
and if he has not the privilege of calling all that he sees his
own, he has not, at the same time, the trouble of paying for it
and keeping it in order.

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and elms, whose
vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. The wind sounded
solemnly among their branches, and the rooks cawed from their
hereditary nests in the tree-tops. The eye ranged through a long
lessening vista, with nothing to interrupt the view but a
distant statue and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across
the opening.

There is something about these stately old avenues that has the
effect of Gothic architecture, not merely from the pretended
similarity of form, but from their bearing the evidence of long
duration, and of having had their origin in a period of time
with which we associate ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken
also the long-settled dignity and proudly-concentrated
independence of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy but
aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the sumptuous
palaces of modern gentry, that "money could do much with stone
and mortar, but thank Heaven! there was no such thing as
suddenly building up an avenue of oaks."

It was from wandering in early life among this rich scenery, and
about the romantic solitudes of the adjoining park of Fullbroke,
which then formed a part of the Lucy estate, that some of
Shakepeare's commentators have supposed he derived his noble
forest meditations of Jaques and the enchanting woodland
pictures in "As You Like It." It is in lonely wanderings through
such scenes that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of
inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty and
majesty of Nature. The imagination kindles into reverie and
rapture, vague but exquisite images and ideas keep breaking upon
it, and we revel in a mute and almost incommunicable luxury of
thought. It was in some such mood, and perhaps under one of
those very trees before me, which threw their broad shades over
the grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the
poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song which
breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary

    Unto the greenwood tree,
    Who loves to lie with me
    And tune his merry throat
    Unto the sweet bird's note,
    Come hither, come hither, come hither.
        Here shall he see
        No enemy,
    But winter and rough weather.

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large building of
brick with stone quoins, and is in the Gothic style of Queen
Elizabeth's day, having been built in the first year of her
reign. The exterior remains very nearly in its original state,
and may be considered a fair specimen of the residence of a
wealthy country gentleman of those days. A great gateway opens
from the park into a kind of courtyard in front of the house,
ornamented with a grassplot, shrubs, and flower-beds. The
gateway is in imitation of the ancient barbacan, being a kind of
outpost and flanked by towers, though evidently for mere
ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is
completely in the old style with stone-shafted casements, a great
bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a portal with armorial
bearings over it carved in stone. At each corner of the building
is an octagon tower surmounted by a gilt ball and weather-cock.

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a bend just at the
foot of a gently-sloping bank which sweeps down from the rear of
the house. Large herds of deer were feeding or reposing upon its
borders, and swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As
I contemplated the venerable old mansion I called to mind
Falstaff's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, and the affected
indifference and real vanity of the latter:

"Falstaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich.
"Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir
John:--marry, good air"

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old mansion in the
days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of stillness and
solitude. The great iron gateway that opened into the courtyard
was locked, there was no show of servants bustling about the
place; the deer gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer
harried by the moss-troopers of Stratford. The only sign of
domestic life that I met with was a white cat stealing with wary
look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as if on some
nefarious expedition. I must not omit to mention the carcass of
a scoundrel crow which I saw suspended against the barn-wall, as
it shows that the Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of
poachers and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial
power which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the
bard.

After prowling about for some time, I at length found my way to
a lateral portal, which was the every-day entrance to the
mansion. I was courteously received by a worthy old housekeeper,
who, with the civility and communicativeness of her order,
showed me the interior of the house. The greater part has
undergone alterations and been adapted to modern tastes and
modes of living: there is a fine old oaken staircase, and the
great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor-house, still
retains much of the appearance it must have had in the days of
Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched and lofty, and at one end is
a gallery in which stands an organ. The weapons and trophies of
the chase, which formerly adorned the hall of a country
gentleman, have made way for family portraits. There is a wide,
hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned wood
fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. On the
opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow-window, with
stone shafts, which looks out upon the courtyard. Here are
emblazoned in stained glass the armorial bearings of the Lucy
family for many generations, some being dated in 1558. I was
delighted to observe in the quarterings the three white luces by
which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified with that
of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the first scene of the
"Merry Wives of Windsor," where the justice, is in a rage with
Falstaff for having "beaten his men, killed his deer, and broken
into his lodge." The poet had no doubt the offences of himself
and his comrades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the
family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant Shallow to
be a caricature of the pompous indignation of Sir Thomas.

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not: I will make a Star Chamber
matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall not
abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq.

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace and coram.

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum.

Slender. Ay, and ratolorum too, and a gentleman born, master
parson; who writes himself Armigero in any bill, warrant,
quittance, or obligation, Armigero.

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three
hundred years.

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done't, and all
his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen
white luces in their coat. . . .

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot.

Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no
fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to
hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your
vizaments in that.

Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should
end it!"

Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait, by Sir Peter
Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty of the time of
Charles the Second: the old housekeeper shook her head as she
pointed to the picture, and informed me that this lady had been
sadly addicted to cards, and had gambled away a great portion of
the family estate, among which was that part of the park where
Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The lands thus
lost had not been entirely regained by the family even at the
present day. It is but justice to this recreant dame to confess
that she had a surpassingly fine hand and arm.

The picture which most attracted my attention was a great
painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of Sir Thomas
Lucy and his family who inhabited the hall in the latter part of
Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first thought that it was the
vindictive knight himself, but the housekeeper assured me that
it was his son; the only likeness extant of the former being an
effigy upon his tomb in the church of the neighboring hamlet of
Charlecot.* * This effigy is in white marble, and represents the
knight in
  complete armor. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on
  her tomb is the following inscription; which, if really
  composed by her husband, places him quite above the
  intellectual level of Master Shallow:

  Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of
  Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir
  of Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire
  who departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly
  kingdom ye 10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595
  and of her age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true
  and faythful servant of her good God, never detected of any
  cryme or vice. In religion most sounde, in love to her husband
  most faythful and true. In friendship most constant; to what
  in trust was committed unto her most secret. In wisdom
  excelling. In governing of her house, bringing up of youth in
  ye fear of God that did converse with her moste rare and
  singular. A great maintayner of hospitality. Greatly esteemed
  of her betters; misliked of none unless of the envyous. When
  all is spoken that can be saide a woman so garnished with
  virtue as not to be bettered and hardly to be equalled by any.
  As shee lived most virtuotisly so shee died most Godly. Set
  downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn written to be
  true.
                                             Thomas Lucye.

The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and manners of
the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff and doublet, white shoes
with roses in them, and has a peaked yellow, or, as Master
Slender would say, "a cane-colored beard." His lady is seated on
the opposite side of the picture in wide ruff and long
stomacher, and the children have a most venerable stiffness and
formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled in the
family group; a hawk is seated on his perch in the foreground,
and one of the children holds a bow, all intimating the knight's
skill in hunting, hawking, and archery, so indispensable to an
accomplished gentleman in those days.*

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time,
  observes, "His housekeeping is seen much in the different
  families of dogs and serving-men attendant on their kennels;
  and the deepness of their throats is the depth of his
  discourse. A hawk he esteems the true burden of nobility, and
  is exceedingly ambitious to seem delighted with the sport, and
  have his fist gloved with his jesses." And Gilpin, in his
  description of a Mr. Hastings, remarks, "He kept all sorts of
  hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, and badger; and had
  hawks of all kinds both long and short winged. His great hall
  was commonly strewed with marrow-bones, and full of hawk
  perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. On a broad hearth,
  paved with brick, lay some of the choicest terriers, hounds,
  and spaniels."
 I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the hall had
disappeared; for I had hoped to meet with the stately
elbow-chair of carved oak in which the country squire of former
days was wont to sway the sceptre of empire over his rural
domains, and in which it might be presumed the redoubled Sir
Thomas sat enthroned in awful state when the recreant
Shakespeare was brought before him. As I like to deck out
pictures for my own entertainment, I pleased myself with the
idea that this very hall had been the scene of the unlucky
bard's examination on the morning after his captivity in the
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate surrounded by his
body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated serving-men with
their badges, while the luckless culprit was brought in, forlorn
and chopfallen, in the custody of gamekeepers, huntsmen,, and
whippers-in, and followed by a rabble rout of country clowns. I
fancied bright faces of curious housemaids peeping from the
half-opened doors, while from the gallery the fair daughters of
the knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful
prisoner with that pity "that dwells in womanhood." Who would
have thought that this poor varlet, thus trembling before the
brief authority of a country squire, and the sport of rustic
boors, was soon to become the delight of princes, the theme of
all tongues and ages, the dictator to the human mind and was to
confer immortality on his oppressor by a caricature and a
lampoon?

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the garden, and I
felt inclined to visit the orchard and harbor where the justice
treated Sir John Falstaff and Cousin Silence "to a last year's
pippin of his own grafting, with a dish of caraways;" but I bad
already spent so much of the day in my ramblings that I was
obliged to give up any further investigations. When about to
take my leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the
housekeeper and butler that I would take some refreshment--an
instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to say, we
castle-hunters seldom meet with in modern days. I make no doubt
it is a virtue which the present representative of the Lucys
inherits from his ancestors; for Shakespeare, even in his
caricature, makes Justice Shallow importunate in this respect,
as witness his pressing instances to Falstaff:

"By cock and pye, Sir, you shall not away to-night. . . . . I
will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not
be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be
excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legged
hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws,
tell 'William Cook.'"

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My mind had
become so completely possessed by the imaginary scenes and
characters connected with it that I seemed to be actually living
among them. Everything brought them as it were before my eyes,
and as the door of the dining-room opened I almost expected to
hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth his
favorite ditty:

    "'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all,
      And welcome merry Shrove-tide!"

On returning to my inn I could not but reflect on the singular
gift of the poet, to be able thus to spread the magic of his
mind over the very face of Nature, to give to things and places
a charm and character not their own, and to turn this
"working-day world" into a perfect fairy-land. He is indeed the
true enchanter, whose spell operates, not upon the senses, but
upon the imagination and the heart. Under the wizard influence
of Shakespeare I had been walking all day in a complete
delusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism of
poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of the rainbow.
I had been surrounded with fancied beings, with mere airy
nothings conjured up by poetic power, yet which, to me, had all
the charm of reality. I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his
oak; had beheld the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring
through the woodlands; and, above all, had been once more
present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his contemporaries,
from the august Justice Shallow down to the gentle Master
Slender and the sweet Anne Page. Ten thousand honors and
blessings on the bard who has thus gilded the dull realities of
life with innocent illusions, who has spread exquisite and
unbought pleasures in my chequered path, and beguiled my spirit
in many a lonely hour with all the cordial and cheerful
sympathies of social life!

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, I paused to
contemplate the distant church in which the poet lies buried,
and could not but exult in the malediction which has kept his
ashes undisturbed in its quiet and hallowed vaults. What honor
could his name have derived from being mingled in dusty
companionship with the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal
eulogiums of a titled multitude? What would a crowded corner in
Westminster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend pile,
which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his sole
mausoleum! The solitude about the grave may be but the offspring
of an overwrought sensibility; but human nature is made up of
foibles and prejudices, and its best and tenderest affections
are mingled with these factitious feelings. He who has sought
renown about the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly
favor, will find, after all, that there is no love, no
admiration, no applause, so sweet to the soul as that which
springs up in his native place. It is there that he seeks to be
gathered in peace and honor among his kindred and his early
friends. And when the weary heart and failing head begin to warn
him that the evening of life is drawing on, he turns as fondly
as does the infant to the mother's arms to sink to sleep in the
bosom of the scene of his childhood.

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful bard when,
wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful world, he cast back a
heavy look upon his paternal home, could he have foreseen that
before many years he should return to it covered with renown;
that his name should become the boast and glory of his native
place; that his ashes should be religiously guarded as its most
precious treasure; and that its lessening spire, on which his
eyes were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day become
the beacon towering amidst the gentle landscape to guide the
literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb!



TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER.

"I appeal to any white man if ever he entered Logan's cabin
hungry, and he gave him not to eat; if ever he came cold and
naked, and he clothed him not."--Speech of au Indian Chief.

THERE is something in the character and habits of the North
American savage, taken in connection with the scenery over which
he is accustomed to range, its vast lakes, boundless forests,
majestic rivers, and trackless plains, that is, to my mind,
wonderfully striking and sublime. He is formed for the
wilderness, as the Arab is for the desert. His nature is stern,
simple, and enduring, fitted to grapple with difficulties and to
support privations. There seems but little soil in his heart for
the support of the kindly virtues; and yet, if we would but take
the trouble to penetrate through that proud stoicism and
habitual taciturnity which lock up his character from casual
observation, we should find him linked to his fellow-man of
civilized life by more of those sympathies and affections than
are usually ascribed to him.

It has been the lot of the unfortunate aborigines of America in
the early periods of colonization to be doubly wronged by the
white men. They have been dispossessed of their hereditary
possessions by mercenary and frequently wanton warfare, and
their characters have been traduced by bigoted and interested
writers. The colonists often treated them like beasts of the
forest, and the author has endeavored to justify him in his
outrages. The former found it easier to exterminate than to
civilize; the latter to vilify than to discriminate. The
appellations of savage and pagan were deemed sufficient to
sanction the hostilities of both; and thus the poor wanderers of
the forest were persecuted and defamed, not because they were
guilty, but because they were ignorant.

The rights of the savage have seldom been properly appreciated
or respected by the white man. In peace he has too often been
the dupe of artful traffic; in war he has been regarded as a
ferocious animal whose life or death was a question of mere
precaution and convenience. Man is cruelly wasteful of life when
his own safety is endangered and he is sheltered by impunity,
and little mercy is to be expected from him when he feels the
sting of the reptile and is conscious of the power to destroy.
The same prejudices, which were indulged thus early, exist in
common circulation at the present day. Certain learned societies
have, it is true, with laudable diligence, endeavored to
investigate and record the real characters and manners of the
Indian tribes; the American government, too, has wisely and
humanely exerted itself to inculcate a friendly and forbearing
spirit towards them and to protect them from fraud and
injustice.* The current opinion of the Indian character,
however, is too apt to be formed from the miserable hordes which
infest the frontiers and hang on the skirts of the settlements.
These are too commonly composed of degenerate beings, corrupted
and enfeebled by the vices of society, without being benefited
by its civilization. That proud independence which formed the
main pillar of savage virtue has been shaken down, and the whole
moral fabric lies in ruins. Their spirits are humiliated and
debased by a sense of inferiority, and their native courage
cowed and daunted by the superior knowledge and power of their
enlightened neighbors. Society has advanced upon them like one
of those withering airs that will sometimes breed desolation
over a whole region of fertility. It has enervated their
strength, multiplied their diseases, and superinduced upon their
original barbarity the low vices of artificial life. It has
given them a thousand superfluous wants, whilst it has
diminished their means of mere existence. It has driven before
it the animals of the chase, who fly from the sound of the axe
and the smoke of the settlement and seek refuge in the depths of
remoter forests and yet untrodden wilds. Thus do we too often
find the Indians on our frontiers to be the mere wrecks and
remnants of once powerful tribes, who have lingered in the
vicinity of the settlements and sunk into precarious and
vagabond existence. Poverty, repining and hopeless poverty, a
canker of the mind unknown in savage life, corrodes their
spirits and blights every free and noble quality of their
natures. They become drunken, indolent, feeble, thievish, and
pusillanimous. They loiter like vagrants about the settlements,
among spacious dwellings replete with elaborate comforts, which
only render them sensible of the comparative wretchedness of
their own condition. Luxury spreads its ample board before their
eyes, but they are excluded from the banquet. Plenty revels over
the fields, but they are starving in the midst of its abundance;
the whole wilderness has blossomed into a garden, but they feel
as reptiles that infest it.

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

How different was their state while yet the undisputed lords of
the soil! Their wants were few and the means of gratification
within their reach. They saw every one round them sharing the
same lot, enduring the same hardships, feeding on the same
aliments, arrayed in the same rude garments. No roof then rose
but was open to the homeless stranger; no smoke curled among the
trees but he was welcome to sit down by its fire and join the
hunter in his repast. "For," says an old historian of New
England, "their life is so void of care, and they are so loving
also, that they make use of those things they enjoy as common
goods, and are therein so compassionate that rather than one
should starve through want, they would starve all; thus they
pass their time merrily, not regarding our pomp, but are better
content with their own, which some men esteem so meanly of."
Such were the Indians whilst in the pride and energy of their
primitive natures: they resembled those wild plants which thrive
best in the shades of the forest, but shrink from the hand of
cultivation and perish beneath the influence of the sun.

In discussing the savage character writers have been too prone
to indulge in vulgar prejudice and passionate exaggeration,
instead of the candid temper of true philosophy. They have not
sufficiently considered the peculiar circumstances in which the
Indians have been placed, and the peculiar principles under
which they have been educated. No being acts more rigidly from
rule than the Indian. His whole conduct is regulated according
to some general maxims early implanted in his mind. The moral
laws that govern him are, to be sure, but few; but then he
conforms to them all; the white man abounds in laws of religion,
morals, and manners, but how many does he violate!

A frequent ground of accusation against the Indians is their
disregard of treaties, and the treachery and wantonness with
which, in time of apparent peace, they will suddenly fly to
hostilities. The intercourse of the white men with the Indians,
however, is too apt to be cold, distrustful, oppressive, and
insulting. They seldom treat them with that confidence and
frankness which are indispensable to real friendship, nor is
sufficient caution observed not to offend against those feelings
of pride or superstition which often prompt the Indian to
hostility quicker than mere considerations of interest. The
solitary savage feels silently, but acutely. His sensibilities
are not diffused over so wide a surface as those of the white
man, but they run in steadier and deeper channels. His pride,
his affections, his superstitions, are all directed towards
fewer objects, but the wounds inflicted on them are
proportionably severe, and furnish motives of hostility which we
cannot sufficiently appreciate. Where a community is also
limited in number, and forms one great patriarchal family, as in
an Indian tribe, the injury of an individual is the injury of
the whole, and the sentiment of vengeance is almost
instantaneously diffused. One council-fire is sufficient for the
discussion and arrangement of a plan of hostilities. Here all
the fighting-men and sages assemble. Eloquence and superstition
combine to inflame the minds of the warriors. The orator awakens
their martial ardor, and they are wrought up to a kind of
religious desperation by the visions of the prophet and the
dreamer.

An instance of one of those sudden exasperations, arising from a
motive peculiar to the Indian character, is extant in an old
record of the early settlement of Massachusetts. The planters of
Plymouth had defaced the monuments of the dead at Passonagessit,
and had plundered the grave of the Sachem's mother of some skins
with which it had been decorated. The Indians are remarkable for
the reverence which they entertain for the sepulchres of their
kindred. Tribes that have passed generations exiled from the
abodes of their ancestors, when by chance they have been
travelling in the vicinity, have been known to turn aside from
the highway, and, guided by wonderfully accurate tradition, have
crossed the country for miles to some tumulus, buried perhaps in
woods, where the bones of their tribe were anciently deposited,
and there have passed hours in silent meditation. Influenced by
this sublime and holy feeling, the Sachem whose mother's tomb
had been violated gathered his men together, and addressed them
in the following beautifully simple and pathetic harangue--a
curious specimen of Indian eloquence and an affecting instance
of filial piety in a savage:

"When last the glorious light of all the sky was underneath this
globe and birds grew silent, I began to settle, as my custom is,
to take repose. Before mine eyes were fast closed methought I
saw a vision, at which my spirit was much troubled; and
trembling at that doleful sight, a spirit cried aloud, 'Behold,
my son, whom I have cherished, see the breasts that gave thee
suck, the hands that lapped thee warm and fed thee oft. Canst
thou forget to take revenge of those wild people who have
defaced my monument in a despiteful manner, disdaining our
antiquities and honorable customs? See, now, the Sachem's grave
lies like the common people, defaced by an ignoble race. Thy
mother doth complain and implores thy aid against this thievish
people who have newly intruded on our land. If this be suffered,
I shall not rest quiet in my everlasting habitation.' This said,
the spirit vanished, and I, all in a sweat, not able scarce to
speak, began to get some strength and recollect my spirits that
were fled, and determined to demand your counsel and
assistance."

I have adduced this anecdote at some length, as it tends to show
how these sudden acts of hostility, which have been attributed
to caprice and perfidy, may often arise from deep and generous
motives, which our inattention to Indian character and customs
prevents our properly appreciating.

Another ground of violent outcry against the Indians is their
barbarity to the vanquished. This had its origin partly in
policy and partly in superstition. The tribes, though sometimes
called nations, were never so formidable in their numbers but
that the loss of several warriors was sensibly felt; this was
particularly the case when they had been frequently engaged in
warfare; and many an instance occurs in Indian history where a
tribe that had long been formidable to its neighbors has been
broken up and driven away by the capture and massacre of its
principal fighting-men. There was a strong temptation,
therefore, to the victor to be merciless, not so much to gratify
any cruel revenge, as to provide for future security. The
Indians had also the superstitious belief, frequent among
barbarous nations and prevalent also among the ancients, that
the manes of their friends who had fallen in battle were soothed
by the blood of the captives. The prisoners, however, who are
not thus sacrificed are adopted into their families in the place
of the slain, and are treated with the confidence and affection
of relatives and friends; nay, so hospitable and tender is their
entertainment that when the alternative is offered them they
will often prefer to remain with their adopted brethren rather
than return to the home and the friends of their youth.

The cruelty of the Indians towards their prisoners has been
heightened since the colonization of the whites. What was
formerly a compliance with policy and superstition has been
exasperated into a gratification of vengeance. They cannot but
be sensible that the white men are the usurpers of their ancient
dominion, the cause of their degradation, and the gradual
destroyers of their race. They go forth to battle smarting with
injuries and indignities which they have individually suffered,
and they are driven to madness and despair by the wide-spreading
desolation and the overwhelming ruin of European warfare. The
whites have too frequently set them an example of violence by
burning their villages and laying waste their slender means of
subsistence, and yet they wonder that savages do not show
moderation and magnanimity towards those who have left them
nothing but mere existence and wretchedness.

We stigmatize the Indians, also, as cowardly and treacherous,
because they use stratagem in warfare in preference to open
force; but in this they are fully justified by their rude code
of honor. They are early taught that stratagem is praiseworthy;
the bravest warrior thinks it no disgrace to lurk in silence,
and take every advantage of his foe: he triumphs in the superior
craft and sagacity by which he has been enabled to surprise and
destroy an enemy. Indeed, man is naturally more prone to
subtilty than open valor, owing to his physical weakness in
comparison with other animals. They are endowed with natural
weapons of defence, with horns, with tusks, with hoofs, and
talons; but man has to depend on his superior sagacity. In all
his encounters with these, his proper enemies, he resorts to
stratagem; and when he perversely turns his hostility against
his fellow-man, he at first continues the same subtle mode of
warfare.

The natural principle of war is to do the most harm to our enemy
with the least harm to ourselves; and this of course is to be
effected by stratagem. That chivalrous courage which induces us
to despise the suggestions of prudence and to rush in the face of
certain danger is the offspring of society and produced by
education. It is honorable, because it is in fact the triumph of
lofty sentiment over an instinctive repugnance to pain, and over
those yearnings after personal ease and security which society
has condemned as ignoble. It is kept alive by pride and the fear
of shame; and thus the dread of real evil is overcome by the
superior dread of an evil which exists but in the imagination.
It has been cherished and stimulated also by various means. It
has been the theme of spirit-stirring song and chivalrous story.
The poet and minstrel have delighted to shed round it the
splendors of fiction, and even the historian has forgotten the
sober gravity of narration and broken forth into enthusiasm and
rhapsody in its praise. Triumphs and gorgeous pageants have been
its reward: monuments, on which art has exhausted its skill and
opulence its treasures, have been erected to perpetuate a
nation's gratitude and admiration. Thus artificially excited,
courage has risen to an extraordinary and factitious degree of
heroism, and, arrayed in all the glorious "pomp and circumstance
of war," this turbulent quality has even been able to eclipse
many of those quiet but invaluable virtues which silently
ennoble the human character and swell the tide of human
happiness.

But if courage intrinsically consists in the defiance of danger
and pain, the life of the Indian is a continual exhibition of
it. He lives in a state of perpetual hostility and risk. Peril
and adventure are congenial to his nature, or rather seem
necessary to arouse his faculties and to give an interest to his
existence. Surrounded by hostile tribes, whose mode of warfare
is by ambush and surprisal, he is always prepared for fight and
lives with his weapons in his hands. As the ship careers in
fearful singleness through the solitudes of ocean, as the bird
mingles among clouds and storms, and wings its way, a mere
speck, across the pathless fields of air, so the Indian holds
his course, silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the
boundless bosom of the wilderness. His expeditions may vie in
distance and danger with the pilgrimage of the devotee or the
crusade of the knight-errant. He traverses vast forests exposed
to the hazards of lonely sickness, of lurking enemies, and
pining famine. Stormy lakes, those great inland seas, are no
obstacles to his wanderings: in his light canoe of bark he
sports like a feather on their waves, and darts with the
swiftness of an arrow down the roaring rapids of the rivers. His
very subsistence is snatched from the midst of toil and peril.
He gains his food by the hardships and dangers of the chase: he
wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the panther, and the
buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract.

No hero of ancient or modern days can surpass the Indian in his
lofty contempt of death and the fortitude with which he sustains
his cruelest affliction. Indeed, we here behold him rising
superior to the white man in consequence of his peculiar
education. The latter rushes to glorious death at the cannon's
mouth; the former calmly contemplates its approach, and
triumphantly endures it amidst the varied torments of
surrounding foes and the protracted agonies of fire. He even
takes a pride in taunting his persecutors and provoking their
ingenuity of torture; and as the devouring flames prey on his
very vitals and the flesh shrinks from the sinews, he raises his
last song of triumph, breathing the defiance of an unconquered
heart and invoking the spirits of his fathers to witness that he
dies without a groan.

Notwithstanding the obloquy with which the early historians have
overshadowed the characters of the unfortunate natives, some
bright gleams occasionally break through which throw a degree of
melancholy lustre on their memories. Facts are occasionally to
be met with in the rude annals of the eastern provinces which,
though recorded with the coloring of prejudice and bigotry, yet
speak for themselves, and will be dwelt on with applause and
sympathy when prejudice shall have passed away.

In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New
England there is a touching account of the desolation carried
into the tribe of the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the
cold-blooded detail of indiscriminate butchery. In one place we
read of the surprisal of an Indian fort in the night, when the
wigwams were wrapped in flames and the miserable inhabitants
shot down and slain in attempting to escape, "all being
despatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a series
of similar transactions "our soldiers," as the historian piously
observes, "being resolved by God's assistance to make a final
destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from
their homes and fortresses and pursued with fire and sword, a
scanty but gallant band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors,
with their wives and children took refuge in a swamp.

Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by despair, with
hearts bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe,
and spirits galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their
defeat, they refused to ask their lives at the hands of an
insulting foe, and preferred death to submission.

As the night drew on they were surrounded in their dismal
retreat, so as to render escape impracticable. Thus situated,
their enemy "plied them with shot all the time, by which means
many were killed and buried in the mire." In the darkness and
fog that preceded the dawn of day some few broke through the
besiegers and escaped into the woods; "the rest were left to the
conquerors, of which many were killed in the swamp, like sullen
dogs who would rather, in their self-willedness and madness, sit
still and be shot through or cut to pieces" than implore for
mercy. When the day broke upon this handful of forlorn but
dauntless spirits, the soldiers, we are told, entering the
swamp, "saw several heaps of them sitting close together, upon
whom they discharged their pieces, laden with ten or twelve
pistol bullets at a time, putting the muzzles of the pieces
under the boughs, within a few yards of them; so as, besides
those that were found dead, many more were killed and sunk into
the mire, and never were minded more by friend or foe."

Can any one read this plain unvarnished tale without admiring
the stern resolution, the unbending pride, the loftiness of
spirit that seemed to nerve the hearts of these self-taught
heroes and to raise them above the instinctive feelings of human
nature? When the Gauls laid waste the city of Rome, they found
the senators clothed in their robes and seated with stern
tranquillity in their curule chairs; in this manner they
suffered death without resistance or even supplication. Such
conduct was in them applauded as noble and magnanimous; in the
hapless Indian it was reviled as obstinate and sullen. How truly
are we the dupes of show and circumstance! How different is
virtue clothed in purple and enthroned in state, from virtue
naked and destitute and perishing obscurely in a wilderness!

But I forbear to dwell on these gloomy pictures. The eastern
tribes have long since disappeared; the forests that sheltered
them have been laid low, and scarce any traces remain of them in
the thickly-settled States of New England, excepting here and
there the Indian name of a village or a stream. And such must,
sooner or later, be the fate of those other tribes which skirt
the frontiers, and have occasionally been inveigled from their
forests to mingle in the wars of white men. In a little while,
and they will go the way that their brethren have gone before.
The few hordes which still linger about the shores of Huron and
Superior and the tributary streams of the Mississippi will share
the fate of those tribes that once spread over Massachusetts and
Connecticut and lorded it along the proud banks of the Hudson,
of that gigantic race said to have existed on the borders of the
Susquehanna, and of those various nations that flourished about
the Potomac and the Rappahannock and that peopled the forests of
the vast valley of Shenandoah. They will vanish like a vapor
from the face of the earth; their very history will be lost in
forgetfulness; and "the places that now know them will know them
no more forever." Or if, perchance, some dubious memorial of
them should survive, it may be in the romantic dreams of the
poet, to people in imagination his glades and groves, like the
fauns and satyrs and sylvan deities of antiquity. But should he
venture upon the dark story of their wrongs and wretchedness,
should he tell how they were invaded, corrupted, despoiled,
driven from their native abodes and the sepulchres of their
fathers, hunted like wild beasts about the earth, and sent down
with violence and butchery to the grave, posterity will either
turn with horror and incredulity from the tale or blush with
indignation at the inhumanity of their forefathers. "We are
driven back," said an old warrior, "until we can retreat no
farther--our hatchets are broken, our bows are snapped, our
fires are nearly extinguished; a little longer and the white man
will cease to persecute us, for we shall cease to exist!"


 PHILIP OF POKANOKET.

AN INDIAN MEMOIR.

    As monumental bronze unchanged his look:
    A soul that pity touch'd, but never shook;
    Train'd from his tree-rock'd cradle to his bier,
    The fierce extremes of good and ill to brook
    Impassive--fearing but the shame of fear-
        stoic of the woods--a man without a tear.
                                            CAMPBELL.

IT is to be regretted that those early writers who treated of
the discovery and settlement of America have not given us more
particular and candid accounts of the remarkable characters that
flourished in savage life. The scanty anecdotes which have
reached us are full of peculiarity and interest; they furnish us
with nearer glimpses of human nature, and show what man is in a
comparatively primitive state and what he owes to civilization.
There is something of the charm of discovery in lighting upon
these wild and unexplored tracts of human nature--in witnessing,
as it were, the native growth of moral sentiment, and perceiving
those generous and romantic qualities which have been
artificially cultivated by society vegetating in spontaneous
hardihood and rude magnificence.

In civilized life, where the happiness, and indeed almost the
existence, of man depends so much upon the opinion of his
fellow-men, he is constantly acting a studied part. The bold and
peculiar traits of native character are refined away or softened
down by the levelling influence of what is termed good-breeding,
and he practises so many petty deceptions and affects so many
generous sentiments for the purposes of popularity that it is
difficult to distinguish his real from his artificial character.
The Indian, on the contrary, free from the restraints and
refinements of polished life, and in a great degree a solitary
and independent being, obeys the impulses of his inclination or
the dictates of his judgment; and thus the attributes of his
nature, being freely indulged, grow singly great and striking.
Society is like a lawn, where every roughness is smoothed, every
bramble eradicated, and where the eye is delighted by the
smiling verdure of a velvet surface; he, however, who would
study Nature in its wildness and variety must plunge into the
forest, must explore the glen, must stem the torrent, and dare
the precipice.

These reflections arose on casually looking through a volume of
early colonial history wherein are recorded, with great
bitterness, the outrages of the Indians and their wars with the
settlers New England. It is painful to perceive, even from these
partial narratives, how the footsteps of civilization may be
traced in the blood of the aborigines; how easily the colonists
were moved to hostility by the lust of conquest; how merciless
and exterminating was their warfare. The imagination shrinks at
the idea of how many intellectual beings were hunted from the
earth, how many brave and noble hearts, of Nature's sterling
coinage, were broken down and trampled in the dust.

Such was the fate of PHILIP OF POKANOKET, an Indian warrior
whose name was once a terror throughout Massachusetts and
Connecticut. He was the most distinguished of a number of
contemporary sachems who reigned over the Pequods, the
Narragansetts, the Wampanoags, and the other eastern tribes at
the time of the first settlement of New England--a band of
native untaught heroes who made the most generous struggle of
which human nature is capable, fighting to the last gasp in the
cause of their country, without a hope of victory or a thought
of renown. Worthy of an age of poetry and fit subjects for local
story and romantic fiction, they have left scarcely any
authentic traces on the page of history, but stalk like gigantic
shadows in the dim twilight of tradition.*

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

When the Pilgrims, as the Plymouth settlers are called by their
descendants, first took refuge on the shores of the New World
from the religious persecutions of the Old, their situation was
to the last degree gloomy and disheartening. Few in number, and
that number rapidly perishing away through sickness and
hardships, surrounded by a howling wilderness and savage tribes,
exposed to the rigors of an almost arctic winter and the
vicissitudes of an ever-shifting climate, their minds were
filled with doleful forebodings, and nothing preserved them from
sinking into despondency but the strong excitement of religious
enthusiasm. In this forlorn situation they were visited by
Massasoit, chief sagamore of the Wampanoags, a powerful chief
who reigned over a great extent of country. Instead of taking
advantage of the scanty number of the strangers and expelling
them from his territories, into which they had intruded, he
seemed at once to conceive for them a generous friendship, and
extended towards them the rites of primitive hospitality. He
came early in the spring to their settlement of New Plymouth,
attended by a mere handful of followers, entered into a solemn
league of peace and amity, sold them a portion of the soil, and
promised to secure for them the good-will of his savage allies.
Whatever may be said of Indian perfidy, it is certain that the
integrity and good faith of Massasoit have never been impeached.
He continued a firm and magnanimous friend of the white men,
suffering them to extend their possessions and to strengthen
themselves in the land, and betraying no jealousy of their
increasing power and prosperity. Shortly before his death he
came once more to New Plymouth with his son Alexander, for the
purpose of renewing the covenant of peace and of securing it to
his posterity.

At this conference he endeavored to protect the religion of his
forefathers from the encroaching zeal of the missionaries, and
stipulated that no further attempt should be made to draw off
his people from their ancient faith; but, finding the English
obstinately opposed to any such condition, he mildly
relinquished the demand. Almost the last act of his life was to
bring his two sons, Alexander and Philip (as they bad been named
by the English), to the residence of a principal settler,
recommending mutual kindness and confidence, and entreating that
the same love and amity which had existed between the white men
and himself might be continued afterwards with his children. The
good old sachem died in peace, and was happily gathered to his
fathers before sorrow came upon his tribe; his children remained
behind to experience the ingratitude of white men.

His eldest son, Alexander, succeeded him. He was of a quick and
impetuous temper, and proudly tenacious of his hereditary rights
and dignity. The intrusive policy and dictatorial conduct of the
strangers excited his indignation, and he beheld with uneasiness
their exterminating wars with the neighboring tribes. He was
doomed soon to incur their hostility, being accused of plotting
with the Narragansetts to rise against the English and drive
them from the land. It is impossible to say whether this
accusation was warranted by facts or was grounded on mere
suspicions. It is evident, however, by the violent and
overbearing measures of the settlers that they had by this time
begun to feel conscious of the rapid increase of their power,
and to grow harsh and inconsiderate in their treatment of the
natives. They despatched an armed force to seize upon Alexander
and to bring him before their courts. He was traced to his
woodland haunts, and surprised at a hunting-house where he was
reposing with a band of his followers, unarmed, after the toils
of the chase. The suddenness of his arrest and the outrage
offered to his sovereign dignity so preyed upon the irascible
feelings of this proud savage as to throw him into a raging
fever. He was permitted to return home on condition of sending
his son as a pledge for his re-appearance; but the blow he had
received was fatal, and before he reached his home he fell a
victim to the agonies of a wounded spirit.

The successor of Alexander was Metamocet, or King Philip, as he
was called by the settlers on account of his lofty spirit and
ambitious temper. These, together with his well-known energy and
enterprise, had rendered him an object of great jealousy and
apprehension, and he was accused of having always cherished a
secret and implacable hostility towards the whites. Such may
very probably and very naturally have been the case. He
considered them as originally but mere intruders into the
country, who had presumed upon indulgence and were extending an
influence baneful to savage life. He saw the whole race of his
countrymen melting before them from the face of the earth, their
territories slipping from their hands, and their tribes becoming
feeble, scattered, and dependent. It may be said that the soil
was originally purchased by the settlers; but who does not know
the nature of Indian purchases in the early periods of
colonization? The Europeans always made thrifty bargains through
their superior adroitness in traffic, and they gained vast
accessions of territory by easily-provoked hostilities. An
uncultivated savage is never a nice inquirer into the
refinements of law by which an injury may be gradually and
legally inflicted. Leading facts are all by which he judges; and
it was enough for Philip to know that before the intrusion of
the Europeans his countrymen were lords of the soil, and that
now they were becoming vagabonds in the land of their fathers.

But whatever may have been his feelings of general hostility and
his particular indignation at the treatment of his brother, he
suppressed them for the present, renewed the contract with the
settlers, and resided peaceably for many years at Pokanoket, or
as, it was called by the English, Mount Hope,* the ancient seat
of dominion of his tribe. Suspicions, however, which were at
first but vague and indefinite, began to acquire form and
substance, and he was at length charged with attempting to
instigate the various eastern tribes to rise at once, and by a
simultaneous effort to throw off the yoke of their oppressors.
It is difficult at this distant period to assign the proper
credit due to these early accusations against the Indians. There
was a proneness to suspicion and an aptness to acts of violence
on the part of the whites that gave weight and importance to
every idle tale. Informers abounded where tale-bearing met with
countenance and reward, and the sword was readily unsheathed
when its success was certain and it carved out empire.

* Now Bristol, Rhode Island.

The only positive evidence on record against Philip is the
accusation of one Sausaman, a renegado Indian, whose natural
cunning had been quickened by a partial education which be had
received among the settlers. He changed his faith and his
allegiance two or three times with a facility that evinced the
looseness of his principles. He had acted for some time as
Philip's confidential secretary and counsellor, and had enjoyed
his bounty and protection. Finding, however, that the clouds of
adversity were gathering round his patron, he abandoned his
service and went over to the whites, and in order to gain their
favor charged his former benefactor with plotting against their
safety. A rigorous investigation took place. Philip and several
of his subjects submitted to be examined, but nothing was proved
against them. The settlers, however, had now gone too far to
retract; they had previously determined that Philip was a
dangerous neighbor; they had publicly evinced their distrust,
and had done enough to insure his hostility; according,
therefore, to the usual mode of reasoning in these cases, his
destruction had become necessary to their security. Sausaman,
the treacherous informer, was shortly afterwards found dead in a
pond, having fallen a victim to the vengeance of his tribe.
Three Indians, one of whom was a friend and counsellor of
Philip, were apprehended and tried, and on the testimony of one
very questionable witness were condemned and executed as
murderers.

This treatment of his subjects and ignominious punishment of his
friend outraged the pride and exasperated the passions of
Philip. The bolt which had fallen thus at his very feet awakened
him to the gathering storm, and he determined to trust himself
no longer in the power of the white men. The fate of his
insulted and broken-hearted brother still rankled in his mind;
and he had a further warning in the tragical story of
Miantonimo, a great Sachem of the Narragansetts, who, after
manfully facing his accusers before a tribunal of the colonists,
exculpating himself from a charge of conspiracy and receiving
assurances of amity, had been perfidiously despatched at their
instigation. Philip therefore gathered his fighting-men about
him, persuaded all strangers that he could to join his cause,
sent the women and children to the Narragansetts for safety, and
wherever he appeared was continually surrounded by armed
warriors.

When the two parties were thus in a state of distrust and
irritation, the least spark was sufficient to set them in a
flame. The Indians, having weapons in their hands, grew
mischievous and committed various petty depredations. In one of
their maraudings a warrior was fired on and killed by a settler.
This was the signal for open hostilities; the Indians pressed to
revenge the death of their comrade, and the alarm of war
resounded through the Plymouth colony.

In the early chronicles of these dark and melancholy times we
meet with many indications of the diseased state of the public
mind. The gloom of religious abstraction and the wildness of
their situation among trackless forests and savage tribes had
disposed the colonists to superstitious fancies, and had filled
their imaginations with the frightful chimeras of witchcraft and
spectrology. They were much given also to a belief in omens. The
troubles with Philip and his Indians were preceded, we are told,
by a variety of those awful warnings which forerun great and
public calamities. The perfect form of an Indian bow appeared in
the air at New Plymouth, which was looked upon by the
inhabitants as a "prodigious apparition." At Hadley,
Northampton, and other towns in their neighborhood "was heard
the report of a great piece of ordnance, with a shaking of the
earth and a considerable echo."* Others were alarmed on a still
sunshiny morning by the discharge of guns and muskets; bullets
seemed to whistle past them, and the noise of drums resounded in
the air, seeming to pass away to the westward; others fancied
that they heard the galloping of horses over their heads; and
certain monstrous births which took place about the time filled
the superstitious in some towns with doleful forebodings. Many
of these portentous sights and sounds may be ascribed to natural
phenomena--to the northern lights which occur vividly in those
latitudes, the meteors which explode in the air, the casual
rushing of a blast through the top branches of the forest, the
crash of fallen trees or disrupted rocks, and to those other
uncouth sounds and echoes which will sometimes strike the ear so
strangely amidst the profound stillness of woodland solitudes.
These may have startled some melancholy imaginations, may have
been exaggerated by the love for the marvellous, and listened to
with that avidity with which we devour whatever is fearful and
mysterious. The universal currency of these superstitious
fancies and the grave record made of them by one of the learned
men of the day are strongly characteristic of the times.

* The Rev. Increase Mather's History.

The nature of the contest that ensued was such as too often
distinguishes the warfare between civilized men and savages. On
the part of the whites it was conducted with superior skill and
success, but with a wastefulness of the blood and a disregard of
the natural rights of their antagonists: on the part of the
Indians it was waged with the desperation of men fearless of
death, and who had nothing to expect from peace but humiliation,
dependence, and decay.

The events of the war are transmitted to us by a worthy
clergyman of the time, who dwells with horror and indignation on
every hostile act of the Indians, however justifiable, whilst he
mentions with applause the most sanguinary atrocities of the
whites. Philip is reviled as a murderer and a traitor, without
considering that he was a true-born prince gallantly fighting at
the head of his subjects to avenge the wrongs of his family, to
retrieve the tottering power of his line, and to deliver his
native land from the oppression of usurping strangers.

The project of a wide and simultaneous revolt, if such had
really been formed, was worthy of a capacious mind, and had it
not been prematurely discovered might have been overwhelming in
its consequences. The war that actually broke out was but a war
of detail, a mere succession of casual exploits and unconnected
enterprises. Still, it sets forth the military genius and daring
prowess of Philip, and wherever, in the prejudiced and
passionate narrations that have been given of it, we can arrive
at simple facts, we find him displaying a vigorous mind, a
fertility of expedients, a contempt of suffering and hardship,
and an unconquerable resolution that command our sympathy and
applause.

Driven from his paternal domains at Mount Hope, he threw himself
into the depths of those vast and trackless forests that skirted
the settlements and were almost impervious to anything but a
wild beast or an Indian. Here he gathered together his forces,
like the storm accumulating its stores of mischief in the bosom
of the thundercloud, and would suddenly emerge at a time and
place least expected, carrying havoc and dismay into the
villages. There were now and then indications of these impending
ravages that filled the minds of the colonists with awe and
apprehension. The report of a distant gun would perhaps be heard
from the solitary woodland, where there was known to be no white
man; the cattle which had been wandering in the woods would
sometimes return home wounded; or an Indian or two would be seen
lurking about the skirts of the forests and suddenly
disappearing, as the lightning will sometimes be seen playing
silently about the edge of the cloud that is brewing up the
tempest.

Though sometimes pursued and even surrounded by the settlers,
yet Philip as often escaped almost miraculously from their
toils, and, plunging into the wilderness, would be lost to all
search or inquiry until he again emerged at some far distant
quarter, laying the country desolate. Among his strongholds were
the great swamps or morasses which extend in some parts of New
England, composed of loose bogs of deep black mud, perplexed
with thickets, brambles, rank weeds, the shattered and
mouldering trunks of fallen trees, overshadowed by lugubrious
hemlocks. The uncertain footing and the tangled mazes of these
shaggy wilds rendered them almost impracticable to the white
man, though the Indian could thread their labyrinths with the
agility of a deer. Into one of these, the great swamp of
Pocasset Neck, was Philip once driven with a band of his
followers. The English did not dare to pursue him, fearing to
venture into these dark and frightful recesses, where they might
perish in fens and miry pits or be shot down by lurking foes.
They therefore invested the entrance to the Neck, and began to
build a fort with the thought of starving out the foe; but
Philip and his warriors wafted themselves on a raft over an arm
of the sea in the dead of night, leaving the women and children
behind, and escaped away to the westward, kindling the flames of
war among the tribes of Massachusetts and the Nipmuck country
and threatening the colony of Connecticut.

In this way Philip became a theme of universal apprehension. The
mystery in which he was enveloped exaggerated his real terrors.
He was an evil that walked in darkness, whose coming none could
foresee and against which none knew when to be on the alert. The
whole country abounded with rumors and alarms. Philip seemed
almost possessed of ubiquity, for in whatever part of the
widely-extended frontier an irruption from the forest took
place, Philip was said to be its leader. Many superstitious
notions also were circulated concerning him. He was said to deal
in necromancy, and to be attended by an old Indian witch or
prophetess, whom he consulted and who assisted him by her charms
and incantations. This, indeed, was frequently the case with
Indian chiefs, either through their own credulity or to act upon
that of their followers; and the influence of the prophet and
the dreamer over Indian superstition has been fully evidenced in
recent instances of savage warfare.

At the time that Philip effected his escape from Pocasset his
fortunes were in a desperate condition. His forces had been
thinned by repeated fights and he had lost almost the whole of
his resources. In this time of adversity he found a faithful
friend in Canonchet. chief Sachem of all the Narragansetts. He
was the son and heir of Miantonimo, the great sachem who, as
already mentioned, after an honorable acquittal of the charge of
conspiracy, had been privately put to death at the perfidious
instigations of the settlers. "He was the heir," says the old
chronicler, "of all his father's pride and insolence, as well as
of his malice towards the English;" he certainly was the heir of
his insults and injuries and the legitimate avenger of his
murder. Though he had forborne to take an active part in this
hopeless war, yet he received Philip and his broken forces with
open arms and gave them the most generous countenance and
support. This at once drew upon him the hostility of the
English, and it was determined to strike a signal blow that
should involve both the Sachems in one common ruin. A great
force was therefore gathered together from Massachusetts,
Plymouth, and Connecticut, and was sent into the Narragansett
country in the depth of winter, when the swamps, being frozen
and leafless, could be traversed with comparative facility and
would no longer afford dark and impenetrable fastnesses to the
Indians.

Apprehensive of attack, Canonchet had conveyed the greater part
of his stores, together with the old, the infirm, the women and
children of his tribe, to a strong fortress, where he and Philip
had likewise drawn up the flower of their forces. This fortress,
deemed by the Indians impregnable, was situated upon a rising
mound or kind of island of five or six acres in the midst of a
swamp; it was constructed with a degree of judgment and skill
vastly superior to what is usually displayed in Indian
fortification, and indicative of the martial genius of these two
chieftains.

Guided by a renegado Indian, the English penetrated, through
December snows, to this stronghold and came upon the garrison by
surprise. The fight was fierce and tumultuous. The assailants
were repulsed in their first attack, and several of their
bravest officers were shot down in the act of storming the
fortress, sword in hand. The assault was renewed with greater
success. A lodgment was effected. The Indians were driven from
one post to another. They disputed their ground inch by inch,
fighting with the fury of despair. Most of their veterans were
cut to pieces, and after a long and bloody battle, Philip and
Canonchet, with a handful of surviving warriors, retreated from
the fort and took refuge in the thickets of the surrounding
forest.

The victors set fire to the wigwams and the fort; the whole was
soon in a blaze; many of the old men, the women, and the
children perished in the flames. This last outrage overcame even
the stoicism of the savage. The neighboring woods resounded with
the yells of rage and despair uttered by the fugitive warriors,
as they beheld the destruction of their dwellings and heard the
agonizing cries of their wives and offspring. "The burning of
the wigwams," says a contemporary writer, "the shrieks and cries
of the women and children, and the yelling of the warriors,
exhibited a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it
greatly moved some of the soldiers." The same writer cautiously
adds, "They were in much doubt then, and afterwards seriously
inquired, whether burning their enemies alive could be
consistent with humanity, and the benevolent principles of the
gospel."*

* MS. of the Rev. W. Ruggles.

The fate of the brave and generous Canonchet is worthy of
particular mention: the last scene of his life is one of the
noblest instances on record of Indian magnimity.

Broken down in his power and resources by this signal defeat,
yet faithful to his ally and to the hapless cause which he had
espoused, he rejected all overtures of peace offered on
condition of betraying Philip and his followers, and declared
that "he would fight it out to the last man, rather than become
a servant to the English." His home being destroyed, his country
harassed and laid waste by the incursions of the conquerors, he
was obliged to wander away to the banks of the Connecticut,
where he formed a rallying-point to the whole body of western
Indians and laid waste several of the English settlements.

Early in the spring he departed on a hazardous expedition, with
only thirty chosen men, to penetrate to Seaconck, in the
vicinity of Mount Hope, and to procure seed corn to plant for
the sustenance of his troops. This little hand of adventurers
had passed safely through the Pequod country, and were in the
centre of the Narragansett, resting at some wigwams near
Pautucket River, when an alarm was given of an approaching
enemy. Having but seven men by him at the time, Canonchet
despatched two of them to the top of a neighboring hill to bring
intelligence of the foe.

Panic-struck by the appearance of a troop of English and Indians
rapidly advancing, they fled in breathless terror past their
chieftain, without stopping to inform him of the danger.
Canonchet sent another scout, who did the same. He then sent two
more, one of whom, hurrying back in confusion and affright, told
him that the whole British army was at hand. Canonchet saw there
was no choice but immediate flight. He attempted to escape round
the hill, but was perceived and hotly pursued by the hostile
Indians and a few of the fleetest of the English. Finding the
swiftest pursuer close upon his heels, he threw off, first his
blanket, then his silver-laced coat and belt of peag, by which
his enemies knew him to be Canonchet and redoubled the eagerness
of pursuit.

At length, in dashing through the river, his foot slipped upon a
stone, and he fell so deep as to wet his gun. This accident so
struck him with despair that, as he afterwards confessed, "his
heart and his bowels turned within him, and he became like a
rotten stick, void of strength." To such a degree was he unnerved
that, being seized by a Pequod
Indian within a short distance of the river, he made no
resistance, though a man of great vigor of body and boldness of
heart. But on being made prisoner the whole pride of his spirit
arose within him, and from that moment we find, in the anecdotes
given by his enemies, nothing but repeated flashes of elevated
and prince-like heroism. Being questioned by one of the English
who first came up with him, and who had not attained his twenty
second year, the proud-hearted warrior, looking with lofty
contempt upon his youthful countenance, replied, "You are a
child--you cannot understand matters of war; let your brother or
your chief come: him will I answer."

Though repeated offers were made to him of his life on condition
of submitting with his nation to the English, yet he rejected
them with disdain, and refused to send any proposals of the kind
to the great body of his subjects, saying that he knew none of
them would comply. Being reproached with his breach of faith
towards the whites, his boast that he would not deliver up a
Wampanoag nor the paring of a Wampanoag's nail, and his threat
that he would burn the English alive in their houses, he
disdained to justify himself, haughtily answering that others
were as forward for the war as himself, and "he desired to hear
no more thereof."

So noble and unshaken a spirit, so true a fidelity to his cause
and his friend, might have touched the feelings of the generous
and the brave; but Canonchet was an Indian, a being towards whom
war had no courtesy, humanity no law, religion no compassion: he
was condemned to die. The last words of his that are recorded
are worthy the greatness of his soul. When sentence of death was
passed upon him, be observed "that he liked it well, for he
should die before his heart was soft or he had spoken anything
unworthy of himself." His enemies gave him the death of a
soldier, for he was shot at Stoning ham by three young Sachems
of his own rank.

The defeat at the Narraganset fortress and the death of
Canonchet were fatal blows to the fortunes of King Philip. He
made an ineffectual attempt to raise a head of war by stirring
up the Mohawks to take arms; but, though possessed of the native
talents of a statesman, his arts were counteracted by the
superior arts of his enlightened enemies, and the terror of
their warlike skill began to subdue the resolution of the
neighboring tribes. The unfortunate chieftain saw himself daily
stripped of power, and his ranks rapidly thinning around him.
Some were suborned by the whites; others fell victims to hunger
and fatigue and to the frequent attacks by which they were
harassed. His stores were all captured; his chosen friends were
swept away from before his eyes; his uncle was shot down by his
side; his sister was carried into captivity; and in one of his
narrow escapes he was compelled to leave his beloved wife and
only son to the mercy of the enemy. "His ruin," says the
historian, "being thus gradually carried on, his misery was not
prevented, but augmented thereby; being himself made acquainted
with the sense and experimental feeling of the captivity of his
children, loss of friends, slaughter of his subjects,
bereavement of all family relations, and being stripped of all
outward comforts before his own life should be taken away."

To fill up the measure of his misfortunes, his own followers
began to plot against his life, that by sacrificing him they
might purchase dishonorable safety. Through treachery a number
of his faithful adherents, the subjects of Wetamoe, an Indian
princess of Pocasset, a near kinswoman and confederate of
Philip, were betrayed into the hands of the enemy. Wetamoe was
among them at the time, and attempted to make her escape by
crossing a neighboring river: either exhausted by swimming or
starved with cold and hunger, she was found dead and naked near
the water-side. But persecution ceased not at the grave. Even
death, the refuge of the wretched, where the wicked commonly
cease from troubling, was no protection to this outcast female,
whose great crime was affectionate fidelity to her kinsman and
her friend. Her corpse was the object of unmanly and dastardly
vengeance: the head was severed from the body and set upon a
pole, and was thus exposed at Taunton to the view of her captive
subjects. They immediately recognized the features of their
unfortunate queen, and were so affected at this barbarous
spectacle that we are told they broke forth into the "most
horrid and diabolical lamentations."

However Philip had borne up against the complicated miseries and
misfortunes that surrounded him, the treachery of his followers
seemed to wring his heart and reduce him to despondency. It is
said that "he never rejoiced afterwards, nor had success in any
of his designs." The spring of hope was broken--the ardor of
enterprise was extinguished; he looked around, and all was
danger and darkness; there was no eye to pity nor any arm that
could bring deliverance. With a scanty band of followers, who
still remained true to his desperate fortunes, the unhappy
Philip wandered back to the vicinity of Mount Hope, the ancient
dwelling of his fathers. Here he lurked about like a spectre
among the scenes of former power and prosperity, now bereft of
home, of family, and of friend. There needs no better picture of
his destitute and piteous situation than that furnished by the
homely pen of the chronicler, who is unwarily enlisting the
feelings of the reader in favor of the hapless warrior whom he
reviles. "Philip," he says, "like a savage wild beast, having
been hunted by the English forces through the woods above a
hundred miles backward and forward, at last was driven to his
own den upon Mount Hope, where he retired, with a few of his
best friends, into a swamp, which proved but a prison to keep
him fast till the messengers of death came by divine permission
to execute vengeance upon him."

Even in this last refuge of desperation and despair a sullen
grandeur gathers round his memory. We picture him to ourselves
seated among his care-worn followers, brooding in silence over
his blasted fortunes, and acquiring a savage sublimity from the
wildness and dreariness of his lurking-place. Defeated, but not
dismayed--crushed to the earth, but not humiliated--he seemed to
grow more haughty beneath disaster, and to experience a fierce
satisfaction in draining the last dregs of bitterness. Little
minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune, but great minds rise
above it. The very idea of submission awakened the fury of
Philip, and he smote to death one of his followers who proposed
an expedient of peace. The brother of the victim made his
escape, and in revenge betrayed the retreat of his chieftain, A
body of white men and Indians were immediately despatched to the
swamp where Philip lay crouched, glaring with fury and despair.
Before he was aware of their approach they had begun to surround
him. In a little while he saw five of his trustiest followers
laid dead at his feet; all resistance was vain; he rushed forth
from his covert, and made a headlong attempt to escape, but was
shot through the heart by a renegado Indian of his own nation.

Such is the scanty story of the brave but unfortunate King
Philip, persecuted while living, slandered and dishonored when
dead. If, however, we consider even the prejudiced anecdotes
furnished us by his enemies, we may perceive in them traces of
amiable and loftly character sufficient to awaken sympathy for
his fate and respect for his memory. We find that amidst all the
harassing cares and ferocious passions of constant warfare he
was alive to the softer feelings of connubial love and paternal
tenderness and to the generous sentiment of friendship. The
captivity of his "beloved wife and only son" are mentioned with
exultation as causing him poignant misery: the death of any near
friend is triumphantly recorded as a new blow on his
sensibilities; but the treachery and desertion of many of his
followers, in whose affections he had confided, is said to have
desolated his heart and to have bereaved him of all further
comfort. He was a patriot attached to his native soil--a prince
true to his subjects and indignant of their wrongs--a soldier
daring in battle, firm in adversity, patient of fatigue, of
hunger, of every variety of bodily suffering, and ready to
perish in the cause he had espoused. Proud of heart and with an
untamable love of natural liberty, he preferred to enjoy it
among the beasts of the forests or in the dismal and famished
recesses of swamps and morasses, rather than bow his haughty
spirit to submission and live dependent and despised in the ease
and luxury of the settlements. With heroic qualities and bold
achievements that would have graced a civilized warrior, and
have rendered him the theme of the poet and the historian, he
lived a wanderer and a fugitive in his native land, and went
down, like a lonely bark foundering amid darkness and tempest,
without a pitying eye to weep his fall or a friendly hand to
record his struggle.