Washington Irving
The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon
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Table of contents
THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF
THE VOYAGE.
ROSCOE.
THE WIFE.
RIP VAN WINKLE.
ENGLISH WRITERS ON AMERICA.
RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND.
THE BROKEN HEART.
THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING.
A ROYAL POET.
THE COUNTRY CHURCH.
THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
A SUNDAY IN LONDON.*
THE BOAR'S HEAD TAVERN, EASTCHEAP.
THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE.
RURAL FUNERALS.
THE INN KITCHEN.
THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
CHRISTMAS.
THE STAGE-COACH.
CHRISTMAS EVE.
CHRISTMAS DAY.
THE CHRISTMAS DINNER.
LONDON ANTIQUES.
LITTLE BRITAIN.
STRATFORD-ON-AVON.
TRAITS OF INDIAN CHARACTER.
PHILIP OF POKANOKET.
JOHN BULL.
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.
THE ANGLER.
THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW.
L'ENVOY.*
"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.
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
look beyond his own country for the sublime and beautiful of natural
scenery.But
Europe held forth all the charms of storied and poetical association.
There were to be seen the masterpieces of art, the refinements of
highly cultivated society, the quaint peculiarities of ancient and
local custom. My native country was full of youthful promise; Europe
was rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins told the
history of the times gone by, and every mouldering stone was a
chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of renowned
achievement—to tread, as it were, in the footsteps of antiquity—to
loiter about the ruined castle—to meditate on the falling tower—to
escape, in short, from the commonplace realities of the present, and
lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past.I
had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the great men of the
earth. We have, it is true, our great men in America: not a city but
has an ample share of them. I have mingled among them in my time, and
been almost withered by the shade into which they cast me; for there
is nothing so baleful to a small man as the shade of a great one,
particularly the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see the
great men of Europe; for I had read in the works of various
philosophers, that all animals degenerated in America, and man among
the number. A great man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as
superior to a great man of America, as a peak of the Alps to a
highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I was confirmed by observing
the comparative importance and swelling magnitude of many English
travellers among us, who, I was assured, were very little people in
their own country. I will visit this land of wonders, thought I, and
see the gigantic race from which I am degenerated.It
has been either my good or evil lot to have my roving passion
gratified. I have wandered through different countries and witnessed
many of the shifting scenes of life. I cannot say that I have studied
them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the sauntering
gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque stroll from the
window of one print-shop to another; caught sometimes by the
delineations of beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature,
and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As it is the fashion
for modern tourists to travel pencil in hand, and bring home their
portfolios filled with sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for
the entertainment of my friends. When, however, I look over the hints
and memorandums I have taken down for the purpose, my heart almost
fails me, at finding how my idle humor has led me astray from the
great object studied by every regular traveller who would make a
book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with an unlucky
landscape-painter, who had travelled on the Continent, but following
the bent of his vagrant inclination, had sketched in nooks, and
corners, and by-places. His sketch-book was accordingly crowded with
cottages, and landscapes, and obscure ruins; but he had neglected to
paint St. Peter's, or the Coliseum, the cascade of Terni, or the bay
of Naples, and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole
collection.
THE VOYAGE.
Ships,
ships, I will descrie youAmidst
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 of 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 beA
guardian god below; still to employThe
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 erewhileTo
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 beguileMy
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 preciousAs
are the concealed comforts of a manLock'd
up in woman's love. I scent the airOf
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.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!