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    The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)
    The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)
    The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)
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    The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)

    By Washington Irving

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    This eBook features the unabridged text of ‘The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)’ from the bestselling edition of ‘The Complete Works of Washington Irving’.

    Having established their name as the leading publisher of classic literature and art, Delphi Classics produce publications that are individually crafted with superior formatting, while introducing many rare texts for the first time in digital print. The Delphi Classics edition of Irving includes original annotations and illustrations relating to the life and works of the author, as well as individual tables of contents, allowing you to navigate eBooks quickly and easily.

    eBook features:
    * The complete unabridged text of ‘The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)’
    * Beautifully illustrated with images related to Irving’s works
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    * Excellent formatting of the textPlease visit www.delphiclassics.com to learn more about our wide range of titles
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPublishdrive
    Release dateJul 17, 2017
    ISBN9781788775366
    The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated)
    Author

    Washington Irving

    Hijo de un comerciante escocés, nació en Nueva York en 1783. Estudió Derecho y empezó muy pronto a colaborar en distintos periódicos con artículos satíricos sobre la sociedad neoyorquina. Entre 1804 y 1808 viajó por Europa por razones de salud y a su regreso publicó una colección de sus artículos, Salgamundi (1808). En 1809, con el pseudónimo de Diedrich Knickerbocker, presunto historiador holandés, que mantendría mucho tiempo y que llegaría a convertirse en símbolo de los antiguos habitantes de la ciudad, publicó History of New York. Gracias al éxito de esta obra y coincidiendo con la quiebra de la empresa familiar, pudo dedicarse profesionalmente a la literatura. En 1819-1820 apareció The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent., donde se incluían dos de sus más famosos relatos, «Rip Van Winkle» y «La leyenda de Sleepy Hollow» (ALBA CLÁSICA núm. CXI). Nombrado agregado de la embajada de Estados Unidos (luego embajador) en España, compuso aquí sus célebres Cuentos de la Alhambra (1826), clásico ejemplo de la vertiente exótica de la literatura romántica; fue también secretario de embajada en Londres. En sus últimos años se dedicaría a escribir biografías de grandes personalidades como Oliver Goldsmith, Mahoma y George Washington. Murió en 1859 en Sunnyside, la finca familiar a orillas del Hudson.

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      Book preview

      The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. by Washington Irving - Delphi Classics (Illustrated) - Washington Irving

      The Complete Works of

      WASHINGTON IRVING

      VOLUME 1 OF 20

      The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.

      Parts Edition

      By Delphi Classics, 2014

      Version 2

      COPYRIGHT

      ‘The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.’

      Washington Irving: Parts Edition (in 20 parts)

      First published in the United Kingdom in 2017 by Delphi Classics.

      © Delphi Classics, 2017.

      All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

      ISBN: 978 1 78877 536 6

      Delphi Classics

      is an imprint of

      Delphi Publishing Ltd

      Hastings, East Sussex

      United Kingdom

      Contact: [email protected]

      www.delphiclassics.com

      Washington Irving: Parts Edition

      This eBook is Part 1 of the Delphi Classics edition of Washington Irving in 20 Parts. It features the unabridged text of The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent. from the bestselling edition of the author’s Complete Works. Having established their name as the leading publisher of classic literature and art, Delphi Classics produce publications that are individually crafted with superior formatting, while introducing many rare texts for the first time in digital print. Our Parts Editions feature original annotations and illustrations relating to the life and works of Washington Irving, as well as individual tables of contents, allowing you to navigate eBooks quickly and easily.

      Visit here to buy the entire Parts Edition of Washington Irving or the Complete Works of Washington Irving in a single eBook.

      Learn more about our Parts Edition, with free downloads, via this link or browse our most popular Parts here.

      WASHINGTON IRVING

      IN 20 VOLUMES

      Parts Edition Contents

      The Short Story Collections

      1, The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.

      2, Bracebridge Hall

      3, Tales of a Traveller

      4, Tales of the Alhambra

      5, The Crayon Miscellany

      6, Wolfert’s Roost

      The Satires

      7, Letters of Jonathan Oldstyle, Gent.

      8, A History of New York

      The Plays

      9, Abu Hassan

      10, The Wild Huntsman

      The Poetry

      11, The Complete Poetry

      The Non-Fiction

      12, A Tour on the Praries

      13, Chronicle of the Conquest of Granada

      14, Astoria

      15, The Adventures of Captain Bonneville. the Rocky Mountains

      16, Life of Oliver Goldsmith

      17, Life of George Washington: Volume I

      The Criticism

      18, The Criticism

      The Biographies

      19, Washington Irving by Henry W. Boynton

      20, Washington Irving by Charles Dudley Warner

      www.delphiclassics.com

      The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.

      This is a collection of 34 essays and short stories published in serial format from 1819 to 1820. The collection includes Irving’s two most famous works, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. The collection also marks Irving’s first use of the pseudonym Geoffrey Crayon, which he continued to employ throughout his literary career. The Sketch Book became one of the first widely read works of American literature in Britain and Europe, helping to promote the reputation of other American writers to international audiences.

      The stories range from sentimental pieces such as The Wife and The Widow and Her Son to picaresque romps with Little Britain and the humorous The Mutability of Literature.  However, the collection’s most noticeable feature is the inimitable personality of Irving’s narrator, Geoffrey Crayon. Scholarly and charming, though sensitive enough not to obstruct his tales with his own character, Crayon was the collection’s immediate attraction for the reading public.

      Irving had started writing the tales shortly after moving to England, where he hoped to preserve his family’s trading business in 1815. When the business suffered bankruptcy in 1817, Irving was left with no position and very few prospects. He tried at first to serve as an intermediary between American and English publishers, searching for English books to reprint in America and vice versa, with little success. In the autumn of 1818, Irving’s brother William, sitting as a Congressman from New York, secured for him a political appointment as chief clerk to the Secretary of the U.S. Navy, and urged his younger brother to return home. Irving instead decided to remain in England and take his chances as a writer, announcing at the time, I shall not return home until I have sent some writings before me that shall, if they have merit, make me return to smiles, rather than skulk back to the pity of my friends.

      Having spent late 1818 and the early part of the following year working tirelessly on a collection of short stories and essays, The Sketch Book was eventually published in 1819 to critical acclaim.  In Scotland, the world literary figure Sir Walter Scott was a great admirer of Irving’s writing, advising John Murray to publish his work.  The collection was an immediate commercial success, winning fame and popularity for Irving and establishing his reputation on both sides of the Atlantic.  Lord Byron was quoted as saying, I know it by heart, while Sir Walter Scott reviewed the work as positively beautiful.

      The Legend of Sleepy Hollow has since become one of the most influential ghost stories of the early nineteenth century. Set in 1790 in the countryside around the Dutch settlement of Tarry Town, Sleepy Hollow is renowned for its ghosts and haunting atmosphere. Legends tell of the spectre of the Headless Horseman, believed to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, killed during the American Revolutionary War and who rides forth to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head.

      The story concerns the tale of Ichabod Crane, a lean and superstitious schoolmaster from Connecticut, who competes with Abraham Brom Bones Van Brunt, the town rogue, for the hand of the beautiful Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and sole child of a wealthy farmer, Baltus Van Tassel.  However, all of their fates are about to be inexplicably entwined in the mystery of the Headless Horseman…

      Washington Irving by John Wesley Jarvis, c. 1809

      Sir Walter Scott, the leading literary figure of the age, was a friend and mentor to the young Irving.

      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.*

      The first edition’s title page

      ‘The Headless Horseman Pursuing Ichabod Crane’ by John Quidor, 1858

      THE SKETCH-BOOK OF GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

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

      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.

      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 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 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,

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