第13章
AsIcrossedthebridgeovertheAvononmyreturn，Ipausedto
contemplatethedistantchurchinwhichthepoetliesburied，and
couldnotbutexultinthemalediction，whichhaskepthisashes
undisturbedinitsquietandhallowedvaults。Whathonorcouldhis
namehavederivedfrombeingmingledindustycompanionshipwiththe
epitaphsandescutcheonsandvenaleulogiumsofatitledmultitude？
WhatwouldacrowdedcornerinWestminsterAbbeyhavebeen，compared
withthisreverendpile，whichseemstostandinbeautiful
lonelinessashissolemausoleum！Thesolicitudeaboutthegravemay
bebuttheoffspringofanover—wroughtsensibility；buthuman
natureismadeupoffoiblesandprejudices；anditsbestand
tenderestaffectionsaremingledwiththesefactitiousfeelings。He
whohassoughtrenownabouttheworld，andhasreapedafullharvest
ofworldlyfavor，willfind，afterall，thatthereisnolove，no
admiration，noapplause，sosweettothesoulasthatwhichspringsup
inhisnativeplace。Itistherethatheseekstobegatheredinpeace
andhonoramonghiskindredandhisearlyfriends。Andwhenthe
wearyheartandfailingheadbegintowarnhimthattheeveningof
lifeisdrawingon，heturnsasfondlyasdoestheinfanttothe
mother’sarms，tosinktosleepinthebosomofthesceneofhis
childhood。
Howwouldithavecheeredthespiritoftheyouthfulbardwhen，
wanderingforthindisgraceuponadoubtfulworld，hecastbacka
heavylookuponhispaternalhome，couldhehaveforeseenthat，before
manyyears，heshouldreturntoitcoveredwithrenown；thathis
nameshouldbecometheboastandgloryofhisnativeplace；thathis
ashesshouldbereligiouslyguardedasitsmostprecioustreasure；and
thatitslesseningspire，onwhichhiseyeswerefixedintearful
contemplation，shouldonedaybecomethebeacon，toweringamidstthe
gentlelandscape，toguidetheliterarypilgrimofeverynationtohis
tomb！
THEEND。
1819—20
THESKETCHBOOK
THEARTOFBOOK—MAKING
byWashingtonIrving
"IfthatseveredoomofSynesiusbetrue—’Itisagreateroffence
tostealdeadmen’slabor，thantheirclothes，’whatshallbecomeof
mostwriters？"
BURTON’SANATOMYOFMELANCHOLY。
IHAVEoftenwonderedattheextremefecundityofthepress，andhow
itcomestopassthatsomanyheads，onwhichnatureseemedtohave
inflictedthecurseofbarrenness，shouldteemwithvoluminous
productions。Asamantravelson，however，inthejourneyoflife，his
objectsofwonderdailydiminish，andheiscontinuallyfindingout
someverysimplecauseforsomegreatmatterofmarvel。ThushaveI
chanced，inmyperegrinationsaboutthisgreatmetropolis，to
blunderuponascenewhichunfoldedtomesomeofthemysteriesofthe
book—makingcraft，andatonceputanendtomyastonishment。
Iwasonesummer’sdayloiteringthroughthegreatsaloonsofthe
BritishMuseum，withthatlistlessnesswithwhichoneisaptto
saunteraboutamuseuminwarmweather；sometimeslollingoverthe
glasscasesofminerals，sometimesstudyingthehieroglyphicsonan
Egyptianmummy，andsometimestrying，withnearlyequalsuccess，to
comprehendtheallegoricalpaintingsontheloftyceilings。WhilstI
wasgazingaboutinthisidleway，myattentionwasattractedtoa
distantdoor，attheendofasuiteofapartments。Itwasclosed，
buteverynowandthenitwouldopen，andsomestrange—favored
being，generallyclothedinblack，wouldstealforth，andglide
throughtherooms，withoutnoticinganyofthesurroundingobjects。
Therewasanairofmysteryaboutthisthatpiquedmylanguid
curiosity，andIdeterminedtoattemptthepassageofthatstrait，and
toexploretheunknownregionsbeyond。Thedooryieldedtomyhand，
withthatfacilitywithwhichtheportalsofenchantedcastlesyield
totheadventurousknight—errant。Ifoundmyselfinaspacious
chamber，surroundedwithgreatcasesofvenerablebooks。Abovethe
cases，andjustunderthecornice，werearrangedagreatnumberof
black—lookingportraitsofancientauthors。Abouttheroomwereplaced
longtables，withstandsforreadingandwriting，atwhichsatmany
pale，studiouspersonages，poringintentlyoverdustyvolumes，
rummagingamongmouldymanuscripts，andtakingcopiousnotesof
theircontents。Ahushedstillnessreignedthroughthismysterious
apartment，exceptingthatyoumightheartheracingofpensover
sheetsofpaper，oroccasionally，thedeepsighofoneofthesesages，
asheshiftedhispositiontoturnoverthepageofanoldfolio；
doubtlessarisingfromthathollownessandflatulencyincidentto
learnedresearch。
Nowandthenoneofthesepersonageswouldwritesomethingona
smallslipofpaper，andringabell，whereuponafamiliarwould
appear，takethepaperinprofoundsilence，glideoutoftheroom，and
returnshortlyloadedwithponderoustomes，uponwhichtheotherwould
falltoothandnailwithfamishedvoracity。Ihadnolongeradoubt
thatIhadhappeneduponabodyofmagi，deeplyengagedinthestudy
ofoccultsciences。ThesceneremindedmeofanoldArabiantale，ofa
philosophershutupinanenchantedlibrary，inthebosomofa
mountain，whichopenedonlyonceayear；wherehemadethespirits
oftheplacebringhimbooksofallkindsofdarkknowledge，sothat
attheendoftheyear，whenthemagicportaloncemoreswungopen
onitshinges，heissuedforthsoversedinforbiddenlore，astobe
abletosoarabovetheheadsofthemultitude，andtocontrolthe
powersofnature。
Mycuriositybeingnowfullyaroused，Iwhisperedtooneofthe
familiars，ashewasabouttoleavetheroom，andbeggedan
interpretationofthestrangescenebeforeme。Afewwordswere
sufficientforthepurpose。Ifoundthatthesemysterious
personages，whomIhadmistakenformagi，wereprincipallyauthors，
andintheveryactofmanufacturingbooks。Iwas，infact，inthe
reading—roomofthegreatBritishLibrary—animmensecollectionof
volumesofallagesandlanguages，manyofwhicharenowforgotten，
andmostofwhichareseldomread：oneofthesesequesteredpoolsof
obsoleteliterature，towhichmodernauthorsrepair，anddraw
bucketsfullofclassiclore，or"pureEnglish，undefiled，"
wherewithtoswelltheirownscantyrillsofthought。
Beingnowinpossessionofthesecret，Isatdowninacornerand
watchedtheprocessofthisbookmanufactory。Inoticedonelean，
bilious—lookingwight，whosoughtnonebutthemostworm—eaten
volumes，printedinblack—letter。Hewasevidentlyconstructingsome
workofprofounderudition，thatwouldbepurchasedbyeverymanwho
wishedtobethoughtlearned，placeduponaconspicuousshelfofhis
library，orlaidopenuponhistable；butneverread。Iobserved
him，nowandthen，drawalargefragmentofbiscuitoutofhispocket，
andgnaw；whetheritwashisdinner，orwhetherhewasendeavoring
tokeepoffthatexhaustionofthestomachproducedbymuch
ponderingoverdryworks，Ileavetoharderstudentsthanmyselfto
determine。
Therewasonedapperlittlegentlemaninbright—coloredclothes，
withachirping，gossipingexpressionofcountenance，whohadall
theappearanceofanauthorongoodtermswithhisbookseller。After
consideringhimattentively，Irecognizedinhimadiligent
getter—upofmiscellaneousworks，whichbustledoffwellwiththe
trade。Iwascurioustoseehowhemanufacturedhiswares。Hemade
morestirandshowofbusinessthananyoftheothers；dippinginto
variousbooks，flutteringovertheleavesofmanuscripts，takinga
morseloutofone，amorseloutofanother，"lineuponline，precept
uponprecept，herealittleandtherealittle。"Thecontentsofhis
bookseemedtobeasheterogeneousasthoseofthewitches’caldronin
Macbeth。Itwashereafingerandthereathumb，toeoffrogand
blind—worm’ssting，withhisowngossippouredinlike"baboon’s
blood，"tomakethemedley"slabandgood。"
Afterall，thoughtI，maynotthispilferingdispositionbe
implantedinauthorsforwisepurposes；mayitnotbethewayinwhich
Providencehastakencarethattheseedsofknowledgeandwisdomshall
bepreservedfromagetoage，inspiteoftheinevitabledecayof
theworksinwhichtheywerefirstproduced？Weseethatnaturehas
wisely，thoughwhimsically，providedfortheconveyanceofseeds
fromclimetoclime，inthemawsofcertainbirds；sothatanimals，
which，inthemselves，arelittlebetterthancarrion，andapparently
thelawlessplunderersoftheorchardandthecornfield，are，infact，
nature’scarrierstodisperseandperpetuateherblessings。Inlike
manner，thebeautiesandfinethoughtsofancientandobsoleteauthors
arecaughtupbytheseflightsofpredatorywriters，andcastforth
againtoflourishandbearfruitinaremoteanddistanttractof
time。Manyoftheirworks，also，undergoakindofmetempsychosis，and
springupundernewforms。Whatwasformerlyaponderoushistory
revivesintheshapeofaromance—anoldlegendchangesintoamodern
play—andasoberphilosophicaltreatisefurnishesthebodyfora
wholeseriesofbouncingandsparklingessays。Thusitisinthe
clearingofourAmericanwoodlands；whereweburndownaforestof
statelypines，aprogenyofdwarfoaksstartupintheirplace：andwe
neverseetheprostratetrunkofatreemoulderingintosoil，butit
givesbirthtoawholetribeoffungi。
Letusnot，then，lamentoverthedecayandoblivionintowhich
ancientwritersdescend；theydobutsubmittothegreatlawof
nature，whichdeclaresthatallsublunaryshapesofmattershallbe
limitedintheirduration，butwhichdecrees，also，thattheir
elementsshallneverperish。Generationaftergeneration，bothin
animalandvegetablelife，passesaway，butthevitalprincipleis
transmittedtoposterity，andthespeciescontinuetoflourish。
Thus，also，doauthorsbegetauthors，andhavingproducedanumerous
progeny，inagoodoldagetheysleepwiththeirfathers，thatisto
say，withtheauthorswhoprecededthem—andfromwhomtheyhad
stolen。
WhilstIwasindulgingintheseramblingfancies，Ihadleanedmy
headagainstapileofreverendfolios。Whetheritwasowingtothe
soporificemanationsfromtheseworks；ortotheprofoundquietofthe
room；ortothelassitudearisingfrommuchwandering；ortoan
unluckyhabitofnappingatimpropertimesandplaces，withwhichIam
grievouslyafflicted，soitwas，thatIfellintoadoze。Still，
however，myimaginationcontinuedbusy，andindeedthesamescene
remainedbeforemymind’seye，onlyalittlechangedinsomeofthe
details。Idreamtthatthechamberwasstilldecoratedwiththe
portraitsofancientauthors，butthatthenumberwasincreased。The
longtableshaddisappeared，and，inplaceofthesagemagi，I
beheldaragged，threadbarethrong，suchasmaybeseenplyingabout
thegreatrepositoryofcast—offclothes，Monmouth—street。Whenever
theyseizeduponabook，byoneofthoseincongruitiescommonto
dreams，methoughtitturnedintoagarmentofforeignorantique
fashion，withwhichtheyproceededtoequipthemselves。Inoticed，
however，thatnoonepretendedtoclothehimselffromanyparticular
suit，buttookasleevefromone，acapefromanother，askirtfrom
athird，thusdeckinghimselfoutpiecemeal，whilesomeofhis
originalragswouldpeepoutfromamonghisborrowedfinery。
Therewasaportly，rosy，well—fedparson，whomIobservedogling
severalmouldypolemicalwritersthroughaneye—glass。Hesoon
contrivedtosliponthevoluminousmantleofoneoftheold
fathers，and，havingpurloinedthegraybeardofanother，endeavored
tolookexceedinglywise；butthesmirkingcommonplaceofhis
countenancesetatnaughtallthetrappingsofwisdom。One
sickly—lookinggentlemanwasbusiedembroideringaveryflimsygarment
withgoldthreaddrawnoutofseveraloldcourt—dressesofthereign
ofQueenElizabeth。Anotherhadtrimmedhimselfmagnificentlyfrom
anilluminatedmanuscript，hadstuckanosegayinhisbosom，culled
from"TheParadiseofDaintieDevices，"andhavingputSirPhilip
Sidney’shatononesideofhishead，struttedoffwithanexquisite
airofvulgarelegance。Athird，whowasbutofpunydimensions，had
bolsteredhimselfoutbravelywiththespoilsfromseveralobscure
tractsofphilosophy，sothathehadaveryimposingfront；buthewas
lamentablytatteredinrear，andIperceivedthathehadpatchedhis
small—clotheswithscrapsofparchmentfromaLatinauthor。
Thereweresomewell—dressedgentlemen，itistrue，whoonly
helpedthemselvestoagemorso，whichsparkledamongtheirown
ornaments，withouteclipsingthem。Some，too，seemedtocontemplate
thecostumesoftheoldwriters，merelytoimbibetheirprinciples
oftaste，andtocatchtheirairandspirit；butIgrievetosay，that
toomanywereapttoarraythemselvesfromtoptotoeinthepatchwork
mannerIhavementioned。Ishallnotomittospeakofonegenius，in
drabbreechesandgaiters，andanArcadianhat，whohadaviolent
propensitytothepastoral，butwhoseruralwanderingshadbeen
confinedtotheclassichauntsofPrimroseHill，andthesolitudes
oftheRegent’sPark。Hehaddeckedhimselfinwreathsandribbons
fromalltheoldpastoralpoets，and，hanginghisheadononeside，
wentaboutwithafantasticallack—a—daisicalair，"babblingabout
greenfields。"Butthepersonagethatmoststruckmyattentionwasa
pragmaticaloldgentleman，inclericalrobes，witharemarkably
largeandsquare，butbaldhead。Heenteredtheroomwheezingand
puffing，elbowedhiswaythroughthethrong，withalookofsturdy
self—confidence，andhavinglaidhandsuponathickGreekquarto，
clappedituponhishead，andsweptmajesticallyawayina
formidablefrizzledwig。
Intheheightofthisliterarymasquerade，acrysuddenly
resoundedfromeveryside，of"Thieves！thieves！"Ilooked，andlo！
theportraitsaboutthewallbecameanimated！Theoldauthorsthrust
out，firstahead，thenashoulder，fromthecanvas，lookeddown
curiously，foraninstant，uponthemotleythrong，andthen
descendedwithfuryintheireyes，toclaimtheirrifledproperty。The
sceneofscamperingandhubbubthatensuedbafflesalldescription。
Theunhappyculpritsendeavoredinvaintoescapewiththeir
plunder。Ononesidemightbeseenhalfadozenoldmonks，strippinga
modernprofessor；onanother，therewassaddevastationcarriedinto
theranksofmoderndramaticwriters。BeaumontandFletcher，sideby
side，ragedroundthefieldlikeCastorandPollux，andsturdyBen
Jonsonenactedmorewondersthanwhenavolunteerwiththearmyin
Flanders。Astothedapperlittlecompileroffarragos，mentionedsome
timesince，hehadarrayedhimselfinasmanypatchesandcolorsas
Harlequin，andtherewasasfierceacontentionofclaimantsabout
him，asaboutthedeadbodyofPatroclus。Iwasgrievedtoseemany
men，towhomIhadbeenaccustomedtolookupwithaweand
reverence，faintostealoffwithscarcearagtocovertheir
nakedness。Justthenmyeyewascaughtbythepragmaticalold
gentlemanintheGreekgrizzledwig，whowasscramblingawayinsore
affrightwithhalfascoreofauthorsinfullcryafterhim！Theywere
closeuponhishaunches：inatwinklingoffwenthiswig；atevery
turnsomestripofraimentwaspeeledaway；untilinafewmoments，
fromhisdomineeringpomp，heshrunkintoalittle，pursy，"chopped
baldshot，"andmadehisexitwithonlyafewtagsandragsfluttering
athisback。
Therewassomethingsoludicrousinthecatastropheofthis
learnedTheban，thatIburstintoanimmoderatefitoflaughter，which
brokethewholeillusion。Thetumultandthescufflewereatanend。
Thechamberresumeditsusualappearance。Theoldauthorsshrunk
backintotheirpictureframes，andhunginshadowysolemnityalong
thewalls。Inshort，Ifoundmyselfwideawakeinmycorner，with
thewholeassemblageofbookwormsgazingatmewithastonishment。
Nothingofthedreamhadbeenrealbutmyburstoflaughter，asound
neverbeforeheardinthatgravesanctuary，andsoabhorrenttothe
earsofwisdom，astoelectrifythefraternity。
Thelibrariannowsteppeduptome，anddemandedwhetherIhada
cardofadmission。AtfirstIdidnotcomprehendhim，butIsoonfound
thatthelibrarywasakindofliterary"preserve，"subjectto
game—laws，andthatnoonemustpresumetohunttherewithout
speciallicenseandpermission。Inaword，Istoodconvictedof
beinganarrantpoacher，andwasgladtomakeaprecipitateretreat，
lestIshouldhaveawholepackofauthorsletlooseuponme。
THEEND。
1819—20
THESKETCHBOOK
THEAUTHOR’SACCOUNTOFHIMSELF
byWashingtonIrving
"IamofthismindwithHomer，thatasthesnailethatcreptout
ofhershelwasturnedeftsoonsintoatoad，andtherebywasforcedto
makeastooletositon；sothetravellerthatstraglethfromhisowne
countryisinashorttimetransformedintosomonstrousashape，that
heisfainetoalterhismansionwithhismanners，andtolivewhere
hecan，notwherehewould。"
LYLY’SEUPHUES。
IWASalwaysfondofvisitingnewscenes，andobservingstrange
charactersandmanners。EvenwhenamerechildIbeganmytravels，and
mademanytoursofdiscoveryintoforeignpartsandunknownregionsof
mynativecity，tothefrequentalarmofmyparents，andtheemolument
ofthetown—crier。AsIgrewintoboyhood，Iextendedtherangeof
myobservations。Myholidayafternoonswerespentinramblesaboutthe
surroundingcountry。Imademyselffamiliarwithallitsplacesfamous
inhistoryorfable。Ikneweveryspotwhereamurderorrobberyhad
beencommitted，oraghostseen。Ivisitedtheneighboringvillages，
andaddedgreatlytomystockofknowledge，bynotingtheirhabitsand
customs，andconversingwiththeirsagesandgreatmen。Ieven
journeyedonelongsummer’sdaytothesummitofthemostdistant
hill，whenceIstretchedmyeyeovermanyamileofterraincognita，
andwasastonishedtofindhowvastaglobeIinhabited。
Thisramblingpropensitystrengthenedwithmyyears。Booksof
voyagesandtravelsbecamemypassion，andindevouringtheir
contents，Ineglectedtheregularexercisesoftheschool。How
wistfullywouldIwanderaboutthepier—headsinfineweather，and
watchthepartingships，boundtodistantclimes—withwhatlonging
eyeswouldIgazeaftertheirlesseningsails，andwaftmyselfin
imaginationtotheendsoftheearth！
Furtherreadingandthinking，thoughtheybroughtthisvague
inclinationintomorereasonablebounds，onlyservedtomakeitmore
decided。Ivisitedvariouspartsofmyowncountry；andhadIbeen
merelyaloveroffinescenery，Ishouldhavefeltlittledesireto
seekelsewhereitsgratification，foronnocountryhavethecharmsof
naturebeenmoreprodigallylavished。Hermightylakes，likeoceansof
liquidsilver；hermountains，withtheirbrightaerialtints；her
valleys，teemingwithwildfertility；hertremendouscataracts，
thunderingintheirsolitudes；herboundlessplains，wavingwith
spontaneousverdure；herbroaddeeprivers，rollinginsolemn
silencetotheocean；hertracklessforests，wherevegetationputs
forthallitsmagnificence；herskies，kindlingwiththemagicof
summercloudsandglorioussunshine；—no，neverneedanAmerican
lookbeyondhisowncountryforthesublimeandbeautifulofnatural
scenery。
ButEuropeheldforththecharmsofstoriedandpoetical
association。Thereweretobeseenthemasterpiecesofart，the
refinementsofhighly—cultivatedsociety，thequaintpeculiarities
ofancientandlocalcustom。Mynativecountrywasfullofyouthful
promise：Europewasrichintheaccumulatedtreasuresofage。Hervery
ruinstoldthehistoryoftimesgoneby，andeverymoulderingstone
wasachronicle。Ilongedtowanderoverthescenesofrenowned
achievement—totread，asitwere，inthefootstepsofantiquity—to
loiterabouttheruinedcastle—tomeditateonthefallingtower—to
escape，inshort，fromthecommonplacerealitiesofthepresent，and
losemyselfamongtheshadowygrandeursofthepast。
Ihad，besideallthis，anearnestdesiretoseethegreatmenof
theearth。Wehave，itistrue，ourgreatmeninAmerica：notacity
buthasanampleshareofthem。Ihavemingledamongtheminmy
time，andbeenalmostwitheredbytheshadeintowhichtheycastme；
forthereisnothingsobalefultoasmallmanastheshadeofagreat
one，particularlythegreatmanofacity。ButIwasanxioustosee
thegreatmenofEurope；forIhadreadintheworksofvarious
philosophers，thatallanimalsdegeneratedinAmerica，andmanamong
thenumber。AgreatmanofEurope，thoughtI，mustthereforebeas
superiortoagreatmanofAmerica，asapeakoftheAlpstoa
highlandoftheHudson；andinthisideaIwasconfirmed，byobserving
thecomparativeimportanceandswellingmagnitudeofmanyEnglish
travellersamongus，who，Iwasassured，wereverylittlepeoplein
theirowncountry。Iwillvisitthislandofwonders，thoughtI，and
seethegiganticracefromwhichIamdegenerated。
Ithasbeeneithermygoodorevillottohavemyrovingpassion
gratified。Ihavewanderedthroughdifferentcountries，and
witnessedmanyoftheshiftingscenesoflife。IcannotsaythatI
havestudiedthemwiththeeyeofaphilosopher；butratherwiththe
saunteringgazewithwhichhumbleloversofthepicturesquestroll
fromthewindowofoneprint—shoptoanother；caughtsometimesby
thedelineationsofbeauty，sometimesbythedistortionsof
caricature，andsometimesbythelovelinessoflandscape。Asitisthe
fashionformoderntouriststotravelpencilinhand，andbringhome
theirportfoliosfilledwithsketches，Iamdisposedtogetupafew
fortheentertainmentofmyfriends。When，however，Ilookoverthe
hintsandmemorandumsIhavetakendownforthepurpose，myheart
almostfailsmeatfindinghowmyidlehumorhasledmeasidefromthe
greatobjectsstudiedbyeveryregulartravellerwhowouldmakea
book。IfearIshallgiveequaldisappointmentwithanunlucky
landscapepainter，whohadtravelledonthecontinent，but，
followingthebentofhisvagrantinclination，hadsketchedin
nooks，andcorners，andby—places。Hissketchbookwasaccordingly
crowdedwithcottages，andlandscapes，andobscureruins；buthehad
neglectedtopaintSt。Peter’s，ortheColiseum；thecascadeofTerni，
orthebayofNaples；andhadnotasingleglacierorvolcanoinhis
wholecollection。
THEEND