University of Virginia Library

1. AUTHORSHIP,
A TALE.
BY A NEW ENGLANDER OVER-SEA.

CHAPTER I.

I must be allowed to tell my story in my own way; and
though I speak in the first person, I hope to have it attributed
to the true cause—a desire to be understood.

I left America and went to England, not to see Westminster-Abbey,
nor any other `part of the British-Constitution,'
whatever the Quarterly-Review may suppose,1 but in the
hope of seeing much there, that I hope never to see in America,
much that I do hope to see here, and much that I should
have looked upon, wherever I might see it, with more joy
and a deeper emotion I dare say, than I ever yet felt or ever
shall feel at the sight of abbeys and cathedrals, churches and
castles, green with age though they be, rocking to the northern
blast, or very dark with the shadows of centuries. Not
that I did not go up to Westminster-Abbey—the Sepulchre
of Kings—with a sort of awe, which, republican though I was,
I could not well get the better of: nor do I mean to say
that I ever was, or that I ever hope to be, so reasonable as

to find just what your over-reasonable creature1 would look
for—and no more—in the ruins of such a place—the wreck
of what in the day of its power was only the strong-hold of
Superstition, or a part of the huge outworks of Tyranny.
But if I had perceived the truth; if I had gone back to that
age, when the very foundations of military and religious power
were laid in Europe, where would have been the evil,
where the mischief I pray you, of that awe which I suffered to
creep over me like the penumbra of a great eclipse happening
at noon-day in the depth of summer? Why may not the strong
holds of Superstition or the outworks of Tyranny (if dilapidated)
be worth a voyage over sea, to the poet or the dreamer,
to the artist or the philosopher, to the man or the statesman?
People may say what they please; but though I was not boy
enough to go a thousand leagues, nor boy enough to talk as if I
thought it worth while for another to go so far, merely to
get a peep at Westminster-Abbey—to say nothing of Magna-Charta
and the House-of-Lords—still, when I had arrived
there, I could not overlook what I saw before me, nor outrage
the spirit of the place by considering what must have
been the substance of that power, the very type and shadow of
which six hundred years after the glory had departed from
it, was awful to the heart, and oppressive to the mind of
man. Nor was I fool enough either to put off my shoes, or
to say that I felt as if I should put them off, or as if it were
sacrilege to walk otherwise than barefooted, when I drew
near the arched door-way—the holy spot, where you pay
sixpence to a man with a stick, for leave to run by the poet's
corner—a marble congress of `Gods and Godlike men,'
whose mighty ashes after all, are not in Westminster-Abbey,
but somewhere in the depths of the sea, or in the far parts
of the earth. But still, though I was not blockhead enough
either to behave or to talk as it would appear to be the fashion
for the people who have strayed away from the woods
and waters of America to behave and talk, when they have
got fairly ashore in the heart of Westminster-Abbey—especially
if they were landed at the custom-house, or shipped
to the care of S. W. or B. B. & Co.—I could not laugh at
every thing I saw, though much of it was very laughable;
nor could I philosophize over the origin of what was before
me, and about me, and above me, till I forgot where I was,
and had no pleasure in what I saw; nor behold without emotion
the barbarous beauty that overshadowed me—so superior
to the classical beauty that other men love to talk about, or
the savage pomp that uprose on every side of me, as with a
spring, and over-arched my way, and shut in my view whithersoever
I went, like a—no, not like a spider-net sky of
solid stone, nor a carved or fretted sky, nor a firmament of tracery,
but very much like a roof built of oak timber, wrought
with the chisel and hewed with the axe of mortal man.

Others may be able to see more—especially if they go to
the Abbey when it is getting dark; others have been able
to see more I confess, for their money. But as I live, though
I paid my sixpence at the door, and my eighteen-pence
after I got into the church, and although I took off my hat,
and particularly desired to see every thing—I did not see a
fortieth part of what I expected to see, after reading the
Sketch-Book and the Quarterly-Review. I saw no huge
canopy of interlacing tree-tops, like the inside of a vaulted
wilderness. I saw little or nothing to remind me of the
great woods of North-America. I saw no sceptred shadows
gliding hither and thither among the pillars and tombs;
no crowned nor headless apparitions parading slowly in the
`dim religious light'; no heavy-armed spectres either on

horse-back or afoot, watching over their buried households,
or keeping guard night and day, in this, the marble city of
the dead; neither Gog nor Magog—nor any other part
of the British-Constitution. But if I saw nothing of this, I
saw much that would appear to have escaped the observation
of other people. I saw antiquity refreshed before my
face. I saw a live man at work renewing a part of Henry
the Seventh's chapel,1 re-carving the imperishable beauty
thereof at so much a-day, covering up the signs of old
age, and rebuilding with sacrilegious new stone, the very
parts which, if antiquity were so awful as men say, he
would have been afraid to touch; the very parts indeed which
wore the most of that very look, and were the fullest of that
very virtue, which they would have you believe it were worth
going three thousand miles to see—the look of old age,
the virtue of antiquity.

I saw too a crowd of people, with their hands in their
pockets, running about after a guide, all bare-headed and most
of them with lips blue and teeth chattering—perhaps with awe
—perhaps with cold. I saw moreover a marble countess
on her way up to a marble sky2—with a chair of state
placed for her in the clouds, and a marble cherub, who occupied
another chair, waiting for her to arrive. I saw men of a
warlike shape armed cap-a-pie, with wigs on. I saw the
figure of death, a skeleton such as we see in our picture-books,
or in our sleep when we are naughty, issuing out of
a marble safe with iron doors and aiming a sort of spear at a
marble woman, which a marble man was upholding, if I do
not mistake, with his right arm in the air.3 I saw a party of

sober people, who had come to the show and paid their sixpences
a little too late, galloping after the guide, just near
enough to be always a little too late for whatever he had to
say; so that while he was describing the achievements of
Edward the Black-Prince, they were looking at Queen Elizabeth;
and all the notice he took of them was to order their
hats off, `by order of the Dean,' though we were shivering
with cold, and they hot with exercise. I saw too—and
you may judge of the fear that oppressed me, you that have
seen live kings, and live heroes with your own eyes—a troop
of royal personages in a glass case, all standing in a row, and all
made of wax, and rigged out in all the finery of the stage (the
stage of Bartl'my Fair too), and a figure of Lord Nelson, also
made of wax, in a part of the very clothes he wore at Trafalgar—clothes
which were evidently made for somebody
else. Think of that—a group of waxen images—wax heroes
and kings fairly set up for show in the habiliments of the
toy-shop among the sepulchres and solitudes of Westminster-Abbey!
Who would not have come over the waters for
a peep at such a spectacle in such a place? and who
would not, if such a thing were told of the barbarians of the
South-Sea, or of the Dutch, who would not speak of it as
altogether characteristic of their barbarous condition, or deplorable
want of taste?

But while I was there, keeping rather aloof, as my habit is
when I desire to enjoy what I see, musing over the biography
of the dead who were about me, loitering on the way,
and wondering why it was that I had no such sorrowful
thoughts—no such beautiful faith as Addison had, or as
Irving had, while they were in the heart of Westminster-Abbey,
or as I myself might have had a few years before,

when that which I believe to be the common-sense of my
nature now, was nothing but poetry—pure poetry—I found
myself so far behind the rest of the company, that I could
only hear their footsteps every minute or two as they hurried
away from chapel to chapel, after the voice of their guide.
Being in no hurry either to get away or to overtake the
others, I walked into a niche, where stood many altars like
tombs, and gave myself up to the luxury of meditation. It
was indeed a luxury, though not of the graver sort; for I
was just asking myself, I remember, what would be thought
of the age of Elizabeth now (Not her age, but the age of her
people), if the rude statuary that I saw before me, covered
with paint, with filigree-work, and with gold leaf, were
dug up out of the earth by a strange people, otherwise ignorant
of that age. There was the statue of Elizabeth herself—the
carved image of power. It would have passed
for a bit of Mexican sculpture, if it had been dug up in that
part of the world. But before I could satisfy myself on this
head, or shake off the deep thoughtfulness which had begun
to steal over me like the shadow of another world, in
spite of the provoking absurdities that lay heaped up on every
side of my path, my attention was called off by the sound
of approaching footsteps—footsteps that followed mine afar
off, stopping where I stopped, and loitering where I loitered
a few minutes before. Ah! said I to myself, here
is another of our tribe I dare say, who comes hither to
indulge as I do, apart and away from the rest of the world;
or to mock at the deep-seated prejudice of our day that
sanctifies every part of a pile, no part of which is what
men believe it to be; or mayhap to wander as I do in the everlasting
twilight here, and brave the awful spirit of the place—
the overshadowing spirit of gone-by ages, the mystery and the
pomp of the sepulchre of kings; or he may have come up
hither to write poetry, to breathe an over-peopled atmosphere,
to undergo a sort of transfiguration—to find material
for a job; in which case, it may be the delightful author of
the Sketch-Book himself, or it may be some other shrewd
speculator from over sea, who goes about the world very
much as I go about the Abbey just now, with a desire to
see and not be seen. If so, what a capital joke to turn the
tables upon him, to beat the spy at his own game, to—
I was interrupted. Two persons appeared coming toward
me with a very slow step, a man and a woman. The step
of the two was like the step of one. He appeared to
be lost in thought; for his hat was on his head, contrary
to the law of the church, and pulled over his eyes; and
she was leaning with all her weight upon his arm, both
her hands locked over it, and her face upturned to his, in
that indescribable way which every body knows to be peculiar
to a doting wife at a particular period of her love. They
passed me while I was debating with myself whether I should
move on, or make a noise to let them perceive that if they
spoke above a whisper, they would be overheard (for walls
have ears, at such a time), or whether I should remain where
I was, without moving or breathing till they were safe—safe
I say—for though neither of them spoke, I knew by the step
and by the whole manner of the female that she had come to
the Abbey for other purposes than to see the Abbey, and I
could not bear the idea of giving pain to a creature who leant
so lovingly upon the arm of any man, as she did upon his.
You may smile; but I assure you that I would not have had
her see me for the world; and that although it was getting
rather dark, and I could not see much of her face, and they
were in sight for hardly a minute; before they had gone by,
I felt assured, perfectly assured of three things reader which
I dare say will surprise you. I felt assured that she loved
him—that she was a wife—and that probably he was not
her husband.

Reader, you are shocked. I am sorry for it, especially if
you are a—no, if you are a woman, I am not sorry for it;
I am glad of it (for in that feeling is our safety), although I
had no desire to shock you. I was merely describing what
I saw and felt at the time I speak of. But how could I
know that he was not her brother? How I knew it I cannot
say—but I did know it, as well as you know the step or the
carriage of one man from the step or the carriage of another.
How do you know this? You do know it, and so does every
body; but who is there able to say how he knows it? No
woman ever looked up into the face of a brother as this
woman did into the face of the man I saw. Well, but how
could I be sure that she was not a widow—nor a maid—
nor his own wife—nor his child? I do not know, I say
again—but still I was quite sure. A widow may be known
by her step, her look, her most guarded speech, nay by her
very mode of sitting on a chair. It requires no great experience
to detect a widow, or a married woman, or a woman
who ought to be married. You do not believe this, I dare
say. If you do not, allow me to ask you one question. Do
you not feel pretty sure, without knowing why, when you see
a stranger—pretty sure that he is, or is not a married
man? Stay—that is awkwardly expressed—what I meant
to ask you was, whether you do not feel pretty sure that such
and such persons, although you may know very little of them,
are not married? and that others, of whom you know as little,
are married?—pretty sure, though you have never been told
and have no reason to believe, except from their general behaviour,
that these are married, or those unmarried? Look
about you, if you would have more proof, and fix your
thoughts upon some individual, who may be married for

aught you know, but whom you have always regarded, you
know not why, as unmarried. Are you prepared? Have
you some such individual in your eye? If so—let me ask
you how you would behave, were you told by a trustworthy
person, that, after all, he was a married man—after all! Would
you not be astonished? Of course you would, and that proves
what I wish to prove—namely, that there is a look, a manner,
a something about the behaviour of the married, which serves
to distinguish them every where from the unmarried. If you
believe this (And if you are twenty years of age, without believing
it, there is no hope for you), you may conceive it possible
for a keen observer to know by the carriage, yea by the
very step of a woman, whether she is a maid, a wife, or a
widow.

But how could I be sure that she was not his wife? I was
not sure—not perfectly sure, I confess; for though she hung
upon his arm as if she were a newly-made wife (Not like the
unvisited maiden, for she never betrays her love in that way),
she appeared strangely shy and anxious, and kept away from
the more frequented parts of the church, and avoided the light,
and stole through the shadow with a slow step; not like the
newly married when they are with their lawful partners; but
like one that has little to be proud of, or much to fear.

Well, they passed by me and left me, and laughable as it
may appear, I cannot help saying that I felt unhappy when I
could no longer distinguish her step. My heart was heavy
with inquietude—with a sort of sorrow for the woman. I
felt as if I knew her—as if she were in great peril, and as
if I, with power to help, had forsaken her—as if I should
never see her again—as if we had parted for ever—as if, to
say all in a word, as if she was the very woman that I could love
with all my heart and with all my strength, and as if I would
give the world (my share of it, I mean) to be so loved by her

as that man was. Reader—bear with me; what I tell you
is the simple truth, and I wish to preserve the recollection of
what happened to me on my first visit to Westminster-Abbey.
It may encourage others to tell the truth, after they have
been there. It may serve to show that even there, unholy
thoughts may intrude.

Let me pursue my story. I waited a full half-hour I suppose
after they had gone, before I completed the tour of the
church; I lingered and lingered with a feeling which I cannot
describe, though it was much like what used to be called
the home-sickness when I was a boy; and I should have
staid, I know not how long, if the man with a stick had not
come up to me as if I had no business there, and told me
with a bow, that all the rest of the company had been gone
for at least an hour. So I followed him off; but just as I came
to the place where they receive the money, I heard a quick
breathing and a step that startled me. I looked up—the
woman herself was before me, the woman that I was already
in love with (I am quite serious), although I had never seen
her face, nor heard her speak; in love with her merely because
I saw that with a superb figure and the walk of a
Spanish woman, she knew how to love. She wore a thick
veil, but she turned her face toward me as if she knew me,
and caught by her companion's arm with a sort of convulsive
hurry, and waited my approach as if she thought I was
going to speak to her. But I had no such idea—I was only
anxious to get by, so as to relieve her from the visible dread
she was in. We were close to the door, and I observed that
instead of turning to look at me as she did, the man drew
up, as if collecting himself, and put his hand upon hers
with a strong, though gentle pressure, as it lay upon his arm,
and then as I made my bow and passed out of the door, he
turned slowly toward me, so that I had full view of his face.

I never shall forget his look. He was a pale grave man, with
a steady eye, which awed me in spite of myself as I darted
away. He looked me through and through, and I felt I
assure you, not as if I had caught him, but as if he had
caught me—with another man's wife.

1 The Quarterly-Review has declared Westminster-Abbey to be a part of
the British-Constitution; and supposes that Americans go abroad chiefly
to see that and other similar passages of what never existed—the British
Constitution.

1 Such as the Utilitarians of the celebrated Westminster-Review.

1 They have been re-building, or rather re-carving and restoring the celebrated
chapel of Henry the Seventh.

2 These are facts;—the statuary of Westminster-Abbey, the wax-work,
and the monuments are just what I have described.

3 The renowned group, to which out amiable countryman, the author of
the Sketch-Book, and all the London guides, refer with unspeakable enthusiasm.
It was by Roubilliac.