Irving, Washington / 2008-07-25 00:00:00

1819-20
THE SKETCH BOOK
STRATFORD-ON-AVON
by Washington Irving
Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare would dream;
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed,
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
GARRICK.
TO a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world which he can
truly call his own, there is a momentary feeling of something like
independence and territorial consequence, when, after a weary day's
travel, he kicks off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and
stretches himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as it
may; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the wherewithal to
pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the very monarch of all he
surveys. The arm-chair is his throne, the poker his sceptre, and the
little parlor, some twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a
morsel of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties of
life; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a cloudy day: and he
who has advanced some way on the pilgrimage of existence, knows the
importance of husbanding even morsels and moments of enjoyment.
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