"An old song, made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks.
Like an old courtier, etc."
--OLD SONG.
There is no species of humor in which the English more excel, than that
which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous appellations, or
nicknames. In this way they have whimsically designated, not merely
individuals, but nations; and, in their fondness for pushing a joke,
they have not spared even themselves. One would think that, in
personifying itself, a nation would be apt to picture something grand,
heroic and imposing, but it is characteristic of the peculiar humor of
the English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic, and familiar,
that they have embodied their national oddities in the figure of a
sturdy, corpulent old fellow, with a three-cornered hat, red waistcoat,
leather breeches, and stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a
singular delight in exhibiting their most private foibles in a laughable
point of view; and have been so successful in their delineations, that
there is scarcely a being in actual existence more absolutely present to
the public mind than that eccentric personage, John Bull.
Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character thus drawn of them
has contributed to fix it upon the nation; and thus to give reality to
what at first may have been painted in a great measure from the
imagination. Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem wonderfully
captivated with the _beau ideal_ which they have formed of John Bull,
and endeavor to act up to the broad caricature that is perpetually
before their eyes. Unluckily, they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism
an apology for their prejudice or grossness; and this I have especially
noticed among those truly homebred and genuine sons of the soil who have
never migrated beyond the sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be
a little uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths, he
confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks his mind. If he
now and then flies into an unreasonable burst of passion about trifles,
he observes, that John Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his
passion is over in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a
coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements, he
thanks heaven for his ignorance--he is a plain John Bull, and has no
relish for frippery and nicknacks. His very proneness to be gulled by
strangers, and to pay extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under
the plea of munificence--for John is always more generous than wise.
Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to argue every fault
into a merit, and will frankly convict himself of being the honestest
fellow in existence.
However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the first
instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather they
have adapted themselves to each other; and a stranger who wishes to
study English peculiarities, may gather much valuable information from
the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in the windows of
the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile
humorists, that are continually throwing out new portraits, and
presenting different aspects from different points of view; and, often
as he has been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a
slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye.
John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of-fact
fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is
little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural
feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay;
melancholy rather than morose; can easily be moved to a sudden tear, or
surprised into a broad laugh; but he loathes sentiment, and has no turn
for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him to have
his humor, and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend in a
quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgeled.
In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be
somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely
for himself and family, but for all the country round, and is most
generously disposed to be everybody's champion. He is continually
volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' affairs, and takes it
in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without
asking his advice; though he seldom engages in any friendly office of
the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties,
and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took
lessons in his youth in the noble science of defense, and having
accomplished himself in the use of his limbs and his weapons, and become
a perfect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome
life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most
distant of his neighbors, but he begins incontinently to fumble with
the head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does
not require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended
his relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole country,
that no event can take place, without infringing some of his finely-spun
rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these filaments
stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric,
bottle-bellied old spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber,
so that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling his
repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from his den.
Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at bottom, yet he
is singularly fond of being in the midst of contention. It is one of his
peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an
affray; he always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of it
grumbling even when victorious; and though no one fights with more
obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet, when the battle is over, and
he comes to the reconciliation, he is so much taken up with the mere
shaking of hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that
they have been quarreling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he
ought so much to be on his guard against, as making friends. It is
difficult to cudgel him out of a farthing; but put him in a good humor,
and you may bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a
stout ship, which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, but roll
its masts overboard in the succeeding calm.
He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad; of pulling out a
long purse; flinging his money bravely about at boxing matches, horse
races, cock fights, and carrying a high head among "gentlemen of the
fancy:" but immediately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will
be taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at the most trivial
expenditure; talk desperately of being ruined and brought upon the
parish; and, in such moods, will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill,
without violent altercation. He is in fact the most punctual and
discontented paymaster in the world; drawing his coin out of his
breeches pocket with infinite reluctance; paying to the uttermost
farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a growl.
With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider, and a
hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief
object being to devise how he may afford to be extravagant; for he will
begrudge himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day, that he may roast
an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on
the next.
His domestic establishment is enormously expensive: not so much from any
great outward parade, as from the great consumption of solid beef and
pudding; the vast number of followers he feeds and clothes; and his
singular disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most kind
and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his
peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do not
peculate grossly on him before his face, they may manage him to
perfection. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat.
His house-servants are well paid, and pampered, and have little to do.
His horses are sleek and lazy, and prance slowly before his state
carriage; and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door, and will
hardly bark at a housebreaker.
His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray with age, and
of a most venerable, though weather-beaten appearance. It has been built
upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in
various tastes and ages. The center bears evident traces of Saxon
architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak can
make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure
passages, intricate mazes, and dusky chambers; and though these have
been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the
original edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken
place; towers and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults:
wings built in time of peace; and out-houses, lodges, and offices, run
up according to the whim or convenience of different generations, until
it has become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable.
An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that
must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having
been altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of
solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are stored with the monuments of
John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and
well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church
services, may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties.
To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; but he is stanch in his
religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that many
dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his
neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.
To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large expense, a pious
and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous personage,
and a truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the
children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants
to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay their
rents punctually, and without grumbling.
The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat heavy,
and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of former
times; fitted up with rich, though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture,
and loads of massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak
of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern
festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however,
complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn; and towers
and turrets that are tottering to decay; so that in high winds there is
danger of their tumbling about the ears of the household.
John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice thoroughly
overhauled; and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and the
others strengthened with their materials; but the old gentleman always
grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent
house--that it is tight and weather proof, and not to be shaken by
tempests--that it has stood for several hundred years, and, therefore,
is not likely to tumble down now--that as to its being inconvenient, his
family is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable
without them--that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction,
these result from its being the growth of centuries, and being improved
by the wisdom of every generation--that an old family, like his,
requires a large house to dwell in; new, upstart families may live in
modern cottages and snug boxes; but an old English family should inhabit
an old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the building as
superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or
decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the whole; and swears that
the parts are so built into each other, that if you pull down one, you
run the risk of having the whole about your ears.
The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition to
protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an
ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its appointments, and
to be eaten up by dependents; and so, partly from pride, and partly from
kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and
maintenance to his superannuated servants.
The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family
establishments, his manor is encumbered by old retainers whom he cannot
turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like
a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit
too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in
housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beefeaters, gouty
pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen
lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its
trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office
and outhouse is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families;
for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to
leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock
cannot be struck against the most mouldering tumble-down tower, but out
pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray pate of some superannuated
hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the
most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the head
of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's
honest heart never can withstand; so that a man, who has faithfully
eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a
pipe and tankard in his old days.
A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where his
broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the
remainder of their existence--a worthy example of grateful recollection,
which if some of his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their
discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these
old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol
their past services, and boast, with some little vainglory, of the
perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which they have carried
him.
He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family usages, and
family encumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is infested by
gangs of gipsies; yet he will not suffer them to be driven off, because
they have infested the place time out of mind, and been regular poachers
upon every generation of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry
branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest
it should molest the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls
have taken possession of the dovecote; but they are hereditary owls, and
must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney with
their nests; martins build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter
about the towers, and perch on every weathercock; and old gray-headed
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of
their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such a
reverence for everything that has been long in the family, that he will
not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old family
abuses.
All those whims and habits have concurred woefully to drain the old
gentleman's purse; and as he prides himself on punctuality in money
matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they
have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too,
has been increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are
continually taking place in his family. His children have been brought
up to different callings, and are of different ways of thinking; and as
they have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not
fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture
of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear
that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever
may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat
the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system
of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice
has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his
sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who
neglects his business to frequent ale-houses--is the orator of village
clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants.
No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or
retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and
roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing can
stop it. He rants about the room; hectors the old man about his
spendthrift practices; ridicules his tastes and pursuits; insists that
he shall turn the old servants out of doors; give the broken-down horses
to the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher
in his place--nay, that the whole family mansion shall be leveled with
the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He
rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the
door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet
he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern
convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over which he
preaches about his father's extravagance.
It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees with the old
cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so irritable, from repeated
crossings, that the mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal
for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too
sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all
fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at
times run so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom,
an officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home, on
half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or
wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering life; and is
ready at a wink or nod, to out saber, and flourish it over the orator's
head, if he dares to array himself against paternal authority.
These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare food
for scandal in John's neighborhood. People begin to look wise, and shake
their heads, whenever his affairs are mentioned. They all "hope that
matters are not so bad with him as represented; but when a man's own
children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly
managed. They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is
continually dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed
old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast; indeed, they never
knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, reveling and
prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has
been in the family a long time; but, for all that, they have known many
finer estates come to the hammer."
What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary embarrassments
and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. Instead of that
jolly round corporation, and smug rosy face, which he used to present,
he has of late become as shriveled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple.
His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those
prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about
him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and
wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on
both sides of his once sturdy legs.
Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered hat on
one side; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with
a hearty thump upon the ground; looking everyone sturdily in the face,
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song; he now goes
about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down,
his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of
his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty.
Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet for all this the
old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the
least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an instant;
swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the country; talks
of laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate; and
with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to
have another bout at quarter-staff.
Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I
confess I cannot look upon John's situation without strong feelings of
interest. With all his odd humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a
sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow
as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors
represent him. His virtues are all his own; all plain, homebred, and
unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities.
His extravagance savors of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness of his
courage; his credulity of his open faith; his vanity of his pride; and
his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a rich
and liberal character. He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound
and solid within; whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to
the growth and grandeur of the timber; and whose branches make a fearful
groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and
luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his old family
mansion that is extremely poetical and picturesque; and, as long as it
can be rendered comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it
meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some
of his advisers are no doubt good architects, that might be of service;
but many, I fear, are mere levelers, who, when they had once got to work
with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop until
they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves among
the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's present troubles may teach
him more prudence in future. That he may cease to distress his mind
about other people's affairs; that he may give up the fruitless attempt
to promote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the
world, by dint of the cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home;
gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich estate according
to his fancy; husband his income--if he thinks proper; bring his unruly
children into order--if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient
prosperity; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an
honorable, and a merry old age.