Saint Francis and Saint Benedight
Blesse this house from wicked wight;
From the night-mare and the goblin,
That is hight good fellow Robin;
Keep it from all evil spirits,
Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets:
From curfew time
To the next prime.
CARTWRIGHT.
IT was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely cold; our chaise
whirled rapidly over the frozen ground; the postboy smacked his whip
incessantly, and a part of the time his horses were on a gallop. “He
knows where he is going,” said my companion, laughing, “and is eager to
arrive in time for some of the merriment and good cheer of the servants’
hall. My father, you must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school,
and prides himself upon keeping up something of old English hospitality.
He is a tolerable specimen of what you will rarely meet with nowadays
in its purity, the old English country gentleman; for our men of fortune
spend so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so much into
the country, that the strong rich peculiarities of ancient rural life
are almost polished away. My father, however, from early years, took
honest Peacham* for his textbook, instead of Chesterfield; he determined
in his own mind that there was no condition more truly honorable and
enviable than that of a country gentleman on his paternal lands, and
therefore passes the whole of his time on his estate. He is a strenuous
advocate for the revival of the old rural games and holiday observances,
and is deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have treated
on the subject. Indeed, his favorite range of reading is among the
authors who flourished at least two centuries since, who, he insists,
wrote and thought more like true Englishmen than any of their
successors. He even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few
centuries earlier, when England was itself and had its peculiar manners
and customs. As he lives at some distance from the main road, in rather
a lonely part of the country, without any rival gentry near him, he has
that most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman--an opportunity
of indulging the bent of his own humor without molestation. Being
representative of the oldest family in the neighborhood, and a great
part of the peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, and
in general is known simply by the appellation of ‘The Squire’--a title
which has been accorded to the head of the family since time immemorial.
I think it best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, to
prepare you for any eccentricities that might otherwise appear absurd.”
* Peacham’s Complete Gentleman, 1622.
We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, and at length the
chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a heavy, magnificent old style,
of iron bars fancifully wrought at top into flourishes and flowers.
The huge square columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the
family crest. Close adjoining was the porter’s lodge, sheltered under
dark fir trees and almost buried in shrubbery.
The postboy rang a large porter’s bell, which resounded though the still
frosty air, and was answered by the distant barking of dogs, with which
the mansion-house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately appeared
at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly upon her, I had a full view
of a little primitive dame, dressed very much in the antique taste, with
a neat kerchief and stomacher, and her silver hair peeping from under a
cap of snowy whiteness. She came curtseying forth, with many expressions
of simple joy at seeing her young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up
at the house keeping Christmas Eve in the servants’ hall; they could
not do without him, as he was the best hand at a song and story in the
household.
My friend proposed that we should alight and walk through the park to
the hall, which was at no great distance, while the chaise should follow
on. Our road wound through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked
branches of which the moon glittered as she rolled through the deep
vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn beyond was sheeted with a slight
covering of snow, which here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught
a frosty crystal, and at a distance might be seen a thin transparent
vapor stealing up from the low grounds and threatening gradually to
shroud the landscape.
My companion looked around him with transport. “How often,” said he,
“have I scampered up this avenue on returning home on school vacations!
How often have I played under these trees when a boy! I feel a degree of
filial reverence for them, as we look up to those who have cherished us
in childhood. My father was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays
and having us around him on family festivals. He used to direct and
superintend our games with the strictness that some parents do the
studies of their children. He was very particular that we should play
the old English games according to their original form, and consulted
old books for precedent and authority for every ‘merrie disport;’ yet I
assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. It was the policy
of the good old gentleman to make his children feel that home was the
happiest place in the world; and I value this delicious home-feeling as
one of the choicest gifts a parent could bestow.”
We were interrupted by the clamor of a troop of dogs of all sorts and
sizes, “mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, and curs of lower degree,”
that disturbed by the ring of the porter’s bell and the rattling of the
chaise, came bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn.
“‘----The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch,
and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me!’”
cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice the bark was
changed into a yelp of delight, and in a moment he was surrounded and
almost overpowered by the caresses of the faithful animals.
We had now come in full view of the old family mansion, partly thrown in
deep shadow and partly lit up by the cold moonshine. It was an irregular
building of some magnitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of
different periods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy
stone-shafted bow windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, from among
the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped panes of glass glittered
with the moonbeams. The rest of the house was in the French taste of
Charles the Second’s time, having been repaired and altered, as my
friend told me, by one of his ancestors who returned with that monarch
at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were laid out in the
old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, clipped shrubberies, raised
terraces, and heavy stone balustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden
statue or two, and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was
extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all its
original state. He admired this fashion in gardening; it had an air
of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and befitting good old family
style. The boasted imitation of Nature in modern gardening had sprung
up with modern republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical
government; it smacked of the leveling system. I could not help smiling
at this introduction of politics into gardening, though I expressed some
apprehension that I should find the old gentleman rather intolerant
in his creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was almost the only
instance in which he had ever heard his father meddle with politics; and
he believed that he had got this notion from a member of Parliament who
once passed a few weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argument
to defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, which had been
occasionally attacked by modern landscape gardeners.
As we approached the house we heard the sound of music, and now and
then a burst of laughter from one end of the building. This, Bracebridge
said, must proceed from the servants’ hall, where a great deal of
revelry was permitted, and even encouraged, by the squire throughout the
twelve days of Christmas, provided everything was done conformably to
ancient usage. Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, shoe
the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob apple, and snap
dragon; the Yule-clog and Christmas candle were regularly burnt, and the
mistletoe with its white berries hung up, to the imminent peril of all
the pretty housemaids.*
* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens
at Christmas, and the young men have the privilege of
kissing the girls under it, plucking each time a berry from
the bush. When the berries are all plucked the privilege
ceases.
So intent were the servants upon their sports that we had to ring
repeatedly before we could make ourselves heard. On our arrival being
announced the squire came out to receive us, accompanied by his two
other sons--one a young officer in the army, home on a leave of absence;
the other an Oxonian, just from the university. The squire was a fine
healthy-looking old gentleman, with silver hair curling lightly round an
open florid countenance, in which the physiognomist, with the advantage,
like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a singular
mixture of whim and benevolence.
The family meeting was warm and affectionate; as the evening was far
advanced, the squire would not permit us to change our travelling
dresses, but ushered us at once to the company, which was assembled in
a large old-fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches of a
numerous family connection, where there were the usual proportion of old
uncles and aunts, comfortable married dames, superannuated spinsters,
blooming country cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed
boarding-school hoydens. They were variously occupied--some at a round
game of cards; others conversing around the fireplace; at one end of the
hall was a group of the young folks, some nearly grown up, others of
a more tender and budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game; and a
profusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered dolls about
the floor showed traces of a troop of little fairy beings who, having
frolicked through a happy day, had been carried off to slumber through a
peaceful night.
While the mutual greetings were going on between young Bracebridge and
his relatives I had time to scan the apartment. I have called it a hall,
for so it had certainly been in old times, and the squire had evidently
endeavored to restore it to something of its primitive state. Over
the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended a picture of a warrior
in armor, standing by a white horse, and on the opposite wall hung a
helmet, buckler, and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were
inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on which to suspend
hats, whips, and spurs, and in the corners of the apartment were
fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, and other sporting implements. The
furniture was of the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some
articles of modern convenience had been added and the oaken floor had
been carpeted, so that the whole presented an odd mixture of parlor and
hall.
The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelming fireplace to
make way for a fire of wood, in the midst of which was an enormous log
glowing and blazing, and sending forth a vast volume of light and heat:
this, I understood, was the Yule-clog, which the squire was particular
in having brought in and illumined on a Christmas Eve, according to
ancient custom.*
* The Yule-clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root
of a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony on
Christmas Eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the
brand of last year’s clog. While it lasted there was great
drinking, singing, and telling of tales. Sometimes it was
accompanied by Christmas candles; but in the cottages the
only light was from the ruddy blaze of the great wood fire.
The Yule-clog was to burn all night; if it went out, it was
considered a sign of ill luck.
Herrick mentions it in one of his songs:
Come, bring with a noise,
My metric, merrie boys,
The Christmas Log to the firing;
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your hearts’ desiring.
The Yule-clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in
England, particularly in the north, and there are several superstitions
connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person come to the
house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is considered an
ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule-clog is carefully put away
to light the next year’s Christmas fire.
It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in his hereditary
elbow-chair by the hospitable fireside of his ancestors, and looking
around him like the sun of a system, beaming warmth and gladness to
every heart. Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he
lazily shifted his position and yawned would look fondly up in his
master’s face, wag his tail against the floor, and stretch himself again
to sleep, confident of kindness and protection. There is an emanation
from the heart in genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is
immediately felt and puts the stranger at once at his ease. I had not
been seated many minutes by the comfortable hearth of the worthy old
cavalier before I found myself as much at home as if I had been one of
the family.
Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It was served up in a
spacious oaken chamber, the panels of which shone with wax, and around
which were several family portraits decorated with holly and ivy.
Besides the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called Christmas
candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on a highly polished beaufet
among the family plate. The table was abundantly spread with substantial
fare; but the squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of wheat
cakes boiled in milk with rich spices, being a standing dish in old
times for Christmas Eve. I was happy to find my old friend, minced pie,
in the retinue of the feast and, finding him to be perfectly orthodox,
and that I need not be ashamed of my predilection, I greeted him with
all the warmth wherewith we usually greet an old and very genteel
acquaintance.
The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the humors of an
eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge always addressed with the
quaint appellation of Master Simon. He was a tight brisk little man,
with the air of an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the
bill of a parrot; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, with a
dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in autumn. He had an
eye of great quickness and vivacity, with a drollery and lurking waggery
of expression that was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the
family, dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the ladies,
and making infinite merriment by harping upon old themes, which,
unfortunately, my ignorance of the family chronicles did not permit
me to enjoy. It seemed to be his great delight during supper to keep
a young girl next to him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in
spite of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat opposite.
Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of the company, who laughed
at everything he said or did and at every turn of his countenance.
I could not wonder at it; for he must have been a miracle of
accomplishments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy; make
an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a burnt cork and
pocket-handkerchief; and cut an orange into such a ludicrous caricature
that the young folks were ready to die with laughing.
I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. He was an old
bachelor, of a small independent income, which by careful management was
sufficient for all his wants. He revolved through the family system
like a vagrant comet in its orbit, sometimes visiting one branch, and
sometimes another quite remote, as is often the case with gentlemen of
extensive connections and small fortunes in England. He had a chirping,
buoyant disposition, always enjoying the present moment; and his
frequent change of scene and company prevented his acquiring those
rusty, unaccommodating habits with which old bachelors are so
uncharitably charged. He was a complete family chronicle, being versed
in the genealogy, history, and intermarriages of the whole house of
Bracebridge, which made him a great favorite with the old folks; he was
a beau of all the elder ladies and superannuated spinsters, among whom
he was habitually considered rather a young fellow; and he was master
of the revels among the children, so that there was not a more popular
being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. Simon Bracebridge. Of
late years he had resided almost entirely with the squire, to whom he
had become a factotum, and whom he particularly delighted by jumping
with his humor in respect to old times and by having a scrap of an
old song to suit every occasion. We had presently a specimen of his
last-mentioned talent, for no sooner was supper removed and spiced wines
and other beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master Simon
was called on for a good old Christmas song. He bethought himself for a
moment, and then, with a sparkle of the eye and a voice that was by no
means bad, excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto like the
notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty:
Now Christmas is come,
Let us beat up the drum,
And call all our neighbors together;
And when they appear,
Let us make them such cheer,
As will keep out the wind and the weather, &c.
The supper had disposed every one to gayety, and an old harper was
summoned from the servants’ hall, where he had been strumming all the
evening, and to all appearance comforting himself with some of the
squire’s home-brewed. He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, of the
establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident of the village, was
oftener to be found in the squire’s kitchen than his own home, the old
gentleman being fond of the sound of “harp in hall.”
The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry one: some of the
older folks joined in it, and the squire himself figured down several
couple with a partner with whom he affirmed he had danced at every
Christmas for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed to be a
kind of connecting link between the old times and the new, and to
be withal a little antiquated in the taste of his accomplishments,
evidently piqued himself on his dancing, and was endeavoring to gain
credit by the heel and toe, rigadoon, and other graces of the ancient
school; but he had unluckily assorted himself with a little romping girl
from boarding-school, who by her wild vivacity kept him continually on
the stretch and defeated all his sober attempts at elegance: such are
the ill-sorted matches to which antique gentlemen are unfortunately
prone.
The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one of his maiden aunts,
on whom the rogue played a thousand little knaveries with impunity: he
was full of practical jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and
cousins, yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal favorite
among the women. The most interesting couple in the dance was the
young officer and a ward of the squire’s, a beautiful blushing girl of
seventeen. From several shy glances which I had noticed in the course of
the evening I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between
them; and indeed the young soldier was just the hero to captivate a
romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and handsome, and, like most
young British officers of late years, had picked up various small
accomplishments on the Continent: he could talk French and Italian, draw
landscapes, sing very tolerably, dance divinely, but, above all, he had
been wounded at Waterloo. What girl of seventeen, well read in poetry
and romance, could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection?
The moment the dance was over he caught up a guitar, and, lolling
against the old marble fireplace in an attitude which I am half inclined
to suspect was studied, began the little French air of the Troubadour.
The squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on Christmas Eve
but good old English; upon which the young minstrel, casting up his eye
for a moment as if in an effort of memory, struck into another strain,
and with a charming air of gallantry gave Herrick’s “Night-Piece to
Julia:”
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
No Will-o’-the-Wisp mislight thee;
Nor snake nor slow-worm bite thee;
But on thy way,
Not making a stay,
Since ghost there is none to affright thee,
Then let not the dark thee cumber;
What though the moon does slumber,
The stars of the night
Will lend thee their light,
Like tapers clear without number.
Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
Thus, thus to come unto me,
And when I shall meet
Thy silvery feet,
My soul I’ll pour into thee.
The song might or might not have been intended in compliment to the
fair Julia, for so I found his partner was called; she, however, was
certainly unconscious of any such application, for she never looked
at the singer, but kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was
suffused, it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle
heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused by the exercise
of the dance; indeed, so great was her indifference that she amused
herself with plucking to pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers,
and by the time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on the
floor.
The party now broke up for the night with the kind-hearted old custom of
shaking hands. As I passed through the hall on my way to my chamber, the
dying embers of the Yule-clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it
not been the season when “no spirit dares stir abroad,” I should have
been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight and peep whether the
fairies might not be at their revels about the hearth.
My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the ponderous furniture
of which might have been fabricated in the days of the giants. The room
was panelled, with cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and
grotesque faces were strangely intermingled, and a row of black-looking
portraits stared mournfully at me from the walls. The bed was of rich
though faded damask, with a lofty tester, and stood in a niche opposite
a bow window. I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed
to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, and found
it proceeded from a band which I concluded to be the Waits from some
neighboring village. They went round the house, playing under the
windows. I drew aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly.
The moonbeams fell through the upper part of the casement; partially
lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, as they receded,
became more soft and aerial, and seemed to accord with the quiet and
moonlight. I listened and listened--they became more and more tender and
remote, and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the pillow
and I fell asleep.