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 Bullism 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 knick-knacks. 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 in 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 cudgelled.
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 neighbor’s 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 defence, 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 quarrelling 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 centre 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 dusty 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 storied 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 staunch 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 incumbered 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 beef-eaters, gouty
pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder are seen
lolling about its ways, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its tree,
or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and
out-house 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 loophole, 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 existences--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 vain-glory, 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 gypsies; 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 weather-cock; 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 these 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 levelled 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 rocketing, roistering life, and is
ready at a wink or nod to out sabre and flourish it over the orator’s
head if he dares to array himself against parental 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 revelling, and
prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull’s estate is a very fine one and has
been in the family a long while, 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 shrivelled 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 every one 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 levellers, 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.