busy just now, preparing for the May-Day ceremonies. Among these is the
village tailor, a pale-faced fellow, that plays the clarionet in the
church choir; and, being a great musical genius, has frequent meetings
of the band at his house, where they "make night hideous" by their
concerts. He is, in consequence, high in favour with Master Simon; and,
through his influence, has the making, or rather marring, of all the
liveries of the Hall; which generally look as though they had been cut
out by one of those scientific tailors of the Flying Island of Laputa,
who took measure of their customers with a quadrant. The tailor, in
fact, might rise to be one of the monied men of the village, was he not
rather too prone to gossip, and keep holidays, and give concerts, and
blow all his substance, real and personal, through his clarionet, which
literally keeps him poor both in body and estate. He has for the present
thrown by all his regular work, and suffered the breeches of the
village to go unmade and unmended, while he is occupied in making
garlands of particoloured rags, in imitation of flowers, for the
decoration of the May-pole.
Another of Master Simon's councillors is the apothecary, a short, and
rather fat man, with a pair of prominent eyes, that diverge like those
of a lobster. He is the village wise man; very sententious; and full of
profound remarks on shallow subjects. Master Simon often quotes his
sayings, and mentions him as rather an extraordinary man; and even
consults him occasionally in desperate cases of the dogs and horses.
Indeed he seems to have been overwhelmed by the apothecary's philosophy,
which is exactly one observation deep, consisting of indisputable
maxims, such as may be gathered from the mottoes of tobacco boxes. I had
a specimen of his philosophy in my very first conversation with him; in
the course of which he observed, with great solemnity and emphasis, that
"man is a compound of wisdom and folly;" upon which Master Simon, who
had hold of my arm, pressed very hard upon it, and whispered in my ear,
"That's a devilish shrewd remark!"
[Illustration: The Apothecary]
[Illustration: The Schoolmaster]
THE SCHOOLMASTER
There will no mosse stick to the stone of Sisiphus, no grasse
hang on the heels of Mercury, no butter cleave on the bread of
a traveller. For as the eagle at every flight loseth a
feather, which maketh her bauld in her age, so the traveller
in every country loseth some fleece, which maketh him a beggar
in his youth, by buying that for a pound which he cannot sell
again for a penny--repentance.
LILLY'S EUPHUES.
Among the worthies of the village, that enjoy the peculiar confidence of
Master Simon, is one who has struck my fancy so much that I have thought
him worthy of a separate notice. It is Slingsby, the schoolmaster, a
thin, elderly man, rather threadbare and slovenly, somewhat indolent in
manner, and with an easy, good-humoured look, not often met with in his
craft. I have been interested in his favour by a few anecdotes which I
have picked up concerning him.
He is a native of the village, and was a contemporary and playmate of
Ready-Money Jack in the days of their boyhood. Indeed, they carried on
a kind of league of mutual good offices. Slingsby was rather puny, and
withal somewhat of a coward, but very apt at his learning; Jack, on the
contrary, was a bully-boy out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books.
Slingsby helped Jack, therefore, to all his lessons: Jack fought all
Slingsby's battles; and they were inseparable friends. This mutual
kindness continued even after they left school, notwithstanding the
dissimilarity of their characters. Jack took to ploughing and reaping,
and prepared himself to till his paternal acres; while the other
loitered negligently on in the path of learning, until he penetrated
even into the confines of Latin and mathematics.
In an unlucky hour, however, he took to reading voyages and travels, and
was smitten with a desire to see the world. This desire increased upon
him as he grew up; so, early one bright, sunny morning, he put all his
effects in a knapsack, slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and
called in his way to take leave of his early schoolmate. Jack was just
going out with the plough: the friends shook hands over the farm-house
gate; Jack drove his team afield, and Slingsby whistled "Over the
hills, and far away," and sallied forth gaily to "seek his fortune."
Years and years passed by, and young Tom Slingsby was forgotten: when,
one mellow Sunday afternoon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat advanced in
life, with a coat out at elbows, a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a
few things tied in a handkerchief, and slung on the end of a stick, was
seen loitering through the village. He appeared to regard several houses
attentively, to peer into the windows that were open, to eye the
villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then to pass some
time in the churchyard, reading the tombstones.
At length he found his way to the farm-house of Ready-Money Jack, but
paused ere he attempted the wicket; contemplating the picture of
substantial independence before him. In the porch of the house sat
Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress, with his hat upon his head, his
pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before him, the monarch of all he
surveyed. Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poultry
were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees hummed from their
hives in the garden; the cattle lowed in the rich meadow: while the
crammed barns and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest.
The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously towards the house.
The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but
was immediately silenced by his master, who, taking his pipe from his
mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect the address of this equivocal
personage. The stranger eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his
dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon
his own threadbare and starveling condition, and the scanty bundle which
he held in his hand; then giving his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make
it meet his receding waistband; and casting another look, half sad, half
humorous at the sturdy yeoman, "I suppose," said he, "Mr. Tibbets, you
have forgot old times and old playmates?"
The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowledged that he
had no recollection of him.
[Illustration: "Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"--PAGE 189.]
"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger; "everybody seems to
have forgotten poor Slingsby?"
"Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"
"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his head.
Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling; thrust out his hand,
gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other hand
on a bench, "Sit down there," cried he, "Tom Slingsby!"
A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby was regaled
with the best cheer that the farm-house afforded; for he was hungry as
well as wayworn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedestrian. The
early playmates then talked over their subsequent lives and adventures.
Jack had but little to relate, and was never good at a long story. A
prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narrative; it
is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world, that are the true
heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the paternal farm, followed the same
plough that his forefathers had driven, and had waxed richer and richer
as he grew older. As to Tom Slingsby, he was an exemplification of the
old proverb, "A rolling stone gathers no moss." He had sought his
fortune about the world, without ever finding it, being a thing oftener
found at home than abroad. He had been in all kinds of situations, and
had learned a dozen different modes of making a living; but had found
his way back to his native village rather poorer than when he left it,
his knapsack having dwindled down to a scanty bundle.
As luck would have it, the squire was passing by the farm-house that
very evening, and called there, as is often his custom. He found the two
schoolmates still gossiping in the porch, and, according to the good old
Scottish song, "taking a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne." The
squire was struck by the contrast in appearance and fortunes of these
early playmates. Ready-Money Jack, seated in lordly state, surrounded by
the good things of this life, with golden guineas hanging to his very
watch chain, and the poor pilgrim Slingsby, thin as a weasel, with all
his worldly effects, his bundle, hat, and walking-staff, lying on the
ground beside him.
The good squire's heart warmed towards the luckless cosmopolite, for he
is a little prone to like such half-vagrant characters. He cast about
in his mind how he should contrive once more to anchor Slingsby in his
native village. Honest Jack had already offered him a present shelter
under his roof, in spite of the hints, and winks, and half remonstrances
of the shrewd Dame Tibbets; but how to provide for his permanent
maintenance was the question. Luckily the squire bethought himself that
the village school was without a teacher. A little further conversation
convinced him that Slingsby was as fit for that as for anything else,
and in a day or two he was seen swaying the rod of empire in the very
school-house where he had often been horsed in the days of his boyhood.
Here he has remained for several years, and being honoured by the
countenance of the squire, and the fast friendship of Mr. Tibbets, he
has grown into much importance and consideration in the village. I am
told, however, that he still shows, now and then, a degree of
restlessness, and a disposition to rove abroad again, and see a little
more of the world; an inclination which seems particularly to haunt him
about spring-time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer as the
vagrant humour, when once it has been fully indulged.
Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor Slingsby, I have more than
once mused upon the picture presented by him and his schoolmate
Ready-Money Jack, on their coming together again after so long a
separation. It is difficult to determine between lots in life, where
each is attended with its peculiar discontents. He who never leaves his
home repines at his monotonous existence, and envies the traveller,
whose life is a constant tissue of wonder and adventure; while he, who
is tossed about the world, looks back with many a sigh to the safe and
quiet shore which he has abandoned. I cannot help thinking, however,
that the man that stays at home, and cultivates the comforts and
pleasures daily springing up around him, stands the best chance for
happiness. There is nothing so fascinating to a young mind as the idea
of travelling; and there is very witchcraft in the old phrase found in
every nursery tale, of "going to seek one's fortune." A continual change
of place, and change of object, promises a continual succession of
adventure and gratification of curiosity. But there is a limit to all
our enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very
gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants, novelties
cease to excite surprise, until at length we cannot wonder even at a
miracle. He who has sallied forth into the world, like poor Slingsby,
full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different the distant
scene becomes when visited. The smooth place roughens as he approaches;
the wild place becomes tame and barren; the fairy tints that beguiled
him on still fly to the distant hill, or gather upon the land he has
left behind, and every part of the landscape seems greener than the spot
he stands on.
[Illustration: "On the road"]
[Illustration: The School]
THE SCHOOL.
But to come down from great men and higher matters to my
little children and poor school-house again; I will, God
willing, go forward orderly, as I proposed, to instruct
children and young men both for learning and manners.
ROGER ASCHAM.
Having given the reader a slight sketch of the village schoolmaster, he
may be curious to learn something concerning his school. As the squire
takes much interest in the education of the neighbouring children, he
put into the hands of the teacher, on first installing him in office, a
copy of Roger Ascham's Schoolmaster, and advised him, moreover, to con
over that portion of old Peachum which treats of the duty of masters,
and which condemns the favourite method of making boys wise by
flagellation.
He exhorted Slingsby not to break down or depress the free spirit of the
boys, by harshness and slavish fear, but to lead them freely and
joyously on in the path of knowledge, making it pleasant and desirable
in their eyes. He wished to see the youth trained up in the manners and
habitudes of the peasantry of the good old times, and thus to lay the
foundation for the accomplishment of his favourite object, the revival
of old English customs and character. He recommended that all the
ancient holidays should be observed, and that the sports of the boys, in
their hours of play, should be regulated according to the standard
authorities laid down by Strutt; a copy of whose invaluable work,
decorated with plates, was deposited in the school-house. Above all, he
exhorted the pedagogue to abstain from the use of birch, an instrument
of instruction which the good squire regards with abhorrence, as fit
only for the coercion of brute natures, that cannot be reasoned with.
Mr. Slingsby has followed the squire's instructions to the best of his
disposition and abilities. He never flogs the boys, because he is too
easy, good-humoured a creature to inflict pain on a worm. He is
bountiful in holidays, because he loves holidays himself, and has a
sympathy with the urchins' impatience of confinement, from having divers
times experienced its irksomeness during the time that he was seeing the
world. As to sports and pastimes, the boys are faithfully exercised in
all that are on record,--quoits, races, prison-bars, tipcat, trap-ball,
bandy-ball, wrestling, leaping, and what not. The only misfortune is,
that having banished the birch, honest Slingsby has not studied Roger
Ascham sufficiently to find out a substitute, or rather he has not the
management in his nature to apply one; his school, therefore, though one
of the happiest, is one of the most unruly in the country; and never was
a pedagogue more liked, or less heeded, by his disciples than Slingsby.
He has lately taken a coadjutor worthy of himself, being another stray
sheep that has returned to the village fold. This is no other than the
son of the musical tailor, who had bestowed some cost upon his
education, hoping to see him one day arrive at the dignity of an
exciseman, or at least of a parish clerk. The lad grew up, however, as
idle and musical as his father; and, being captivated by the drum and
fife of a recruiting party, he followed them off to the army. He
returned not long since, out of money, and out at elbows, the prodigal
son of the village. He remained for some time lounging about the place
in half-tattered soldier's dress, with a foraging cap on one side of his
head, jerking stones across the brook, or loitering about the tavern
door, a burthen to his father, and regarded with great coldness by all
warm householders.
[Illustration: The Prodigal]
Something, however, drew honest Slingsby towards the youth. It might be
the kindness he bore to his father, who is one of the schoolmaster's
greatest cronies; it might be that secret sympathy, which draws men of
vagrant propensities towards each other; for there is something truly
magnetic in the vagabond feeling; or it might be, that he remembered the
time when he himself had come back, like this youngster, a wreck to his
native place. At any rate, whatever the motive, Slingsby drew towards
the youth. They had many conversations in the village tap-room about
foreign parts, and the various scenes and places they had witnessed
during their wayfaring about the world. The more Slingsby talked with
him, the more he found him to his taste, and finding him almost as
learned as himself, he forthwith engaged him as an assistant or usher in
the school.
Under such admirable tuition, the school, as may be supposed, flourishes
apace; and if the scholars do not become versed in all the holiday
accomplishments of the good old times, to the squire's heart's content,
it will not be the fault of their teachers. The prodigal son has become
almost as popular among the boys as the pedagogue himself. His
instructions are not limited to school hours; and having inherited the
musical taste and talents of his father, he has bitten the whole school
with the mania. He is a great hand at beating a drum, which is often
heard rumbling from the rear of the school-house. He is teaching half
the boys of the village, also, to play the fife, and the pandean pipes;
and they weary the whole neighbourhood with their vague piping, as they
sit perched on stiles, or loitering about the barn-doors in the
evenings. Among the other exercises of the school, also, he has
introduced the ancient art of archery, one of the squire's favourite
themes, with such success, that the whipsters roam in truant bands about
the neighbourhood, practising with their bows and arrows upon the birds
of the air, and the beasts of the field; and not unfrequently making a
foray into the squire's domains, to the great indignation of the
gamekeepers. In a word, so completely are the ancient English customs
and habits cultivated at this school, that I should not be surprised if
the squire should live to see one of his poetic visions realised, and a
brood reared up, worthy successors to Robin Hood and his merry gang of
outlaws.
[Illustration: The Truants]
[Illustration: Laying Down the Law]
A VILLAGE POLITICIAN.
I am a rogue if I do not think I was designed for the helm of
state; I am so full of nimble stratagems, that I should have
ordered affairs, and carried it against the stream of a
faction, with as much ease as a skipper would laver against
the wind.--THE GOBLINS.
In one of my visits to the village with Master Simon, he proposed that
we should stop at the inn, which he wished to show me, as a specimen of
a real country inn, the head-quarters of village gossip. I had remarked
it before, in my perambulations about the place. It has a deep,
old-fashioned porch, leading into a large hall, which serves for
tap-room and travellers' room; having a wide fireplace, with high-backed
settles on each side, where the wise men of the village gossip over
their ale, and hold their sessions during the long winter evenings. The
landlord is an easy, indolent fellow, shaped a little like one of his
own beer barrels, and is apt to stand gossiping at his door, with his
wig on one side, and his hands in his pockets, whilst his wife and
daughter attend to customers. His wife, however, is fully competent to
manage the establishment; and, indeed, from long habitude, rules over
all the frequenters of the tap-room as completely as if they were her
dependants instead of her patrons. Not a veteran ale-bibber but pays
homage to her, having, no doubt, been often in her arrears. I have
already hinted that she is on very good terms with Ready-Money Jack. He
was a sweetheart of hers in early life, and has always countenanced the
tavern on her account. Indeed, he is quite "the cock of the walk" at the
tap-room.
As we approached the inn, we heard some one talking with great
volubility, and distinguished the ominous words "taxes," "poor's rates,"
and "agricultural distress." It proved to be a thin, loquacious fellow,
who had penned the landlord up in one corner of the porch, with his
hands in his pockets as usual, listening with an air of the most vacant
acquiescence.
The sight seemed to have a curious effect on Master Simon, as he
squeezed my arm, and, altering his course, sheered wide of the porch as
though he had not had any idea of entering. This evident evasion induced
me to notice the orator more particularly. He was meagre, but active in
his make, with a long, pale, bilious face; a black, ill-shaven beard, a
feverish eye, and a hat sharpened up at the sides into a most
pragmatical shape. He had a newspaper in his hand, and seemed to be
commenting on its contents, to the thorough conviction of mine host.
At sight of Master Simon the landlord was evidently a little flurried,
and began to rub his hands, edge away from his corner, and make several
profound publican bows; while the orator took no other notice of my
companion than to talk rather louder than before, and with, as I
thought, something of an air of defiance. Master Simon, however, as I
have before said, sheered off from the porch, and passed on, pressing my
arm within his, and whispering as we got by, in a tone of awe and
horror, "That's a radical! he reads Cobbett!"
I endeavoured to get a more particular account of him from my companion,
but he seemed unwilling even to talk about him, answering only in
general terms, that he was "a cursed busy fellow, that had a confounded
trick of talking, and was apt to bother one about the national debt, and
such nonsense;" from which I suspected that Master Simon had been
rendered wary of him by some accidental encounter on the field of
argument: for these radicals are continually roving about in quest of
wordy warfare, and never so happy as when they can tilt a gentleman
logician out of his saddle.
On subsequent inquiry my suspicions have been confirmed. I find the
radical has but recently found his way into the village, where he
threatens to commit fearful devastations with his doctrines. He has
already made two or three complete converts, or new lights; has shaken
the faith of several others; and has grievously puzzled the brains of
many of the oldest villagers, who had never thought about politics, or
scarce anything else, during their whole lives.
He is lean and meagre from the constant restlessness of mind and body;
worrying about with newspapers and pamphlets in his pockets, which he is
ready to pull out on all occasions. He has shocked several of the
staunchest villagers by talking lightly of the squire and his family;
and hinting that it would be better the park should be cut up into
small farms and kitchen gardens, or feed good mutton instead of
worthless deer.
[Illustration: The Village Politician]
He is a great thorn in the side of the squire, who is sadly afraid that
he will introduce politics into the village, and turn it into an
unhappy, thinking community. He is a still greater grievance to Master
Simon, who has hitherto been able to sway the political opinions of the
place, without much cost of learning or logic; but has been very much
puzzled of late to weed out the doubts and heresies already sown by
this champion of reform. Indeed, the latter has taken complete command
at the tap-room of the tavern, not so much because he has convinced, as
because he has out-talked all the established oracles. The apothecary,
with all his philosophy, was as nought before him. He has convinced and
converted the landlord at least a dozen times; who, however, is liable
to be convinced and converted the other way by the next person with whom
he talks. It is true the radical has a violent antagonist in the
landlady, who is vehemently loyal, and thoroughly devoted to the king,
Master Simon, and the squire. She now and then comes out upon the
reformer with all the fierceness of a cat-o'-mountain, and does not
spare her own soft-headed husband, for listening to what she terms such
"low-lived politics." What makes the good woman the more violent, is the
perfect coolness with which the radical listens to her attacks, drawing
his face up into a provoking supercilious smile; and when she has talked
herself out of breath, quietly asking her for a taste of her
home-brewed.
[Illustration: The Landlady]
The only person who is in any way a match for this redoubtable
politician is Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, who maintains his stand in the
tap-room, in defiance of the radical and all his works. Jack is one of
the most loyal men in the country, without being able to reason about
the matter. He has that admirable quality for a tough arguer, also, that
he never knows when he is beat. He has half a dozen old maxims, which he
advances on all occasions, and though his antagonist may overturn them
never so often, yet he always brings them anew into the field. He is
like the robber in Ariosto, who, though his head might be cut off half a
hundred times, yet whipped it on his shoulders again in a twinkling,
and returned as sound a man as ever to the charge.