BRACEBRIDGE HALL
OR
THE HUMORISTS
BY
WASHINGTON IRVING
"Under this cloud I walk, gentlemen; pardon my rude assault. I am
a traveller, who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles
of this globe, am hither arrived, to peruse this little spot."
--CHRISTMAS ORDINARY.
CONTENTS.
VOLUME ONE.
THE HALL
THE BUSY MAN
FAMILY SERVANTS
THE WIDOW
THE LOVERS
FAMILY RELIQUES
AN OLD SOLDIER
THE WIDOW'S RETINUE
READY-MONEY JACK
BACHELORS
WIVES
STORY-TELLING
STOUT GENTLEMAN
FOREST TREES
LITERARY ANTIQUARY
THE FARM-HOUSE
HORSEMANSHIP
LOVE SYMPTOMS
FALCONRY
HAWKING
SAINT MARK'S EVE
GENTILITY
FORTUNE-TELLING
LOVE-CHARMS
THE LIBRARY
STUDENT OF SALAMANCA
VOLUME TWO.
ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN
BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS
ENGLISH GRAVITY
GYPSIES
MAY-DAY CUSTOMS
VILLAGE WORTHIES
THE SCHOOLMASTER
THE SCHOOL
VILLAGE POLITICIAN
THE ROOKERY
MAY-DAY
THE MANUSCRIPT
ANNETTE DELARBRE
TRAVELLING
THE CULPRIT
FAMILY MISFORTUNES
LOVER'S TROUBLES
THE HISTORIAN
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
DOLPH HEYLIGER
THE STORM-SHIP
THE WEDDING
THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL
BRACEBRIDGE HALL;
OR,
THE HUMOURISTS.
A MEDLEY.
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.
Under this cloud I walk, Gentlemen; pardon my rude assault. I am a
traveller who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of
this globe, am hither arrived, to peruse this little spot.
--CHRISTMAS ORDINARY.
THE AUTHOR.
WORTHY READER!
On again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a few observations at
the outset, by way of bespeaking a right understanding. The volumes
which I have already published have met with a reception far beyond my
most sanguine expectations. I would willingly attribute this to their
intrinsic merits; but, in spite of the vanity of authorship, I cannot
but be sensible that their success has, in a great measure, been owing
to a less flattering cause. It has been a matter of marvel, to my
European readers, that a man from the wilds of America should express
himself in tolerable English. I was looked upon as something new and
strange in literature; a kind of demi-savage, with a feather in his
hand, instead of on his head; and there was a curiosity to hear what
such a being had to say about civilized society.
This novelty is now at an end, and of course the feeling of indulgence
which it produced. I must now expect to bear the scrutiny of sterner
criticism, and to be measured by the same standard with contemporary
writers; and the very favor which has been shown to my previous
writings, will cause these to be treated with the greater rigour; as
there is nothing for which the world is apt to punish a man more
severely, than for having been over-praised. On this head, therefore,
I wish to forestall the censoriousness of the reader; and I entreat he
will not think the worse of me for the many injudicious things that
may have been said in my commendation.
I am aware that I often travel over beaten ground, and treat of
subjects that have already been discussed by abler pens. Indeed,
various authors have been mentioned as my models, to whom I should
feel flattered if I thought I bore the slightest resemblance; but in
truth I write after no model that I am conscious of, and I write with
no idea of imitation or competition. In venturing occasionally on
topics that have already been almost exhausted by English authors, I
do it, not with the presumption of challenging a comparison, but with
the hope that some new interest may be given to such topics, when
discussed by the pen of a stranger.
If, therefore, I should sometimes be found dwelling with fondness on
subjects that are trite and commonplace with the reader, I beg that
the circumstances under which I write may be kept in recollection.
Having been born and brought up in a new country, yet educated from
infancy in the literature of an old one, my mind was early filled with
historical and poetical associations, connected with places, and
manners, and customs of Europe; but which could rarely be applied to
those of my own country. To a mind thus peculiarly prepared, the most
ordinary objects and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of
strange matter and interesting novelty. England is as classic ground
to an American as Italy is to an Englishman; and old London teems with
as much historical association as mighty Rome.
Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical medley of ideas that
throng upon his mind, on landing among English scenes. He, for the
first time, sees a world about which he has been reading and thinking
in every stage of his existence. The recollected ideas of infancy,
youth, and manhood; of the nursery, the school, and the study, come
swarming at once upon him; and his attention is distracted between
great and little objects; each of which, perhaps, awakens an equally
delightful train of remembrances.
But what more especially attracts his notice, are those peculiarities
which distinguish an old country and an old state of society from a
new one. I have never yet grown familiar enough with the crumbling
monuments of past ages, to blunt the intense interest with which I at
first beheld them. Accustomed always to scenes where history was, in a
manner, in anticipation; where every thing in art was new and
progressive, and pointed to the future rather than to the past; where,
in short, the works of man gave no ideas but those of young existence,
and prospective improvement; there was something inexpressibly
touching in the sight of enormous piles of architecture, gray with
antiquity, and sinking into-decay. I cannot describe the mute but
deep-felt enthusiasm with which I have contemplated a vast monastic
ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried in the bosom of a quiet valley, and
shut up from the world, as though it had existed merely for itself; or
a warrior pile, like Conway Castle, standing in stern loneliness on
its rocky height, a mere hollow yet threatening phantom of departed
power. They spread a grand, and melancholy, and, to me, an unusual
charm over the landscape; I, for the first time, beheld signs of
national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the transient and
perishing glories of art, amidst the ever-springing and reviving
fertility of nature.
But, in fact, to me every thing was full of matter; the footsteps of
history were every where to be traced; and poetry had breathed over
and sanctified the land. I experienced the delightful freshness of
feeling of a child, to whom every thing is new. I pictured to myself a
set of inhabitants and a mode of life for every habitation that I saw,
from the aristocratical mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stately
groves and solitary parts, to the straw-thatched cottage, with its
scanty garden and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be
sated with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely
carpeted with verdure; where every air breathed of the balmy pasture,
and the honey-suckled hedge. I was continually coming upon some little
document of poetry, in the blossomed hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip,
the primrose, or some other simple object that has received a
supernatural value from the muse. The first time that I heard the song
of the nightingale, I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of
remembered associations than by the melody of its notes; and I shall
never forget the thrill of ecstasy with which I first saw the lark
rise, almost from beneath my feet, and wing its musical flight up into
the morning sky.
In this way I traversed England, a grown-up child, delighted by every
object, great and small; and betraying a wondering ignorance, and
simple enjoyment, that provoked many a stare and a smile from my wiser
and more experienced fellow-travellers. Such too was the odd confusion
of associations that kept breaking upon me, as I first approached
London. One of my earliest wishes had been to see this great
metropolis. I had read so much about it in the earliest books that had
been put into my infant hands; and I had heard so much about it from
those around me who had come from the "old countries." I was familiar
with the names of its streets, and squares, and public places, before
I knew those of my native city. It was, to me, the great centre of the
world, round which every thing seemed to revolve. I recollect
contemplating so wistfully, when a boy, a paltry little print of the
Thames, and London Bridge, and St. Paul's, that was in front of an old
magazine; and a picture of Kensington Gardens, with gentlemen in
three-cornered hats and broad skirts, and ladies in hoops and lappets,
that hung up in my bed-room; even the venerable cut of St. John's
Gate, that has stood, time out of mind, in front of the Gentleman's
Magazine, was not without its charms to me; and I envied the
odd-looking little men that appeared to be loitering about its arches.
How then did my heart warm when the towers of Westminster Abbey were
pointed out to me, rising above the rich groves of St. James's Park,
with a thin blue haze about their gray pinnacles! I could not behold
this great mausoleum of what is most illustrious in our paternal
history, without feeling my enthusiasm in a glow. With what eagerness
did I explore every part of the metropolis! I was not content with
those matters which occupy the dignified research of the learned
traveller; I delighted to call up all the feelings of childhood, and
to seek after those objects which had been the wonders of my infancy.
London Bridge, so famous in nursery songs; the far-famed Monument; Gog
and Magog, and the Lions in the Tower, all brought back many a
recollection of infantile delight, and of good old beings, now no
more, who had gossiped about them to my wondering ear. Nor was it
without a recurrence of childish interest, that I first peeped into
Mr. Newberry's shop, in St. Paul's Church-yard, that fountain-head of
literature. Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my infant mind
with the idea of a great and good man. He published all the
picture-books of the day; and, out of his abundant love for children,
he charged "nothing for either paper or print, and only a
penny-halfpenny for the binding!"
I have mentioned these circumstances, worthy reader, to show you the
whimsical crowd of associations that are apt to beset my mind on
mingling among English scenes. I hope they may, in some measure, plead
my apology, should I be found harping upon stale and trivial themes,
or indulging an over-fondness for any thing antique and obsolete. I
know it is the humour, not to say cant of the day, to run riot about
old times, old books, old customs, and old buildings; with myself,
however, as far as I have caught the contagion, the feeling is
genuine. To a man from a young country, all old things are in a manner
new; and he may surely be excused in being a little curious about
antiquities, whose native land, unfortunately, cannot boast of a
single ruin.
Having been brought up, also, in the comparative simplicity of a
republic, I am apt to be struck with even the ordinary circumstances
incident to an aristocratical state of society. If, however, I should
at any time amuse myself by pointing out some of the eccentricities,
and some of the poetical characteristics of the latter, I would not be
understood as pretending to decide upon its political merits. My only
aim is to paint characters and manners. I am no politician. The more I
have considered the study of politics, the more I have found it full
of perplexity; and I have contented myself, as I have in my religion,
with the faith in which I was brought up, regulating my own conduct by
its precepts; but leaving to abler heads the task of making converts.
I shall continue on, therefore, in the course I have hitherto pursued;
looking at things poetically, rather than politically; describing them
as they are, rather than pretending to point out how they should be;
and endeavouring to see the world in as pleasant a light as
circumstances will permit.
I have always had an opinion that much good might be done by keeping
mankind in good-humour with one another. I may be wrong in my
philosophy, but I shall continue to practise it until convinced of its
fallacy. When I discover the world to be all that it has been
represented by sneering cynics and whining poets, I will turn to and
abuse it also; in the meanwhile, worthy reader, I hope you will not
think lightly of me, because I cannot believe this to be so very bad a
world as it is represented.
Thine truly,
GEOFFREY CRAYON.
THE HALL.
The ancient house, and the best for housekeeping in this county or
the next; and though the master of it write but squire, I know no
lord like him.
--_Merry Beggars_.
The reader, if he has perused the volumes of the Sketch-Book, will
probably recollect something of the Bracebridge family, with which I
once passed a Christmas. I am now on another visit to the Hall, having
been invited to a wedding which is shortly to take place. The Squire's
second son, Guy, a fine, spirited young captain in the army, is about
to be married to his father's ward, the fair Julia Templeton. A
gathering of relations and friends has already commenced, to celebrate
the joyful occasion; for the old gentleman is an enemy to quiet,
private weddings. "There is nothing," he says, "like launching a young
couple gayly, and cheering them from the shore; a good outset is half
the voyage."
Before proceeding any farther, I would beg that the Squire might not
be confounded with that class of hard-riding, foxhunting gentlemen so
often described, and, in fact, so nearly extinct in England. I use
this rural title partly because it is his universal appellation
throughout the neighbourhood, and partly because it saves me the
frequent repetition of his name, which is one of those rough old
English names at which Frenchmen exclaim in despair.
The Squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the old English
country gentleman; rusticated a little by living almost entirely on
his estate, and something of a humourist, as Englishmen are apt to
become when they have an opportunity of living in their own way. I
like his hobby passing well, however, which is, a bigoted devotion to
old English manners and customs; it jumps a little with my own humor,
having as yet a lively and unsated curiosity about the ancient and
genuine characteristics of my "father land."
There are some traits about the Squire's family, also, which appear to
me to be national. It is one of those old aristocratical families,
which, I believe, are peculiar to England, and scarcely understood in
other countries; that is to say, families of the ancient gentry, who,
though destitute of titled rank, maintain a high ancestral pride; who
look down upon all nobility of recent creation, and would consider it
a sacrifice of dignity to merge the venerable name of their house in a
modern title.
This feeling is very much fostered by the importance which they enjoy
on their hereditary domains. The family mansion is an old manor-house,
standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants
have been always regarded, through the surrounding country, as "the
great ones of the earth;" and the little village near the Hall looks
up to the Squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and an
old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the present day;
and it is probably the peculiar humour of the Squire that has retained
this secluded specimen of English housekeeping in something like the
genuine old style.
I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique wing of
the house. The prospect from the window, however, has quite a
different aspect from that which it wore on my winter visit. Though
early in the month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have drawn
forth the beauties of the spring, which, I think, are always most
captivating on their first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned
garden are gay with flowers; and the gardener has brought out his
exotics, and placed them along the stone balustrades. The trees are
clothed with green buds and tender leaves. When I throw open my
jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignonette, and hear the hum
of the bees from the flowers against the sunny wall, with the varied
song of the throstle, and the cheerful notes of the tuneful little
wren.
While sojourning in this strong-hold of old fashions, it is my
intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and characters
before me. I would have it understood, however, that I am not writing
a novel, and have nothing of intricate plot, or marvellous adventure,
to promise the reader. The Hall of which I treat, has, for aught I
know, neither trap-door, nor sliding-panel, nor donjon-keep; and
indeed appears to have no mystery about it. The family is a worthy,
well-meaning family, that, in all probability, will eat and drink, and
go to bed, and get up regularly, from one end of my work to the other;
and the Squire is so kind-hearted an old gentleman, that I see no
likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress in the way of the
approaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot foresee a single
extraordinary event that is likely to occur in the whole term of my
sojourn at the Hall.
I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he finds me dallying
along, through every-day English scenes, he may hurry ahead, in hopes
of meeting with some marvellous adventure further on. I invite him, on
the contrary, to ramble gently on with me, as he would saunter out
into the fields, stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen
to a bird, or admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at the
end of his career. Should I, however, in the course of my loiterings
about this old mansion, see or hear anything curious, that might serve
to vary the monotony of this every-day life, I shall not fail to
report it for the reader's entertainment:
For freshest wits I know will soon be wearie
Of any book, how grave so e'er it be,
Except it have odd matter, strange and merrie,
Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee.[1]
[Footnote 1: _Mirror for Magistrates_.]
THE BUSY MAN.
A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and my
master's means, and much good do him with it. He does hold my
master up with his stories, and songs, and catches, and such tricks
and jigs, you would admire--he is with him now.
--_Jovial Crew_.
By no one has my return to the Hall been more heartily greeted than by
Mr. Simon Bracebridge, or Master Simon, as the Squire most commonly
calls him. I encountered him just as I entered the park, where he was
breaking a pointer, and he received me with all the hospitable
cordiality with which a man welcomes a friend to another one's house.
I have already introduced him to the reader as a brisk old
bachelor-looking little man; the wit and superannuated beau of a large
family connection, and the Squire's factotum. I found him, as usual,
full of bustle; with a thousand petty things to do, and persons to
attend to, and in chirping good-humour; for there are few happier
beings than a busy idler; that is to say, a man who is eternally busy
about nothing.
I visited him, the morning after my arrival, in his chamber, which is
in a remote corner of the mansion, as he says he likes to be to
himself, and out of the way. He has fitted it up in his own taste, so
that it is a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's notions of
convenience and arrangement. The furniture is made up of odd pieces
from all parts of the house, chosen on account of their suiting his
notions, or fitting some corner of his apartment; and he is very
eloquent in praise of an ancient elbow-chair, from which he takes
occasion to digress into a censure on modern chairs, as having
degenerated from the dignity and comfort of high-backed antiquity.
Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he calls his study.
Here are some hanging shelves, of his own construction, on which are
several old works on hawking, hunting, and farriery, and a collection
or two of poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeth, which he studies
out of compliment to the Squire; together with the Novelist's
Magazine, the Sporting Magazine; the Racing Calendar, a volume or two
of the Newgate Calendar, a book of peerage, and another of heraldry.
His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closet; and about the
walls of his apartment are hooks to hold his fishing-tackle, whips,
spurs, and a favourite fowling-piece, curiously wrought and inlaid,
which he inherits from his grandfather. He has, also, a couple of old
single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle which he has repeatedly patched and
mended himself, affirming it to be a veritable Cremona, though I have
never heard him extract a single note from it that was not enough to
make one's blood run cold.
From this little nest his fiddle will often be heard, in the stillness
of mid-day, drowsily sawing some long-forgotten tune; for he prides
himself on having a choice collection of good old English music, and
will scarcely have any thing to do with modern composers. The time,
however, at which his musical powers are of most use, is now and then
of an evening, when he plays for the children to dance in the hall,
and he passes among them and the servants for a perfect Orpheus.
His chamber also bears evidence of his various avocations: there are
half-copied sheets of music; designs for needle-work; sketches of
landscapes, very indifferently executed; a camera lucida; a magic
lantern, for which he is endeavoring to paint glasses; in a word, it
is the cabinet of a man of many accomplishments, who knows a little of
everything, and does nothing well.
After I had spent some time in his apartment, admiring the ingenuity
of his small inventions, he took me about the establishment, to visit
the stables, dog-kennel, and other dependencies, in which he appeared
like a general visiting the different quarters of his camp; as the
Squire leaves the control of all these matters to him, when he is at
the Hall. He inquired into the state of the horses; examined their
feet; prescribed a drench for one, and bleeding for another; and then
took me to look at his own horse, on the merits of which he dwelt with
great prolixity, and which, I noticed, had the best stall in the
stable.
After this I was taken to a new toy of his and the Squire's, which he
termed the falconry, where there were several unhappy birds in
durance, completing their education. Among the number was a fine
falcon, which Master Simon had in especial training, and he told me
that he would show me, in a few days, some rare sport of the good
old-fashioned kind. In the course of our round, I noticed that the
grooms, game-keeper, whippers-in, and other retainers, seemed all to
be on somewhat of a familiar footing with Master Simon, and fond of
having a joke with him, though it was evident they had great deference
for his opinion in matters relating to their functions.
There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman, as hot as a
pepper-corn; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a threadbare velvet jockey
cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that, from much wear, shone, as
though they had been japanned. He was very contradictory and
pragmatical, and apt, as I thought, to differ from Master Simon now
and then, out of mere captiousness. This was particularly the case
with respect to the treatment of the hawk, which the old man seemed to
have under his peculiar care, and, according to Master Simon, was in a
fair way to ruin: the latter had a vast deal to say about _casting_,
and _imping_, and _gleaming_, and _enseaming_, and giving the hawk the
_rangle_, which I saw was all heathen Greek to old Christy; but he
maintained his point notwithstanding, and seemed to hold all this
technical lore in utter disrespect.
I was surprised with the good-humour with which Master Simon bore his
contradictions, till he explained the matter tom e afterwards. Old
Christy is the most ancient servant in the place, having lived among
dogs and horses the greater part of a century, and been in the service
of Mr. Bracebridge's father. He knows the pedigree of every horse on
the place, and has bestrode the great-great-grandsires of most of
them. He can give a circumstantial detail of every fox-hunt for the
last sixty or seventy years, and has a history for every stag's head
about the house, and every hunting trophy nailed to the door of the
dog-kennel.
All the present race have grown up under his eye, and humour him in
his old age. He once attended the Squire to Oxford, when he was a
student there, and enlightened the whole university with his hunting
lore. All this is enough to make the old man opinionated, since he
finds, on all these matters of first-rate importance, he knows more
than the rest of the world. Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil,
and acknowledges that he derived his first knowledge in hunting from
the instructions of Christy: and I much question whether the old man
does not still look upon him rather as a greenhorn.
On our return homewards, as we were crossing the lawn in front of the
house, we heard the porter's bell ring at the lodge, and shortly
afterwards, a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly up the avenue. At
sight of it my companion paused, considered it for a moment, and then,
making a sudden exclamation, hurried away to meet it. As it
approached, I discovered a fair, fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed
in an old-fashioned riding-habit, with a broad-brimmed white beaver
hat, such as may be seen in Sir Joshua Reynolds' paintings. She rode a
sleek white pony, and was followed by a footman in rich livery,
mounted on an over-fed hunter. At a little distance in the rear came
an ancient cumbrous chariot, drawn by two very corpulent horses,
driven by as corpulent a coachman, beside whom sat a page dressed in a
fanciful green livery. Inside of the chariot was a starched prim
personage, with a look somewhat between a lady's companion and a
lady's maid; and two pampered curs, that showed their ugly faces, and
barked out of each window.
There was a general turning out of the garrison, to receive this new
comer. The Squire assisted her to alight, and saluted her
affectionately; the fair Julia flew into her arms, and they embraced
with the romantic fervour of boarding-school friends: she was escorted
into the house by Julia's lover, towards whom she showed distinguished
favour; and a line of the old servants, who had collected in the Hall,
bowed most profoundly as she passed.
I observed that Master Simon was most assiduous and devout in his
attentions upon this old lady. He walked by the side of her pony, up
the avenue; and, while she was receiving the salutations of the rest
of the family, he took occasion to notice the fat coachman; to pat the
sleek carriage horses, and, above all, to say a civil word to my
lady's gentlewoman, the prim, sour-looking vestal in the chariot.
I had no more of his company for the rest of the morning. He was swept
off in the vortex that followed in the wake of this lady. Once indeed
he paused for a moment, as he was hurrying on some errand of the good
lady's, to let me know that this was Lady Lillycraft, a sister of the
Squire's, of large fortune, which the captain would inherit, and that
her estate lay in one of the best sporting counties in all England.
FAMILY SERVANTS.
Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping. They
are like rats in a mansion, or mites in a cheese, bespeaking the
antiquity and fatness of their abode.
In my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may often he tempted to dwell on
circumstances of a trite and ordinary nature, from their appearing to
me illustrative of genuine national character. It seems to be the
study of the Squire to adhere, as much as possible, to what he
considers the old landmarks of English manners. His servants all
understand his ways, and for the most part have been accustomed to
them from infancy; so that, upon the whole, his household presents one
of the few tolerable specimens that can now be met with, of the
establishment of an English country gentleman of the old school.
By the by, the servants are not the least characteristic part of the
household: the housekeeper, for instance, has been born and brought up
at the Hall, and has never been twenty miles from it; yet she has a
stately air, that would not disgrace a lady that had figured at the
court of Queen Elizabeth.
I am half inclined to think that she has caught it from living so much
among the old family pictures. It may, however, be owing to a
consciousness of her importance in the sphere in which she has always
moved; for she is greatly respected in the neighbouring village, and
among the farmers' wives, and has high authority in the household,
ruling over the servants with quiet, but undisputed sway.
She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes and pointed nose and chin. Her
dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears a small,
well-starched ruff, a laced stomacher, full petticoats, and a gown
festooned and open in front, which, on particular occasions, is of
ancient silk, the legacy of some former dame of the family, or an
inheritance from her mother, who was housekeeper before her. I have a
reverence for these old garments, as I make no doubt they have figured
about these apartments in days long past, when they have set off the
charms of some peerless family beauty; and I have sometimes looked
from the old housekeeper to the neighbouring portraits, to see whether
I could not recognize her antiquated brocade in the dress of some one
of those long-waisted dames that smile on me from the walls.
Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and she wears
over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down under the chin.
Her manners are simple and primitive, heightened a little by a proper
dignity of station.
The Hall is her world, and the history of the family the only history
she knows, excepting that which she has read in the Bible. She can
give a biography of every portrait in the picture gallery, and is a
complete family chronicle.
She is treated with great consideration by the Squire. Indeed, Master
Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote current among the
servants, of the Squire's having been seen kissing her in the picture
gallery, when they were both young. As, however, nothing further was
ever noticed between them, the circumstance caused no great scandal;
only she was observed to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards,
and refused the hand of the village inn-keeper, whom she had
previously smiled on.
The old butler, who was formerly footman, and a rejected admirer of
hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those little cabals
that will occasionally take place among the most orderly servants,
arising from the common propensity of the governed to talk against
administration; but he has left it off, of late years, since he has
risen into place, and shakes his head rebukingly when it is mentioned.
It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell on the looks
of the Squire when he was a young man at college; and she maintains
that none of his sons can compare with their father when he was of
their age, and was dressed out in his full suit of scarlet, with his
hair craped and powdered, and his three-cornered hat.
She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft-hearted baggage, named Phoebe
Wilkins, who has been transplanted to the Hall within a year or two,
and been nearly spoiled for any condition of life. She is a kind of
attendant and companion of the fair Julia's; and from loitering about
the young lady's apartments, reading scraps of novels, and inheriting
second-hand finery, has become something between a waiting-maid and a
slipshod fine lady.
She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as she will
inherit all her aunt's property; which, if report be true, must be a
round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated wealth of two
housekeepers' savings; not to mention the hereditary wardrobe, and the
many little valuables and knick-knacks, treasured up in the
housekeepers' room. Indeed, the old housekeeper has the reputation,
among the servants and the villagers, of being passing rich; and there
is a japanned chest of drawers, and a large iron-bound coffer in her
room, which are supposed, by the house-maids, to hold treasures of
wealth.
The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, who, indeed, pays a
little court to her, as to a person high in authority; and they have
many discussions on points of family history, in which,
notwithstanding his extensive information, and pride of knowledge, he
commonly admits her superior accuracy. He seldom returns to the Hall,
after one of his visits to the other branches of the family, without
bringing Mrs. Wilkins some remembrance from the ladies of the house
where he has been staying.
Indeed, all the children of the house look up to the old lady with
habitual respect and attachment, and she seems almost to consider them
as her own, from their having grown up under her eye. The Oxonian,
however, is her favourite, probably from, being the youngest, though
he is the most mischievous, and has been apt to play tricks upon her
from boyhood.
I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony, which, I believe, is
peculiar to the Hall. After the cloth is removed at dinner, the old
housekeeper sails into the room and stands behind the Squire's chair,
when he fills her a glass of wine with his own hands, in which she
drinks the health of the company in a truly respectful yet dignified
manner, and then retires. The Squire received the custom from his
father, and has always continued it.
There is a peculiar character about the servants of old English
families that reside principally in the country. They have a quiet,
orderly, respectful mode of doing their duties. They are always neat
in their persons, and appropriately, and if I may use the phrase,
technically dressed; they move about the house without hurry or noise;
there is nothing of the bustle of employment, or the voice of command;
nothing of that obtrusive housewifery that amounts to a torment. You
are not persecuted by the process of making you comfortable; yet every
thing is done, and is done well. The work of the house is performed as
if by magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing is done by fits
and starts, nor at awkward seasons; the whole goes on like well-oiled
clock-work, where there is no noise nor jarring in its operations.
English servants, in general, are not treated with great indulgence,
nor rewarded by many commendations; for the English are laconic and
reserved toward their domestics; but an approving nod and a kind word
from master or mistress, goes as far here, as an excess of praise or
indulgence elsewhere. Neither do servants often exhibit any animated
marks of affection to their employers; yet, though quiet, they are
strong in their attachments; and the reciprocal regard of masters and
servants, though not ardently expressed, is powerful and lasting in
old English families.
The title of "an old family servant" carries with it a thousand kind
associations, in all parts of the world; and there is no claim upon
the home-bred charities of the heart more irresistible than that of
having been "born in the house." It is common to see gray-headed
domestics of this kind attached to an English family of the "old
school," who continue in it to the day of their death, in the
enjoyment of steady, unaffected kindness, and the performance of
faithful, unofficious duty. I think such instances of attachment speak
well for both master and servant, and the frequency of them speaks
well for national character.
These observations, however, hold good only with families of the
description I have mentioned; and with such as are somewhat retired,
and pass the greater part of their time in the country.
As to the powdered menials that throng the halls of fashionable town
residences, they equally reflect the character of the establishments
to which they belong; and I know no more complete epitomes of
dissolute heartlessness and pampered inutility.
But, the good "old family servant!"--the one who has always been
linked, in idea, with the home of our heart; who has led us to school
in the days of prattling childhood; who has been the confidant of our
boyish cares, and schemes, and enterprises; who has hailed us as we
came home at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday
sports; who, when we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal
roof, and only return thither at intervals--will welcome us with a,
joy inferior only to that of our parents; who, now grown gray and
infirm with age, still totters about the house of our fathers, in fond
and faithful servitude; who claims us, in a manner, as his own; and
hastens with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow-domestics in
waiting upon us at table; and who, when we retire at night to the
chamber that still goes by our name, will linger about the room to
have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word about times that
are past--who does not experience towards such a being a feeling of
almost filial affection?
I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the gravestones of
such valuable domestics, recorded with the simple truth of natural
feeling. I have two before me at this moment; one copied from a
tombstone of a church-yard in Warwickshire:
"Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential servant to George
Birch, Esq., of Hamstead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused
this inscription to be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity,
diligence, and continence. He died (a bachelor) aged 84, having lived
44 years in the same family."
The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham churchyard:
"Here lie the remains of Mr. James Tappy, who departed this life on
the 8th of September, 1818, aged 84, after a faithful service of 60
years in one family; by each individual of which he lived respected,
and died lamented by the sole survivor."
Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the glow about
the heart that I felt while copying this honest epitaph in the
church-yard of Eltham. I sympathized with this "sole survivor" of a
family mourning over the grave of the faithful follower of his race,
who had been, no doubt, a living memento of times and friends that had
passed away; and in considering this record of long and devoted
service, I called to mind the touching speech of Old Adam, in "As You
Like It," when tottering after the youthful son of his ancient master:
"Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp, with love and loyalty!"
[NOTE.--I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen somewhere in
the chapel of Windsor Castle, put up by the late king to the memory of
a family servant, who had been a faithful attendant of his lamented
daughter, the Princess Amelia. George III. possessed much of the
strong domestic feeling of the old English country gentleman; and it
is an incident curious in monumental history, and creditable to the
human heart, a monarch erecting a monument in honour of the humble
virtues of a menial.]
THE WIDOW.
She was so charitable and pitious
She would weep if that she saw a mous
Caught in a trap, if it were dead or Wed:
Of small hounds had she, that she fed
With rost flesh, milke, and wastel bread,
But sore wept she if any of them were dead,
Or if man smote them with a yard smart.
--CHAUCER.
Notwithstanding the whimsical parade made by Lady Lillycraft on her
arrival, she has none of the petty stateliness that I had imagined;
but, on the contrary, she has a degree of nature and
simple-heartedness, if I may use the phrase, that mingles well with
her old-fashioned manners and harmless ostentation. She dresses in
rich silks, with long waist; she rouges considerably, and her hair,
which is nearly white, is frizzed out, and put up with pins. Her face
is pitted with the small-pox, but the delicacy of her features shows
that she may once have been beautiful; and she has a very fair and
well-shaped hand and arm, of which, if I mistake not, the good lady is
still a little vain.
I have had the curiosity to gather a few particulars concerning her.
She was a great belle in town, between thirty and forty years since,
and reigned for two seasons with all the insolence of beauty, refusing
several excellent offers; when, unfortunately, she was robbed of her
charms and her lovers by an attack of the small-pox. She retired
immediately into the country, where she some time after inherited an
estate, and married a baronet, a former admirer, whose passion had
suddenly revived; "having," as he said, "always loved her mind rather
than her person."
The baronet did not enjoy her mind and fortune above six months, and
had scarcely grown very tired of her, when he broke his neck in a
fox-chase, and left her free, rich, and disconsolate. She has remained
on her estate in the country ever since, and has never shown any
desire to return to town, and revisit the scene of her early triumphs
and fatal malady. All her favourite recollections, however, revert to
that short period of her youthful beauty. She has no idea of town but
as it was at that time; and continually forgets that the place and
people must have changed materially in the course of nearly half a
century. She will often speak of the toasts of those days as if still
reigning; and, until very recently, used to talk with delight of the
royal family, and the beauty of the young princes and princesses. She
cannot be brought to think of the present king otherwise than as an
elegant young man, rather wild, but who danced a minuet divinely; and
before he came to the crown, would often mention him as the "sweet
young prince."
She talks also of the walks in Kensington Garden, where the gentlemen
appeared in gold-laced coats, and cocked hats, and the ladies in
hoops, and swept so proudly along the grassy avenues; and she thinks
the ladies let themselves sadly down in their dignity, when they gave
up cushioned head-dresses, and high-heeled shoes. She has much to say
too of the officers who were in the train of her admirers; and speaks
familiarly of many wild young blades, that are now, perhaps, hobbling
about watering-places with crutches and gouty shoes.
Whether the taste the good lady had of matrimony discouraged her or
not, I cannot say; but though her merits and her riches have attracted
many suitors, she has never been tempted to venture again into the
happy state. This is singular, too, for she seems of a most soft and
susceptible heart; is always talking of love and connubial felicity,
and is a great stickler for old-fashioned gallantry, devoted
attentions, and eternal constancy, on the part of the gentlemen. She
lives, however, after her own taste. Her house, I am told, must have
been built and furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison:
every thing about it is somewhat formal and stately; but has been
softened down into a degree of voluptuousness, characteristic of an
old lady, very tender-hearted and romantic, and that loves her ease.
The cushions of the great arm-chairs, and wide sofas, almost bury you
when you sit down on them. Flowers of the most rare and delicate kind
are placed about the rooms, and on little japanned stands; and sweet
bags lie about the tables and mantel-pieces. The house is full of pet
dogs, Angora cats, and singing birds, who are as carefully waited upon
as she is herself.
She is dainty in her living, and a little of an epicure, living on
white meats, and little lady-like dishes, though her servants have
substantial old English fare, as their looks bear witness. Indeed,
they are so indulged, that they are all spoiled; and when they lose
their present place, they will be fit for no other. Her ladyship is
one of those easy-tempered beings that are always doomed to be much
liked, but ill served by their domestics, and cheated by all the
world.
Much of her time is passed in reading novels, of which she has a most
extensive library, and has a constant supply from the publishers in
town. Her erudition in this line of literature is immense; she has
kept pace with the press for half a century. Her mind is stuffed with
love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours of the old books of
chivalry, down to the last blue-covered romance, reeking from the
press; though she evidently gives the preference to those that came
out in the days of her youth, and when she was first in love. She
maintains that there are no novels written now-a-days equal to Pamela
and Sir Charles Grandison; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the
head of all romances.
She does a vast deal of good in her neighbourhood, and is imposed upon
by every beggar in the county. She is the benefactress of a village
adjoining to her estate, and takes an especial interest in all its
love-affairs. She knows of every courtship that is going on; every
lovelorn damsel is sure to find a patient listener and a sage adviser
in her ladyship. She takes great pains to reconcile all love-quarrels,
and should any faithless swain persist in his inconstancy, he is sure
to draw on himself the good lady's violent indignation.
I have learned these particulars partly from Frank Bracebridge, and
partly from Master Simon. I am now able to account for the assiduous
attention of the latter to her ladyship. Her house is one of his
favourite resorts, where he is a very important personage. He makes
her a visit of business once a year, when he looks into all her
affairs; which, as she is no manager, are apt to get into confusion.
He examines the books of the overseer, and shoots about the estate,
which, he says, is well stocked with game, notwithstanding that it is
poached by all the vagabonds in the neighbourhood.
It is thought, as I before hinted, that the captain will inherit the
greater part of her property, having always been her chief favourite;
for, in fact, she is partial to a red coat. She has now come to the
Hall to be present at his nuptials, having a great disposition to
interest herself in all matters of love and matrimony.
THE LOVERS.
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away; for, lo, the winter
is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the
earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of
the turtle is heard in the land.
--SONG OF SOLOMON.
To a man who is a little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to boot; and
who, by dint of some experience in the follies of life, begins to look
with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and eke of woman; to such a
man, I say, there is something very entertaining in noticing the
conduct of a pair of young lovers. It may not be as grave and
scientific a study as the loves of the plants, but it is certainly as
interesting.
I have, therefore, derived much pleasure, since my arrival at the
Hall, from observing the fair Julia and her lover. She has all the
delightful, blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inexperienced
in coquetry, who has made her first conquest; while the captain
regards her with that mixture of fondness and exultation with which a
youthful lover is apt to contemplate so beauteous a prize.
I observed them yesterday in the garden, advancing along one of the
retired walks. The sun was shining with delicious warmth, making great
masses of bright verdure, and deep blue shade. The cuckoo, that
"harbinger of spring," was faintly heard from a distance; the thrush
piped from the hawthorn; and the yellow butterflies sported, and
toyed, and coquetted in the air.
The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, listening to his
conversation, with her eyes cast down, a soft blush on her cheek, and
a quiet smile on her lips, while in the hand that hung negligently by
her side was a bunch of flowers. In this way they were sauntering
slowly along; and when I considered them and the scene in which they
were moving, I could not but think it a thousand pities that the
season should ever change, or that young people should ever grow
older, or that blossoms should give way to fruit, or that lovers
should ever get married.
From what I have gathered of family anecdote, I understand that the
fair Julia is the daughter of a favourite college friend of the
Squire; who, after leaving Oxford, had entered the army, and served
for many years in India, where he was mortally wounded in a skirmish
with the natives. In his last moments he had, with a faltering pen,
recommended his wife and daughter to the kindness of his early friend.