prim, pragmatical old maid; one of the most intolerable and intolerant
virgins that ever lived. She has kept her virtue by her until it has
turned sour, and now every word and look smacks of verjuice. She is
the very opposite to her mistress, for one hates, and the other loves,
all mankind. How they first came together I cannot imagine; but they
have lived together for many years; and the abigail's temper being
tart and encroaching, and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the former
has got the complete upper hand, and tyrannizes over the good lady in
secret.
Lady Lillycraft now and then complains of it, in great confidence, to
her friends, but hushes up the subject immediately, if Mrs. Hannah
makes her appearance. Indeed, she has been so accustomed to be
attended by her, that she thinks she could not do without her; though
one great study of her life, is to keep Mrs. Hannah in good-humour, by
little presents and kindnesses.
Master Simon has a most devout abhorrence, mingled with awe, for this
ancient spinster. He told me the other day, in a whisper, that she was
a cursed brimstone--in fact, he added another epithet, which I would
not repeat for the world. I have remarked, however, that he is always
extremely civil to her when they meet.
READY-MONEY JACK.
My purse, it is my privy wyfe,
This song I dare both syng and say,
It keepeth men from grievous stryfe
When every man for himself shall pay.
As I ryde in ryche array
For gold and silver men wyll me floryshe;
But thys matter I dare well saye,
Every gramercy myne own purse.
--_Book of Hunting_.
On the skirts of the neighbouring village, there lives a kind of small
potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representative of one of the
most ancient legitimate lines of the present day; for the empire over
which he reigns has belonged to his family time out of mind. His
territories comprise a considerable number of good fat acres; and his
seat of power is in an old farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested, the
stout oaken chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom I allude is a
sturdy old yeoman of the name of John Tibbets, or rather, Ready-Money
Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout the neighbourhood.
The first place where he attracted my attention was in the church-yard
on Sunday; where he sat on a tombstone after the service, with his hat
a little on one side, holding forth to a small circle of auditors;
and, as I presumed, expounding the law and the prophets; until, on
drawing a little nearer, I found he was only expatiating on the merits
of a brown horse. He presented so faithful a picture of a substantial
English yeoman, such as he is often described in books, heightened,
indeed, by some little finery, peculiar to himself, that I could not
but take note of his whole appearance.
He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong, muscular frame, and at
least six feet high, with a physiognomy as grave as a lion's, and set
off with short, curling, iron-gray locks. His shirt-collar was turned
down, and displayed a neck covered with the same short, curling, gray
hair; and he wore a coloured silk neckcloth, tied very loosely, and
tucked in at the bosom, with a green paste brooch on the knot. His
coat was of dark green cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which
was engraved a stag, with his own name, John Tibbets, underneath. He
had an inner waistcoat of figured chintz, between which and his coat
was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His breeches were also left
unbuttoned at the knees, not from any slovenliness, but to show a
broad pair of scarlet garters. His stockings were blue, with white
clocks; he wore large silver shoe-buckles; a broad paste buckle in his
hatband; his sleeve-buttons were gold seven-shilling pieces; and he
had two or three guineas hanging as ornaments to his watch-chain.
On making some inquiries about him, I gathered that he was descended
from a line of farmers, that had always lived on the same spot, and
owned the same property; and that half of the church-yard was taken up
with the tombstones of his race. He has all his life been an important
character in the place. When a youngster, he was one of the most
roaring blades of the neighbourhood. No one could match him at
wrestling, pitching the bar, cudgel play, and other athletic
exercises. Like the renowned Pinner of Wakefield, he was the village
champion; carried off the prize at all the fairs, and threw his
gauntlet at the country round. Even to this day, the old people talk
of his prowess, and undervalue, in comparison, all heroes of the green
that have succeeded him; nay, they say, that if Ready-Money Jack were
to take the field even now, there is no one could stand before him.
When Jack's father died, the neighbours shook their heads, and
predicted that young hopeful would soon make way with the old
homestead; but Jack falsified all their predictions. The moment he
succeeded to the paternal farm, he assumed a new character; took a
wife; attended resolutely to his affairs, and became an industrious,
thrifty farmer. With the family property, he inherited a set of old
family maxims, to which he steadily adhered. He saw to everything
himself; put his own hand to the plough; worked hard; ate heartily;
slept soundly; paid for every thing in cash down; and never danced,
except he could do it to the music of his own money in both pockets.
He has never been without a hundred or two pounds in gold by him, and
never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has gained him his current
name, of which, by the by, he is a little proud; and has caused him to
be looked upon as a very wealthy man by all the village.
Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he has never denied himself the
amusements of life, but has taken a share in every passing pleasure.
It is his maxim that "he that works hard can afford to play." He is,
therefore, an attendant at all the country fairs and wakes, and has
signalized himself by feats of strength and prowess on every village
green in the shire. He often makes his appearance at horse-races, and
sports his half guinea, and even his guinea at a time; keeps a good
horse for his own riding, and to this day is fond of following the
hounds, and is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic
revels, and hospitalities too, for which his paternal farm-house has
always been noted; has plenty of good cheer and dancing at
harvest-home, and, above all, keeps the "merry night,"[2] as it is
termed, at Christmas. With all his love of amusement, however, Jack is
by no means a boisterous, jovial companion. He is seldom known to
laugh even in the midst of his gayety; but maintains the same grave,
lion-like demeanour. He is very slow at comprehending a joke; and is
apt to sit puzzling at it with a perplexed look, while the rest of the
company is in a roar. This gravity has, perhaps, grown on him with the
growing weight of his character; for he is gradually rising into
patriarchal dignity in his native place. Though he no longer takes an
active part in athletic sports, yet he always presides at them, and is
appealed to on all occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace on the
village green at holiday games, and quells all brawls and quarrels by
collaring the parties and shaking them heartily, if refractory. No one
ever pretends to raise a hand against him, or to contend against his
decisions; the young men having grown up in habitual awe of his
prowess, and in implicit deference to him as the champion and lord of
the green.
[Footnote 2: MERRY NIGHT--a rustic merry-making in a farm-house about
Christmas, common in some parts of Yorkshire. There is abundance of
homely fare, tea, cakes, fruit, and ale; various feats of agility,
amusing games, romping, dancing, and kissing withal. They commonly
break up at midnight.]
He is a regular frequenter of the village inn, the landlady having
been a sweetheart of his in early life, and he having always continued
on kind terms with her. He seldom, however, drinks any thing but a
draught of ale; smokes his pipe, and pays his reckoning before leaving
the tap-room. Here he "gives his little senate laws;" decides bets,
which are very generally referred to him; determines upon the
characters and qualities of horses; and, indeed, plays now and then
the part of a judge in settling petty disputes between neighbours,
which otherwise might have been nursed by country attorneys into
tolerable law-suits. Jack is very candid and impartial in his
decisions, but he has not a head to carry a long argument, and is very
apt to get perplexed and out of patience if there is much pleading. He
generally breaks through the argument with a strong voice, and brings
matters to a summary conclusion, by pronouncing what he calls the
"upshot of the business," or, in other words, "the long and the short
of the matter."
Jack once made a journey to London, a great many years since, which
has furnished him with topics of conversation ever since. He saw the
old king on the terrace at Windsor, who stopped, and pointed him out
to one of the princesses, being probably struck with Jack's truly
yeoman-like appearance. This is a favourite anecdote with him, and has
no doubt had a great effect in making him a most loyal subject ever
since, in spite of taxes and poors' rates. He was also at Bartholomew
fair, where he had half the buttons cut off his coat; and a gang of
pick-pockets, attracted by his external show of gold and silver, made
a regular attempt to hustle him as he was gazing at a show; but for
once they found that they had caught a tartar; for Jack enacted as
great wonders among the gang as Samson did among the Philistines. One
of his neighbours, who had accompanied him to town, and was with him
at the fair, brought back an account of his exploits, which raised the
pride of the whole village; who considered their champion as having
subdued all London, and eclipsed the achievements of Friar Tuck, or
even the renowned Robin Hood himself.
Of late years, the old fellow has begun to take the world easily; he
works less, and indulges in greater leisure, his son having grown up,
and succeeded to him both in the labours of the farm, and the exploits
of the green. Like all sons of distinguished men, however, his
father's renown is a disadvantage to him, for he can never come up to
public expectation. Though a fine active fellow of three-and-twenty,
and quite the "cock of the walk," yet the old people declare he is
nothing like what Ready-Money Jack was at his time of life. The
youngster himself acknowledges his inferiority, and has a wonderful
opinion of the old man, who indeed taught him all his athletic
accomplishments, and holds such a sway over him, that I am told, even
to this day, he would have no hesitation to take him in hands, if he
rebelled against paternal government.
The Squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and shows him to all his
visitors, as a specimen of old English "heart of oak." He frequently
calls at his house, and tastes some of his homebrewed, which is
excellent. He made Jack a present of old Tusser's "Hundred Points of
good Husbandrie," which has furnished him with reading ever since, and
is his text-book, and manual in all agricultural and domestic
concerns. He has made dog's ears at the most favourite passages, and
knows many of the poetical maxims by heart.
Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or flattered by high
acquaintances; and though he cherishes a sturdy independence of mind
and manner, yet is evidently gratified by the attentions of the
Squire, whom he has known from boyhood, and pronounces "a true
gentleman every inch of him." He is also on excellent terms with
Master Simon, who is a kind of privy counsellor to the family; but his
great favourite is the Oxonian, whom he taught to wrestle and play at
quarter-staff when a boy, and considers the most promising young
gentleman in the whole country.
BACHELORS.
The Bachelor most joyfully
In pleasant plight doth pass his dales,
Good fellowship and companie
He doth maintain and keep alwaies.
--EVEN'S _Old Ballads_.
There is no character in the comedy of human life that is more
difficult to play well, than that of an old Bachelor. When a single
gentleman, therefore, arrives at that critical period when he begins
to consider it an impertinent question to be asked his age, I would
advise him, to look well to his ways. This period, it is true, is much
later with some men than with others; I have witnessed more than once
the meeting of two wrinkled old lads of this kind, who had not seen
each other for several years, and have been amused by the amicable
exchange of compliments on each other's appearance, that takes place
on such occasions. There is always one invariable observation: "Why,
bless my soul! you look younger than when I last saw you!" Whenever a
man's friends begin to compliment him about looking young, he may be
sure that they think he is growing old.
I am led to make these remarks by the conduct of Master Simon and the
general, who have become great cronies. As the former is the younger
by many years, he is regarded as quite a youthful blade by the
general, who moreover looks upon him as a man of great wit and
prodigious acquirements. I have already hinted that Master Simon is a
family beau, and considered rather a young fellow by all the elderly
ladies of the connexion; for an old bachelor, in an old family
connexion, is something like an actor in a regular dramatic corps, who
seems to "flourish in immortal youth," and will continue to play the
Romeos and Rangers for half a century together.
Master Simon, too, is a little of the chameleon, and takes a different
hue with every different companion: he is very attentive and
officious, and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lillycraft; copies out
little namby-pamby ditties and love-songs for her, and draws quivers,
and doves, and darts, and Cupids, to be worked on the corners of her
pocket-handkerchiefs. He indulges, however, in very considerable
latitude with the other married ladies of the family; and has many sly
pleasantries to whisper to them, that provoke an equivocal laugh and a
tap of the fan. But when he gets among young company, such as Frank
Bracebridge, the Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to put on the mad
wag, and to talk in a very bachelor-like strain about the sex.
In this he has been encouraged by the example of the general, whom he
looks up to as a man who has seen the world. The general, in fact,
tells shocking stories after dinner, when the ladies have retired,
which he gives as some of the choice things that are served up at the
Mulligatawney club; a knot of boon companions in London. He also
repeats the fat jokes of old Major Pendergast, the wit of the club,
and which, though the general can hardly repeat them for laughing,
always make Mr. Bracebridge look grave, he having a great antipathy to
an indecent jest. In a word, the general is a complete instance of the
declension in gay life, by which a young man of pleasure is apt to
cool down into an obscene old gentleman.
I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two since, conversing with a
buxom milkmaid in a meadow; and from their elbowing each other now and
then, and the general's shaking his shoulders, blowing up his cheeks,
and breaking out into a short fit of irrepressible laughter, I had no
doubt they were playing the mischief with the girl.
As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but think they would
have made a tolerable group for a modern picture of Susannah and the
two elders. It is true, the girl seemed in nowise alarmed at the force
of the enemy; and I question, had either of them been alone, whether
she would not have been more than they would have ventured to
encounter. Such veteran roysters are daring wags when together, and
will put any female to the blush with their jokes; but they are as
quiet as lambs when they fall singly into the clutches of a fine
woman.
In spite of the general's years, he evidently is a little vain of his
person, and ambitious of conquests. I have observed him on Sunday in
church, eyeing the country girls most suspiciously; and have seen him
leer upon them with a downright amorous look, even when he has been
gallanting Lady Lillycraft, with great ceremony, through the
church-yard. The general, in fact, is a veteran in the service of
Cupid, rather than of Mars, having signalized himself in all the
garrison towns and country quarters, and seen service in every
ball-room of England. Not a celebrated beauty but he has laid siege
to; and if his word may be taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to
be over-veracious, it is incredible the success he has had with the
fair. At present he is like a worn-out warrior, retired from service;
but who still cocks his beaver with a military air, and talks stoutly
of fighting whenever he comes within the smell of gunpowder.
I have heard him speak his mind very freely over his bottle, about the
folly of the captain in taking a wife; as he thinks a young soldier
should care for nothing but his "bottle and kind landlady." But, in
fact, he says the service on the continent has had a sad effect upon
the young men; they have been ruined by light wines and French
quadrilles. "They've nothing," he says, "of the spirit of the old
service. There are none of your six-bottle men left, that were the
souls of a mess dinner, and used to play the very deuce among the
women."
As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a free and easy man,
with no baggage to take care of but his portmanteau; but a married
man, with his wife hanging on his arm, always puts him in mind of a
chamber candlestick, with its extinguisher hitched to it. I should hot
mind all this, if it were merely confined to the general; but I fear
he will be the ruin of my friend, Master Simon, who already begins to
echo his heresies, and to talk in the style of a gentleman that has
seen life, and lived upon the town. Indeed, the general seems to have
taken Master Simon in hand, and talks of showing him the lions when he
comes to town, and of introducing him to a knot of choice spirits at
the Mulligatawney club; which, I understand, is composed of old
nabobs, officers in the Company's employ, and other "men of Ind," that
have seen service in the East, and returned home burnt out with curry,
and touched with the liver complaint. They have their regular club,
where they eat Mulligatawney soup, smoke the hookah, talk about Tippoo
Saib, Seringapatam, and tiger-hunting; and are tediously agreeable in
each other's company.
WIVES.
Believe me, man, there is no greater blisse
Than is the quiet joy of loving wife;
Which whoso wants, half of himselfe doth misse.
Friend without change, playfellow without strife,
Food without fulnesse, counsaile without pride,
Is this sweet doubling of our single life.
--SIR P. SIDNEY.
There is so much talk about matrimony going on around me, in
consequence of the approaching event for which we are assembled at the
Hall, that I confess I find my thoughts singularly exercised on the
subject. Indeed, all the bachelors of the establishment seem to be
passing through a kind of fiery ordeal; for Lady Lillycraft is one of
those tender, romance-read dames of the old school, whose mind is
filled with flames and darts, and who breathe nothing but constancy
and wedlock. She is for ever immersed in the concerns of the heart;
and, to use a poetical phrase, is perfectly surrounded by "the purple
light of love." The very general seems to feel the influence of this
sentimental atmosphere; to melt as he approaches her ladyship, and,
for the time, to forget all his heresies about matrimony and the sex.
The good lady is generally surrounded by little documents of her
prevalent taste; novels of a tender nature; richly bound little books
of poetry, that are filled with sonnets and love tales, and perfumed
with rose-leaves; and she has always an album at hand, for which she
claims the contributions of all her friends. On looking over this last
repository, the other day, I found a series of poetical extracts, in
the Squire's handwriting, which might have been intended as
matrimonial hints to his ward. I was so much struck with several of
them, that I took the liberty of copying them out. They are from the
old play of Thomas Davenport, published in 1661, entitled "The City
Night-Cap;" in which is drawn out and exemplified, in the part of
Abstemia, the character of a patient and faithful wife, which, I
think, might vie with that of the renowned Griselda.
I have often thought it a pity that plays and novels should always end
at the wedding, and should not give us another act, and another
volume, to let us know how the hero and heroine conducted themselves
when married. Their main object seems to be merely to instruct young
ladies how to get husbands, but not how to keep them: now this last, I
speak it with all due diffidence, appears to me to be a desideratum in
modern married life. It is appalling to those who have not yet
adventured into the holy state, to see how soon the flame of romantic
love burns out, or rather is quenched in matrimony; and how deplorably
the passionate, poetic lover declines into the phlegmatic, prosaic
husband. I am inclined to attribute this very much to the defect just
mentioned in the plays and novels, which form so important a branch of
study of our young ladies; and which teach them how to be heroines,
but leave them totally at a loss when they come to be wives. The play
from which the quotations before me were made, however, is an
exception to this remark; and I cannot refuse myself the pleasure of
adducing some of them for the benefit of the reader, and for the
honour of an old writer, who has bravely attempted to awaken dramatic
interest in favour of a woman, even after she was married!
The following is a commendation of Abstemia to her husband Lorenzo:
She's modest, but not sullen, and loves silence;
Not that she wants apt words, (for when she speaks,
She inflames love with wonder,) but because
She calls wise silence the soul's harmony.
She's truly chaste; yet such a foe to coyness,
The poorest call her courteous; and which is excellent,
(Though fair and young) she shuns to expose herself
To the opinion of strange eyes. She either seldom
Or never walks abroad but in your company.
And then with such sweet bashfulness, as if
She were venturing on crack'd ice, and takes delight
To step into the print your foot hath made,
And will follow you whole fields; so she will drive
Tediousness out of time, with her sweet character.
Notwithstanding all this excellence, Abstemia has the misfortune to
incur the unmerited jealousy of her husband. Instead, however, of
resenting his harsh treatment with clamorous upbraidings, and with the
stormy violence of high, windy virtue, by which the sparks of anger
are so often blown into a flame, she endures it with the meekness of
conscious, but patient, virtue; and makes the following beautiful
appeal to a friend who has witnessed her long suffering:
------Hast thou not seen me
Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers
The angry bark to plough through her bosom,
And yet is presently so smooth, the eye
Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made?
Lorenzo, being wrought on by false representations, at length
repudiates her. To the last, however, she maintains her patient
sweetness, and her love for him, in spite of his cruelty. She deplores
his error, even more than his unkindness; and laments the delusion
which has turned his very affection into a source of bitterness. There
is a moving pathos in her parting address to Lorenzo, after their
divorce:
------Farewell, Lorenzo,
Whom my soul doth love: if you e'er marry,
May you meet a good wife; so good, that you
May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy
Of your suspicion; and if you hear hereafter
That I am dead, inquire but my last words,
And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you.
And when you walk forth with your second choice
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me,
Imagine that you see me, lean and pale,
Strewing your path with flowers.--
But may she never live to pay my debts: (_weeps_)
If but in thought she wrong you, may she die
In the conception of the injury.
Pray make me wealthy with one kiss: farewell, sir:
Let it not grieve you when you shall remember
That I was innocent: nor this forget,
Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan,
She walks but thorow thorns to find a throne.
In a short time Lorenzo discovers his error, and the innocence of his
injured wife. In the transports of his repentance, he calls to mind
all her feminine excellence; her gentle, uncomplaining, womanly
fortitude under wrongs and sorrows: