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 farmhouse 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 any thing 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 springtime. 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 one 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.
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 purposed, 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 Peacham 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
a foundation for the accomplishment of his favorite 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 in 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 the 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.
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 great 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 pipings, 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 realized, and a
brood reared up, worthy successors to Robin Hood and his merry gang of
outlaws.
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 gossips. 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 fire-place, 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 beard, so
ill-shaven as to bloody his shirt-collar, 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 any thing 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 into small
farms and kitchen-gardens, or feed good mutton instead of worthless
deer.
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 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 old-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.
The only person that 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 to
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.
Whatever does not square with Jack's simple and obvious creed, he sets
down for "French politics;" for, notwithstanding the peace, he cannot
be persuaded that the French are not still laying plots to ruin the
nation, and to get hold of the Bank of England. The radical attempted
to overwhelm him, one day, by a long passage from a newspaper; but
Jack neither reads nor believes in newspapers. In reply, he gave him
one of the stanzas which he has by heart from his favourite, and
indeed only author, old Tusser, and which he calls his Golden Rules:
Leave princes' affairs undescanted on,
And tend to such doings as stand thee upon;
Fear God, and offend not the king nor his laws,
And keep thyself out of the magistrate's claws.
When Tibbets had pronounced this with great emphasis, he pulled out a
well-filled leathern purse, took out a handful of gold and
silver,--paid his score at the bar with great punctuality, returned
his money, piece by piece, into his purse, his purse into his pocket,
which he buttoned up; and then, giving his cudgel a stout thump upon
the floor, and bidding the radical "good-morning, sir!" with the tone
of a man who conceives he has completely done for his antagonist, he
walked with lion-like gravity out of the house. Two or three of Jack's
admirers who were present, and had been afraid to take the field
themselves, looked upon this as a perfect triumph, and winked at each
other when the radical's back was turned. "Ay, ay!" said mine host, as
soon as the radical was out of hearing, "let old Jack alone; I'll
warrant he'll give him his own!"
THE ROOKERY.
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud;
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
--COWPER.
In a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that crowns a terrace-walk just
on the skirts of the garden, is an ancient rookery, which is one of
the most important provinces in the Squire's rural domains. The old
gentleman sets great store by his rooks, and will not suffer one of
them to be killed: in consequence of which, they have increased
amazingly; the tree-tops are loaded with their nests; they have
encroached upon the great avenue, and have even established, in times
long past, a colony among the elms and pines of the church-yard,
which, like other distant colonies, has already thrown off allegiance
to the mother country.
The rooks are looked up by the Squire as a very ancient and honourable
line of gentry, highly aristocratical in their notions, fond of place,
and attached to church and state; as their building so loftily,
keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in the venerable groves of
old castles and manor-houses, sufficiently manifests. The good opinion
thus expressed by the Squire put me upon observing more narrowly these
very respectable birds, for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt to
confound them with their cousins-german the crows, to whom, at the
first glance, they bear so great a family resemblance. Nothing, it
seems, could be more unjust or injurious than such a mistake. The
rooks and crows are, among the feathered tribes, what the Spaniards
and Portuguese are among nations, the least loving, in consequence of
their neighbourhood and similarity. The rooks are old established
housekeepers, high-minded gentlefolk, that have had their hereditary
abodes time out of mind; but as to the poor crows, they are a kind of
vagabond, predatory, gipsy race, roving about the country without any
settled home; "their hands are against every body, and every body's
against them;" and they are gibbeted in every corn-field. Master Simon
assures me that a female rook, that should so far forget herself as to
consort with a crow, would inevitably be disinherited, and indeed
would he totally discarded by all her genteel acquaintance.
The Squire is very watchful over the interests and concerns of his
sable neighbours. As to Master Simon, he even pretends to know many of
them by sight, and to have given names to them; he points out several,
which he says are old heads of families, and compares them to worthy
old citizens, beforehand in the world, that wear cocked hats, and
silver buckles in their shoes. Notwithstanding the protecting
benevolence of the Squire, and their being residents in his empire,
they seem to acknowledge no allegiance, and to hold no intercourse or
intimacy. Their airy tenements are built almost out of the reach of
gun-shot; and, notwithstanding their vicinity to the Hall, they
maintain a most reserved and distrustful shyness of mankind.
There is one season of the year, however, which brings all birds in a
manner to a level, and tames the pride of the loftiest high-flyer--which
is the season of building their nests. This takes place early in the
spring, when the forest trees first begin to show their buds; the long,
withy ends of the branches to turn green; when the wild strawberry, and
other herbage of the sheltered woodlands, put forth their tender and
tinted leaves; and the daisy and the primrose peep from under the
hedges. At this time there is a general bustle among the feathered
tribes; an incessant fluttering about, and a cheerful chirping;
indicative, like the germination of the vegetable world, of the reviving
life and fecundity of the year.