and lofty habits. Instead of keeping up in the high regions of the
air, swinging on the breezy tree-tops, and looking down with sovereign
contempt upon the humble crawlers upon earth, they are fain to throw
off for a time the dignity of the gentleman, to come down to the
ground, and put on the pains-taking and industrious character of a
labourer. They now lose their natural shyness, become fearless and
familiar, and may be seen plying about in all directions, with an air
of great assiduity, in search of building materials. Every now and
then your path will be crossed by one of these busy old gentlemen,
worrying about with awkward gait, as if troubled with the gout, or
with corns on his toes, casting about many a prying look, turning down
first one eye, then the other, in earnest consideration, upon every
straw he meets with; until, espying some mighty twig, large enough to
make a rafter for his air-castle, he will seize upon it with avidity,
and hurry away with it to the tree-top; fearing, apparently, lest you
should dispute with him the invaluable prize.
Like other castle-builders, these airy architects seem rather fanciful
in the materials with which they build, and to like those most which
come from a distance. Thus, though there are abundance of dry twigs on
the surrounding trees, yet they never think of making use of them, but
go foraging in distant lands, and come sailing home, one by one, from
the ends of the earth, each bearing in his bill some precious piece of
timber.
Nor must I avoid mentioning what, I grieve to say, rather derogates
from the grave and honourable character of these ancient gentlefolk;
that, during the architectural season, they are subject to great
dissensions among themselves; that they make no scruple to defraud and
plunder each other; and that sometimes the rookery is a scene of
hideous brawl and commotion, in consequence of some delinquency of the
kind. One of the partners generally remains on the nest, to guard it
from depredation, and I have seen severe contests, when some sly
neighbour has endeavoured to filch away a tempting rafter that has
captivated his eye. As I am not willing to admit any suspicion
hastily, that should throw a stigma on the general character of so
worshipful a people, I am inclined to think that these larcenies are
very much discountenanced by the higher classes, and even rigorously
punished by those in authority; for I have now and then seen a whole
gang of rooks fall upon the nest of some individual, pull it all to
pieces, carry off the spoils, and even buffet the luckless proprietor.
I have concluded this to be some signal punishment inflicted upon him,
by the officers of the police, for some pilfering misdemeanour; or,
perhaps, that it was a crew of bailiffs carrying an execution into his
house.
I have been amused with another of their movements during the building
season. The steward has suffered a considerable number of sheep to
graze on a lawn near the house, somewhat to the annoyance of the
Squire, who thinks this an innovation on the dignity of a park, which
ought to be devoted to deer only. Be this as it may, there is a green
knoll, not far from the drawing-room window, where the ewes and lambs
are accustomed to assemble towards evening, for the benefit of the
setting sun. No sooner were they gathered here, at the time when these
politic birds were building, than a stately old rook, who Master Simon
assured me was the chief magistrate of this community, would settle
down upon the head of one of the ewes, who, seeming conscious of this
condescension, would desist from grazing, and stand fixed in
motionless reverence of her august burthen; the rest of the rookery
would then come wheeling down, in imitation of their leader, until
every ewe had two or three of them cawing, and fluttering, and
battling upon her back. Whether they requited the submission of the
sheep, by levying a contribution upon their fleece for the benefit of
the rookery, I am not certain; though I presume they followed the
usual custom of protecting powers.
The latter part of May is the time of great tribulation among the
rookeries, when the young are just able to leave their nests, and
balance themselves on the neighbouring branches. Now comes on the
season of "rook shooting;" a terrible slaughter of the innocents. The
Squire, of course, prohibits all invasion of the kind on his
territories; but I am told that a lamentable havoc takes place in the
colony about the old church. Upon this devoted commonwealth the
village charges "with all its chivalry." Every idle wight that is
lucky enough to possess an old gun or blunderbuss, together with all
the archery of Slingsby's school, take the field on the occasion. In
vain does the little parson interfere, or remonstrate, in angry tones
from his study window that looks into the churchyard; there is a
continual popping, from morning till night. Being no great marksmen,
their shots are not often effective; but every now and then, a great
shout from the besieging army of bumpkins makes known the downfall of
some unlucky squab rook, which comes to the ground with the emphasis
of a squashed apple-dumpling.
Nor is the rookery entirely free from other troubles and disasters. In
so aristocratical and lofty-minded a community, which boasts so much
ancient blood and hereditary pride, it is natural to suppose that
questions of etiquette will sometimes arise and affairs of honour
ensue. In fact, this is very often the case; bitter quarrels break out
between individuals, which produce sad scufflings on tree-tops, and I
have more than once seen a regular duel take place between two doughty
heroes of the rookery. Their field of battle is generally the air; and
their contest is managed in the most scientific and elegant manner;
wheeling round and round each other, and towering higher and higher,
to get the vantage-ground, until they sometimes disappear in the
clouds before the combat is determined.
They have also fierce combats now and then with an invading hawk, and
will drive him off from their territories by a _posse comitatus_. They
are also extremely tenacious of their domains, and will suffer no
other bird to inhabit the grove or its vicinity. There was a very
ancient and respectable old bachelor owl, that had long had his
lodgings in a corner of the grove, but has been fairly ejected by the
rooks; and has retired, disgusted with the world, to a neighbouring
wood, where he leads the life of a hermit, and makes nightly
complaints of his ill-treatment.
The hootings of this unhappy gentleman may generally be heard in the
still evenings, when the rooks are all at rest; and I have often
listened to them of a moonlight night with a kind of mysterious
gratification. This gray-bearded misanthrope, of course, is highly
respected by the Squire; but the servants have superstitious notions
about him, and it would be difficult to get the dairy-maid to venture
after dark near to the wood which he inhabits.
Beside the private quarrels of the rooks, there are other misfortunes
to which they are liable, and which often bring distress into the most
respectable families of the rookery. Having the true baronial spirit
of the good old feudal times, they are apt now and then to issue forth
from their castles on a foray, and to lay the plebeian fields of the
neighbouring country under contribution; in the course of which
chivalrous expeditions, they now and then get a shot from the rusty
artillery of some refractory farmer. Occasionally, too, while they are
quietly taking the air beyond the park boundaries, they have the
incaution to come within the reach of the truant bowman of Slingsby's
school, and receive a flight shot from some unlucky urchin's arrow. In
such case, the wounded adventurer will sometimes have just strength
enough to bring himself home, and, giving up the ghost at the rookery,
will hang dangling "all abroad" on a bough, like a thief on a
gibbet--an awful warning to his friends, and an object of great
commiseration to the Squire.
But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks have, upon the
whole, a happy holiday life of it. When their young are reared and
fairly launched upon their native element, the air, the cares of the
old folks seem over, and they resume all their aristocratical dignity
and idleness. I have envied them the enjoyment which they appear to
have in their ethereal heights, sporting with clamorous exultation
about their lofty bowers; sometimes hovering over them, sometimes
partially alighting upon the topmost branches, and there balancing
with outstretched wings and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes they
seem to take a fashionable drive to the church and amuse themselves by
circling in airy rings about its spire; at other times a mere garrison
is left at home to mount guard in their stronghold at the grove, while
the rest roam abroad to enjoy the fine weather. About sunset the
garrison gives notice of their return; their faint cawing will be
heard from a great distance, and they will be seen far off like a
sable cloud, and then nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring
home. Then they perform several grand circuits in the air over the
Hall and garden, wheeling closer and closer until they gradually
settle down, when a prodigious cawing takes place, as though they were
relating their day's adventures.
I like at such times to walk about these dusky groves, and hear the
various sounds of these airy people roosted so high above me. As the
gloom increases, their conversation subsides, and they seem to be
gradually dropping asleep; but every now and then there is a querulous
note, as if some one was quarrelling for a pillow, or a little more of
the blanket. It is late in the evening before they completely sink to
repose, and then their old anchorite neighbour, the owl, begins his
lonely hooting from his bachelor's-hall in the wood.
MAY-DAY.
It is the choice time of the year,
For the violets now appear;
Now the rose receives its birth,
And pretty primrose decks the earth.
Then to the May-pole come away,
For it is now a holiday.
--_Acteon and Diana_.
As I was lying in bed this morning, enjoying one of those half dreams,
half reveries, which are so pleasant in the country, when the birds
are singing about the window, and the sunbeams peeping through the
curtains, I was roused by the sound of music. On going down-stairs I
found a number of villagers, dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing
a pole ornamented with garlands and ribands, and accompanied by the
village band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale
fellow who plays on the clarionet. They had all sprigs of hawthorn,
or, as it is called, "the May," in their hats, and had brought green
branches and flowers to decorate the Hall door and windows. They had
come to give notice that the May-pole was reared on the green, and to
invite the household to witness the sports. The Hall, according to
custom, became a scene of hurry and delighted confusion. The servants
were all agog with May and music; and there was no keeping either the
tongues or the feet of the maids quiet, who were anticipating the
sports of the green and the evening dance.
I repaired to the village at an early hour, to enjoy the merrymaking.
The morning was pure and sunny, such as a May morning is always
described. The fields were white with daisies, the hawthorn was
covered with its fragrant blossoms, the bee hummed about every bank,
and the swallow played high in the air about the village steeple. It
was one of those genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure with the
very air we breathe, and to feel happy we know not why. Whoever has
felt the worth of worthy man, or has doted on lovely woman, will, on
such a day, call them tenderly to mind, and feel his heart all alive
with long-buried recollections. "For thenne," says the excellent
romance of King Arthur, "lovers call ageyne to their mynde old
gentilnes and old servyse, and many kind dedes that were forgotten by
neglygence."
Before reaching the village, I saw the May-pole towering above the
cottages with its gay garlands and streamers, and heard the sound of
music. I found that there had been booths set up near it, for the
reception of company; and a bower of green branches and flowers for
the Queen of May, a fresh, rosy-cheeked girl of the village.
A band of morris-dancers were capering on the green in their fantastic
dresses, jingling with hawks' bells, with a boy dressed up as Maid
Marian, and the attendant fool rattling his box to collect
contributions from the bystanders. The gipsy-women too were already
plying their mystery in by-corners of the village, reading the hands
of the simple country girls, and no doubt promising them all good
husbands and tribes of children.
The Squire made his appearance in the course of the morning, attended
by the parson, and was received with loud acclamations. He mingled
among the country people throughout the day, giving and receiving
pleasure wherever he went. The amusements of the day were under the
management of Slingsby, the schoolmaster, who is not merely lord of
misrule in his school, but master of the revels to the village. He was
bustling about, with the perplexed and anxious air of a man who has
the oppressive burthen of promoting other people's merriment upon his
mind. He had involved himself in a dozen scrapes, in consequence of a
politic intrigue, which, by-the-by, Master Simon and the Oxonian were
at the bottom of, which had for object the election of the Queen of
May. He had met with violent opposition from a faction of
ale-drinkers, who were in favour of a bouncing bar-maid, the daughter
of the innkeeper; but he had been too strongly backed not to carry his
point, though it shows that these rural crowns, like all others, are
objects of great ambition and heart-burning. I am told that Master
Simon takes great interest, though in an Underhand way, in the
election of these May-day Queens, and that the chaplet is generally
secured for some rustic beauty that has found favour in his eyes.
In the course of the day, there were various games of strength and
agility on the green, at which a knot of village veterans presided, as
judges of the lists. Among these I perceived that Ready-Money Jack
took the lead, looking with a learned and critical eye on the merits
of the different candidates; and, though he was very laconic, and
sometimes merely expressed himself by a nod, yet it was evident that
his opinions far outweighed those of the most loquacious.
Young Jack Tibbets was the hero of the day, and carried off most of
the prizes, though in some of the feats of agility he was rivalled by
the "prodigal son," who appeared much in his element on this occasion;
but his most formidable competitor was the notorious gipsy, the
redoubtable "Starlight Tom." I was rejoiced at having an opportunity
of seeing this "minion of the moon" in broad daylight. I found him a
tall, swarthy, good-looking fellow, with a lofty air, something like
what I have seen in an Indian chieftain; and with a certain lounging,
easy, and almost graceful carriage, which I have often remarked in
beings of the lazzaroni order, that lead an idle loitering life, and
have a gentlemanlike contempt of labour.
Master Simon and the old general reconnoitred the ground together, and
indulged a vast deal of harmless raking among the buxom country girls.
Master Simon would give some of them a kiss on meeting with them, and
would ask after their sisters, for he is acquainted with most of the
farmers' families. Sometimes he would whisper, and affect to talk
mischievously with them, and, if bantered on the subject, would turn
it off with a laugh, though it was evident he liked to be suspected of
being a gay Lothario amongst them.
He had much to say to the farmers about their farms; and seemed to
know all their horses by name. There was an old fellow, with round
ruddy face, and a night-cap under his hat, the village wit, who took
several occasions to crack a joke with him in the hearing of his
companions, to whom he would turn and wink hard when Master Simon had
passed.
The harmony of the day, however, had nearly, at one time, been
interrupted by the appearance of the radical on the ground, with two
or three of his disciples. He soon got engaged in argument in the very
thick of the throng, above which I could hear his voice, and now and
then see his meagre hand, half a mile out of the sleeve, elevated in
the air in violent gesticulation, and flourishing a pamphlet by way of
truncheon. He was decrying these idle nonsensical amusements in time
of public distress, when it was every one's business to think of other
matters, and to be miserable. The honest village logicians could make
no stand against him, especially as he was seconded by his proselytes;
when, to their great joy, Master Simon and the general came drifting
down into the field of action. I saw that Master Simon was for making
off, as soon as he found himself in the neighbourhood of this
fire-ship; but the general was too loyal to suffer such talk in his
hearing, and thought, no doubt, that a look and a word from a
gentleman would be sufficient to shut up so shabby an orator. The
latter, however, was no respecter of persons, but rather seemed to
exult in having such important antagonists. He talked with greater
volubility than ever, and soon drowned them in declamation on the
subject of taxes, poor's rates, and the national debt. Master Simon
endeavoured to brush along in his usual excursive manner, which had
always answered amazingly well with the villagers; but the radical was
one of those pestilent fellows that pin a man down to facts; and,
indeed, he had two or three pamphlets in his pocket, to support every
thing he advanced by printed documents. The general, too, found
himself betrayed into a more serious action than his dignity could
brook; and looked like a mighty Dutch Indiaman, grievously peppered by
a petty privateer. It was in vain that he swelled and looked big, and
talked large, and endeavoured to make up by pomp of manner for poverty
of matter; every home-thrust of the radical made him wheeze like a
bellows, and seemed to let a volume of wind out of him.
In a word, the two worthies from the Hall were completely dumbfounded,
and this too in the presence of several of Master Simon's staunch
admirers, who had always looked up to him as infallible. I do not know
how he and the general would have managed to draw their forces
decently from the field, had there not been a match at grinning
through a horse-collar announced, whereupon the radical retired with
great expression of contempt, and, as soon as his back was turned, the
argument was carried against him all hollow.
"Did you ever hear such a pack of stuff, general?" said Master Simon;
"there's no talking with one of these chaps, when he once gets that
confounded Cobbett in his head."
"S'blood, sir!" said the general, wiping his forehead, "such fellows
ought all to be transported."
In the latter part of the day, the ladies from the Hall paid a visit
to the green. The fair Julia made her appearance leaning on her
lover's arm, and looking extremely pale and interesting. As she is a
great favourite in the village, where she has been known from
childhood; and as her late accident had been much talked about, the
sight of her caused very manifest delight, and some of the old women
of the village blessed her sweet face as she passed.
While they were walking about, I noticed the schoolmaster in earnest
conversation with the young girl that represented the Queen of May,
evidently endeavouring to spirit her up to some formidable
undertaking. At length, as the party from the Hall approached her
bower, she came forth, faltering at every step, until she reached the
spot where the fair Julia stood between her lover and Lady Lillycraft.
The little Queen then took the chaplet of flowers from her head, and
attempted to put it on that of the bride elect; but the confusion of
both was so great, that the wreath would have fallen to the ground,
had not the officer caught it, and, laughing, placed it upon the
blushing brows of his mistress. There was something charming in the
very embarrassment of these two young creatures, both so beautiful,
yet so different in their kinds of beauty. Master Simon told me,
afterwards, that the Queen of May was to have spoken a few verses
which the schoolmaster had written for her; but that she had neither
wit to understand, nor memory to recollect them. "Besides," added he,
"between you and I, she murders the king's English abominably; so she
has acted the part of a wise woman, in holding her tongue, and
trusting to her pretty face."
Among the other characters from the Hall was Mrs. Hannah, my Lady
Lillycraft's gentlewoman; to my surprise, she was escorted by old
Christy, the huntsman, and followed by his ghost of a grayhound; but I
find they are very old acquaintances, being drawn together by some
sympathy of disposition. Mrs. Hannah moved about with starched dignity
among the rustics, who drew back from her with more awe than they did
from her mistress. Her mouth seemed shut as with a clasp; excepting
that I now and then heard the word "fellows!" escape from between her
lips, as she got accidentally jostled in the crowd.
But there was one other heart present that did not enter into the
merriment of the scene, which was that of the simple Phoebe Wilkins,
the housekeeper's niece. The poor girl has continued to pine and whine
for some time past, in consequence of the obstinate coldness of her
lover; never was a little flirtation more severely punished. She
appeared this day on the green, gallanted by a smart servant out of
livery, and had evidently resolved to try the hazardous experiment of
awakening the jealousy of her lover. She was dressed in her very best;
affected an air of great gayety; talked loud and girlishly, and
laughed when there was nothing to laugh at. There was, however, an
aching, heavy heart in the poor baggage's bosom, in spite of all her
levity. Her eye turned every now and then in quest of her reckless
lover, and her cheek grew pale, and her fictitious gayety vanished, on
seeing him paying his rustic homage to the little May-day Queen.
My attention was now diverted by a fresh stir and bustle. Music was
heard from a distance; a banner was seen advancing up the road,
preceded by a rustic band playing something like a march, and followed
by a sturdy throng of country lads, the chivalry of a neighbouring and
rival village.
No sooner had they reached the green, than they challenged the heroes
of the day to new trials of strength and activity. Several gymnastic
contests ensued, for the honour of the respective villages. In the
course of these exercises, young Tibbets and the champion of the
adverse party had an obstinate match at wrestling. They tugged, and
strained, and panted, without either getting the mastery, until both
came to the ground, and rolled upon the green. Just then, the
disconsolate Phoebe came by. She saw her recreant lover in fierce
contest, as she thought, and in danger. In a moment pride, pique, and
coquetry, were forgotten; she rushed into the ring, seized upon the
rival champion by the hair, and was on the point of wreaking on him
her puny vengeance, when a buxom, strapping country lass, the
sweetheart of the prostrate swain, pounced upon her like a hawk, and
would have stripped her of her fine plumage in a twinkling, had she
also not been seized in her turn.
A complete tumult ensued. The chivalry of the two villages became
embroiled. Blows began to be dealt, and sticks to be flourished.
Phoebe was carried off from the field in hysterics.
In vain did the sages of the village interfere. The sententious
apothecary endeavoured to pour the soothing oil of his philosophy upon
this tempestuous sea of passion, but was tumbled into the dust.
Slingsby, the pedagogue, who is a great lover of peace, went into the
midst of the throng, as marshal of the day, to put an end to the
commotion; but was rent in twain, and came out with his garment
hanging in two strips from his shoulders; upon which the prodigal son
dashed in with fury, to revenge the insult which his patron had
sustained. The tumult thickened; I caught glimpses of the jockey-cap
of old Christy, like the helmet of a chieftain, bobbing about in the
midst of the scuffle; whilst Mistress Hannah, separated from her
doughty protector, was squalling and striking at right and left with a
faded parasol; being tossed and tousled about by the crowd in such
wise as never happened to maiden gentle woman before.