affords fine quarters for a chimney-corner sprite that likes to lie
warm; especially as Ready-Money Jack keeps up rousing fires in the
winter-time. The old people of the village recollect many stories
about this goblin, that were current in their young days. It was
thought to have brought good luck to the house, and to be the reason
why the Tibbets were always beforehand in the world, and why their
farm was always in better order, their hay got in sooner, and their
corn better stacked, than that of their neighbours. The present Mrs.
Tibbets, at the time of her courtship, had a number of these stories
told her by the country gossips; and when married, was a little
fearful about living in a house where such a hobgoblin was said to
haunt: Jack, however, who has always treated this story with great
contempt, assured her that there was no spirit kept about his house
that he could not at any time lay in the Red Sea with one flourish of
his cudgel. Still his wife has never got completely over her notions
on the subject, but has a horseshoe nailed on the threshold, and keeps
a branch of rauntry, or mountain ash, with its red berries, suspended
from one of the great beams in the parlour--a sure protection from all
evil spirits.
These stories, however, as I before observed, are fast fading away,
and in another generation or two will probably be completely
forgotten. There is something, however, about these rural
superstitions, that is extremely pleasing to the imagination;
particularly those which relate to the good-humoured race of household
demons, and indeed to the whole fairy mythology. The English have
given an inexplicable charm to these superstitions, by the manner in
which they have associated them with whatever is most homefelt and
delightful in nature. I do not know a more fascinating race of beings
than these little fabled people, that haunted the southern sides of
hills and mountains, lurked in flowers and about fountain-heads,
glided through key-holes into ancient halls, watched over farm-houses
and dairies, danced on the green by summer moonlight, and on the
kitchen-hearth in winter. They seem to accord with the nature of
English housekeeping and English scenery. I always have them in mind,
when I see a fine old English mansion, with its wide hall and spacious
kitchen; or a venerable farm-house, in which there is so much fireside
comfort and good housewifery. There was something of national
character in their love of order and cleanliness; in the vigilance
with which they watched over the economy of the kitchen, and the
functions of the servants; munificently rewarding, with silver
sixpence in shoe, the tidy housemaid, but venting their direful wrath,
in midnight bobs and pinches, upon the sluttish dairymaid. I think I
can trace the good effects of this ancient fairy sway over household
concerns, in the care that prevails to the present day among English
housemaids, to put their kitchens in order before they go to bed.
I have said, too, that these fairy superstitions seemed to me to
accord with the nature of English scenery. They suit these small
landscapes, which are divided by honeysuckled hedges into sheltered
fields and meadows, where the grass is mingled with daisies,
buttercups, and harebells. When I first found myself among English
scenery, I was continually reminded of the sweet pastoral images which
distinguish their fairy mythology; and when for the first time a
circle in the grass was pointed out to me as one of the rings where
they were formerly supposed to have held their moonlight revels, it
seemed for a moment as if fairy-land were no longer a fable. Brown, in
his Britannia's Pastorals, gives a picture of the kind of scenery to
which I allude:
"------A pleasant mead
Where fairies often did their measures tread;
Which in the meadows make such circles green,
As if with garlands it had crowned been.
Within one of these rounds was to be seen
A hillock rise, where oft the fairy queen
At twilight sat."
And there is another picture of the same, in a poem ascribed to Ben
Jonson.
"Bywells and rills in meadows green,
We nightly dance our heyday guise,
And to our fairy king and queen
We chant our moonlight minstrelsies."
Indeed, it seems to me, that the older British poets, with that true
feeling for nature which distinguishes them, have closely adhered to
the simple and familiar imagery which they found in these popular
superstitions; and have thus given to their fairy mythology those
continual allusions to the farm-house and the dairy, the green meadow
and the fountain-head, that fill our minds with the delightful
associations of rural life. It is curious to observe how the most
beautiful fictions have their origin among the rude and ignorant.
There is an indescribable charm about the illusions with which
chimerical ignorance once clothed every subject. These twilight views
of nature are often more captivating than any which are revealed by
the rays of enlightened philosophy. The most accomplished and poetical
minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into these accidental
conceptions of what are termed barbarous ages, and to draw from them
their finest imagery and, machinery. If we look through our most
admired poets, we shall find that their minds have been impregnated by
these popular fancies, and that those have succeeded best who have
adhered closest to the simplicity of their rustic originals. Such is
the case with Shakspeare in his Midsummer-Night's Dream, which so
minutely describes the employments and amusements of fairies, and
embodies all the notions concerning them which were current among the
vulgar. It is thus that poetry in England has echoed back every rustic
note, softened into perfect melody; it is thus that it has spread its
charms over every-day life, displacing nothing, taking things as it
found them, but tinting them up with its own magical hues, until every
green hill and fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every humble
flower, is full of song and story.
I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a threadbare subject; yet it
brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of those happy
days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge I have since obtained
had not yet dawned upon my mind, and when a fairy tale was true
history to me. I have often been so transported by the pleasure of
these recollections, as almost to wish that I had been born in the
days when the fictions of poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look
upon those fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, without a
lurking regret that they have all passed away. The experience of my
early days tells me, that they were sources of exquisite delight; and
I sometimes question whether the naturalist who can dissect the
flowers of the field, receives half the pleasure from contemplating
them, that he did who considered them the abode of elves and fairies.
I feel convinced that the true interests and solid happiness of man
are promoted by the advancement of truth; yet I cannot but mourn over
the pleasant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The
fauns and sylphs, the household sprite, the moonlight revel, Oberon,
Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairy-land, all vanish before
the light of true philosophy; but who does not sometimes turn with
distaste from the cold realities of morning, and seek to recall the
sweet visions of the night?
THE CULPRIT.
From fire, from water, and all things amies,
Deliver the house of an honest justice.
--_The Widow_.
The serenity of the Hall has been suddenly interrupted by a very
important occurrence. In the course of this morning a posse of
villagers was seen trooping up the avenue, with boys shouting in
advance. As it drew near, we perceived Ready-Money Jack Tibbets
striding along, wielding his cudgel in one hand, and with the other
grasping the collar of a tall fellow, whom, on still nearer approach,
we recognized for the redoubtable gipsy hero, Starlight Tom. He was
now, however, completely cowed and crestfallen, and his courage seemed
to have quailed in the iron gripe of the lion-hearted Jack.
The whole gang of gipsy women and children came dragging in the rear;
some in tears, others making a violent clamour about the ears of old
Ready-Money, who, however, trudged on in silence with his prey,
heeding their abuse as little as a hawk that has pounced upon a
barn-door hero regards the outcries and cacklings of his whole
feathered seraglio.
He had passed through the village on his way to the Hall, and of
course had made a great sensation in that most excitable place, where
every event is a matter of gaze and gossip. The report flew like
wildfire, that Starlight Tom was in custody. The ale-drinkers
forthwith abandoned the tap-room; Slingsby's school broke loose, and
master and boys swelled the tide that came rolling at the heels of old
Ready-Money and his captive.
The uproar increased, as they approached the Hall; it aroused the
whole garrison of dogs, and the crew of hangers-on. The great mastiff
barked from the dog-house; the stag-hound, and the grayhound, and the
spaniel, issued barking from the hall-door, and my Lady Lillycraft's
little dogs ramped and barked from the parlour window. I remarked,
however, that the gipsy dogs made no reply to all these menaces and
insults, but crept close to the gang, looking round with a guilty,
poaching air, and now and then glancing up a dubious eye to their
owners; which shows that the moral dignity, even of dogs, may be
ruined by bad company!
When the throng reached the front of the house, they were brought to a
halt by a kind of advanced guard, composed of old Christy, the
gamekeeper, and two or three servants of the house, who had been
brought out by the noise. The common herd of the village fell back
with respect; the boys were driven back by Christy and his compeers;
while Ready-Money Jack maintained his ground and his hold of the
prisoner, and was surrounded by the tailor, the schoolmaster, and
several other dignitaries of the village, and by the clamorous brood
of gipsies, who were neither to be silenced nor intimidated.
By this time the whole household were brought to the doors and
windows, and the Squire to the portal. An audience was demanded by
Ready-Money Jack, who had detected the prisoner in the very act of
sheep-stealing on his domains, and had borne him off to be examined
before the Squire, who is in the commission of the peace.
A kind of tribunal was immediately held in the servants' hall, a large
chamber, with a stone floor, and a long table in the centre, at one
end of which, just under an enormous clock, was placed the Squire's
chair of justice, while Master Simon took his place at the table as
clerk of the court. An attempt had been made by old Christy to keep
out the gipsy gang, but in vain, and they, with the village worthies,
and the household, half filled the hall. The old housekeeper and the
butler were in a panic at this dangerous irruption. They hurried away
all the valuable things and portable articles that were at hand, and
even kept a dragon watch on the gipsies, lest they should carry off
the house clock, or the deal table.
Old Christy, and his faithful coadjutor the gamekeeper, acted as
constables to guard the prisoner, triumphing in having at last got
this terrible offender in their clutches. Indeed, I am inclined to
think the old man bore some peevish recollection of having been
handled rather roughly by the gipsy, in the chance-medley affair of
May-day.
Silence was now commanded by Master Simon; but it was difficult to be
enforced, in such a motley assemblage. There was a continual snarling
and yelping of dogs, and, as fast as it was quelled in one corner, it
broke out in another. The poor gipsy curs, who, like errant thieves,
could not hold up their heads in an honest house, were worried and
insulted by the gentlemen dogs of the establishment, without offering
to make resistance; the very curs of my Lady Lillycraft bullied them
with impunity.
The examination was conducted with great mildness and indulgence by
the Squire, partly from the kindness of his nature, and partly, I
suspect, because his heart yearned towards the culprit, who had found
great favour in his eyes, as I have already observed, from the skill
he had at various times displayed in archery, morris-dancing, and
other obsolete accomplishments. Proofs, however, were too strong.
Ready-Money Jack told his story in a straight-forward, independent
way, nothing daunted by the presence in which he found himself. He had
suffered from various depredations on his sheepfold and poultry-yard,
and had at length kept watch, and caught the delinquent in the very
act of making off with a sheep on his shoulders.
Tibbets was repeatedly interrupted, in the course of his testimony, by
the culprit's mother, a furious old beldame, with an insufferable
tongue, and who, in fact, was several times kept, with some
difficulty, from flying at him tooth and nail. The wife, too, of the
prisoner, whom I am told he does not beat above half-a-dozen times a
week, completely interested Lady Lillycraft in her husband's behalf,
by her tears and supplications; and several of the other gipsy women
were awakening strong sympathy among the young girls and maid-servants
in the back-ground. The pretty, black-eyed gipsy girl whom I have
mentioned on a former occasion as the sibyl that read the fortunes of
the general, endeavoured to wheedle that doughty warrior into their
interests, and even made some approaches to her old acquaintance,
Master Simon; but was repelled by the latter with all the dignity of
office, having assumed a look of gravity and importance suitable to
the occasion.
I was a little surprised, at first, to find honest Slingsby, the
schoolmaster, rather opposed to his old crony Tibbets, and coming
forward as a kind of advocate for the accused. It seems that he had
taken compassion on the forlorn fortunes of Starlight Tom, and had
been trying his eloquence in his favour the whole way from the
village, but without effect. During the examination of Ready-Money
Jack, Slingsby had stood like "dejected Pity at his side," seeking
every now and then, by a soft word, to soothe any exacerbation of his
ire, or to qualify any harsh expression. He now ventured to make a few
observations to the Squire, in palliation of the delinquent's offence;
but poor Slingsby spoke more from the heart than the head, and was
evidently actuated merely by a general sympathy for every poor devil
in trouble, and a liberal toleration for all kinds of vagabond
existence.
The ladies, too, large and small, with the kind-heartedness of the
sex, were zealous on the side of mercy, and interceded strenuously
with the Squire; insomuch that the prisoner, finding himself
unexpectedly surrounded by active friends, once more reared his crest,
and seemed disposed, for a time, to put on the air of injured
innocence. The Squire, however, with all his benevolence of heart, and
his lurking weakness towards the prisoner, was too conscientious to
swerve from the strict path of justice. There was abundant concurring
testimony that made the proof of guilt incontrovertible, and Starlight
Tom's mittimus was made out accordingly.
The sympathy of the ladies was now greater than ever; they even made
some attempts to mollify the ire of Ready-Money Jack; but that sturdy
potentate had been too much incensed by the repeated incursions that
had been made into his territories by the predatory band of Starlight
Tom, and he was resolved, he said, to drive the "varment reptiles" out
of the neighbourhood. To avoid all further importunities, as soon as
the mittimus was made out, he girded up his loins, and strode back to
his seat of empire, accompanied by his interceding friend, Slingsby,
and followed by a detachment of the gipsy gang, who hung on his rear,
assailing him with mingled prayers and execrations.
The question now was, how to dispose of the prisoner--a matter of
great moment in this peaceful establishment, where so formidable a
character as Starlight Tom was like a hawk entrapped in a dove-cote.
As the hubbub and examination had occupied a considerable time, it was
too late in the day to send him to the county prison, and that of the
village was sadly out of repair, from long want of occupation. Old
Christy, who took great interest in the affair, proposed that the
culprit should be committed for the night to an upper loft of a kind
of tower in one of the outhouses, where he and the gamekeeper would
mount guard. After much deliberation, this measure was adopted; the
premises in question were examined and made secure, and Christy and
his trusty ally, the one armed with a fowling-piece, the other with an
ancient blunderbuss, turned out as sentries to keep watch over this
donjon-keep.
Such is the momentous affair that has just taken place, and it is an
event of too great moment in this quiet little world, not to turn it
completely topsy-turvy. Labour is at a stand: the house has been a
scene of confusion the whole evening. It has been beleagured by gipsy
women, with their children on their backs, wailing and lamenting;
while the old virago of a mother has cruised up and down the lawn in
front, shaking her head, and muttering to herself, or now and then
breaking into a paroxysm of rage, brandishing her fist at the Hall,
and denouncing ill-luck upon Ready-Money Jack, and even upon the
Squire himself.
Lady Lillycraft has given repeated audiences to the culprit's weeping
wife, at the Hall door; and the servant maids have stolen out, to
confer with the gipsy women under the trees. As to the little ladies
of the family, they are all outrageous on Ready-Money Jack, whom they
look upon in the light of a tyrannical giant of fairy tale. Phoebe
Wilkins, contrary to her usual nature, is the only one that is
pitiless in the affair. She thinks Mr. Tibbets quite in the right; and
thinks the gipsies deserve to be punished severely, for meddling with
the sheep of the Tibbets's.
In the mean time, the females of the family evinced all the provident
kindness of the sex, ever ready to soothe and succour the distressed,
right or wrong. Lady Lillycraft has had a mattress taken to the
outhouse, and comforts and delicacies of all kinds have been taken to
the prisoner; even the little girls have sent their cakes and
sweetmeats; so that, I'll warrant, the vagabond has never fared so
well in his life before. Old Christy, it is true, looks upon every
thing with a wary eye; struts about with his blunderbuss with the air
of a veteran campaigner, and will hardly allow himself to be spoken
to.
The gipsy women dare not come within gun-shot, and every tatterdemalion
of a boy has been frightened from the park. The old fellow is
determined to lodge Starlight Tom in prison with his own hands; and
hopes, he says, to see one of the poaching crew made an example of.
I doubt, after all, whether the worthy Squire is not the greatest
sufferer in the whole affair. His honourable sense of duty obliges him
to be rigid, but the overflowing kindness of his nature makes this a
grievous trial to him.
He is not accustomed to have such demands upon his justice, in his
truly patriarchal domain; and it wounds his benevolent spirit, that
while prosperity and happiness are flowing in thus bounteously upon
him, he should have to inflict misery upon a fellow-being.
He has been troubled and cast down the whole evening; took leave of
the family, on going to bed, with a sigh, instead of his usual hearty
and affectionate tone; and will, in all probability, have a far more
sleepless night than his prisoner. Indeed, this unlucky affair has
cast a damp upon the whole household, as there appears to be an
universal opinion that the unlucky culprit will come to the gallows.
Morning.--The clouds of last evening are all blown over. A load has
been taken from the Squire's heart, and every face is once more in
smiles. The gamekeeper made his appearance at an early hour,
completely shamefaced and crestfallen. Starlight Tom had made his
escape in the night; how he had got out of the loft, no one could
tell: the Devil, they think, must have assisted him. Old Christy was
so mortified that he would not show his face, but had shut himself up
in his stronghold at the dog-kennel, and would not be spoken with.
What has particularly relieved the Squire, is, that there is very
little likelihood of the culprit's being retaken, having gone off on
one of the old gentleman's best hunters.
FAMILY MISFORTUNES.
The night has been unruly; where we lay,
The chimneys were blown down.
--_Macbeth_.
We have for a day or two past had a flow of unruly weather, which has
intruded itself into this fair and flowery month, and for a time has
quite marred the beauty of the landscape. Last night, the storm
attained its crisis; the rain beat in torrents against the casements,
and the wind piped and blustered about the old Hall with quite a
wintry vehemence. The morning, however, dawned clear and serene; the
face of the heavens seemed as if newly washed, and the sun shone with
a brightness that was undimmed by a single vapour. Nothing over-head
gave traces of the recent storm; but on looking from my window, I
beheld sad ravage among the shrubs and flowers; the garden-walks had
formed the channels for little torrents; trees were lopped of their
branches; and a small silver stream that wound through the park, and
ran at the bottom of the lawn, had swelled into a turbid yellow sheet
of water.
In an establishment like this, where the mansion is vast, ancient, and
somewhat afflicted with the infirmities of age, and where there are
numerous and extensive dependencies, a storm is an event of a very
grave nature, and brings in its train a multiplicity of cares and
disasters.
While the Squire was taking his breakfast in the great hall, he was
continually interrupted by some bearer of ill-tidings from some part
or other of his domains; he appeared to me like the commander of a
besieged city, after some grand assault, receiving at his headquarters
reports, of damages sustained in the various quarters of the place. At
one time the housekeeper brought him intelligence of a chimney blown
down, and a desperate leak sprung in the roof over the picture
gallery, which threatened to obliterate a whole generation of his
ancestors. Then the steward came in with a doleful story of the
mischief done in the woodlands; while the gamekeeper bemoaned the loss
of one of his finest bucks, whose bloated carcass was seen floating
along the swoln current of the river.
When the Squire issued forth, he was accosted, before the door, by the
old, paralytic gardener, with a face full of trouble, reporting, as I
supposed, the devastation of his flower-beds, and the destruction of
his wall-fruit. I remarked, however, that his intelligence caused a
peculiar expression of concern, not only with the Squire and Master
Simon, but with the fair Julia and Lady Lillycraft, who happened to be
present. From a few words which reached my ear, I found there was some
tale of domestic calamity in the case, and that some unfortunate
family had been rendered houseless by the storm. Many ejaculations of
pity broke from the ladies; I heard the expressions of "poor, helpless
beings," and "unfortunate little creatures," several times repeated;
to which the old gardener replied by very melancholy shakes of the
head.
I felt so interested, that I could not help calling to the gardener,
as he was retiring, and asking what unfortunate family it was that had
suffered so severely? The old man touched his hat, and gazed at me for
an instant, as if hardly comprehending my question. "Family!" replied
he, "there be no family in the case, your honour; but here have been
sad mischief done in the rookery!"
I had noticed, the day before, that the high and gusty winds which
prevailed had occasioned great disquiet among these airy householders;
their nests being all filled with young, who were in danger of being
tilted out of their tree-rocked cradles. Indeed, the old birds
themselves seemed to have hard work to maintain a foothold; some kept
hovering and cawing in the air; or, if they ventured to alight, they
had to hold fast, flap their wings, and spread their tails, and thus
remain see-sawing on the topmost twigs.
In the course of the night, however, an awful calamity had taken place
in this most sage and politic community. There was a great tree, the
tallest in the grove, which seemed to have been a kind of court-end of
the metropolis, and crowded with the residence of those whom Master
Simon considers the nobility and gentry. A decayed limb of this tree
had given way with the violence of this storm, and had come down with
all its aircastles.
One should be well aware of the humours of the good Squire and his
household, to understand the general concern expressed at this
disaster. It was quite a public calamity in this rural empire, and all
seemed to feel for the poor rooks as for fellow-citizens in distress.