BORDER SCENERY—COACHMANSHIP—ENGLISH COUNTRY-SEATS—THEIR
EXQUISITE COMFORT—OLD CUSTOMS IN HIGH PRESERVATION—PRIDE AND
STATELINESS OF THE LANCASHIRE AND CHESHIRE GENTRY—THEIR
CONTEMPT FOR PARVENUS.
If Scott had done nothing else, he would have deserved well of his
country for giving an interest to the barren wastes by which Scotland is
separated from England. “A’ the blue bonnets” must have had a melancholy
march of it “Over the Border.” From Gala-Water to Carlisle it might be
anywhere a scene for the witches’ meeting in Macbeth. We bowled away at
nearly twelve miles in the hour, however, (which would unwind almost any
“serpent of care” from the heart,) and if the road was not lined with
witches and moss-troopers, it was well macadamized. I got a treacherous
supper at Howick, where the Douglas pounced upon Sir Alexander Ramsay;
and, recovering my good humor at Carlisle, grew happier as the fields
grew greener, and came down by Kendal and its emerald valleys with the
speed of an arrow and the light heartedness of its feather. How little
the farmer thinks when he plants his hedges and sows his fields, that
the passing wayfarer will anticipate the gleaners and gather sunshine
from his ripening harvest.
I was admiring the fine old castle of Lancaster, (now desecrated to the
purposes of a county jail,) when our thirteen-mile whip ran over a
phæton standing quietly in the road, and spilt several women and
children, as you may say, _en passant_. The coach must arrive, though it
kill as many as Juggernaut, and Jehu neither changed color, nor spoke a
word, but laid the silk over his leaders to make up the back-water of
the jar, and rattled away up the street, with the guard blowing the
French horn to the air of “Smile again, my bonny lassie.” Nobody threw
stones after us; the horses were changed in a minute and three quarters,
and away we sped from the town of the “red nose.” There was a cool,
you-know-where-to-find-me sort of indifference in this adventure, which
is peculiarly English. I suppose if his leaders had changed suddenly
into griffins, he would have touched them under the wing and kept his
pace.
Bound on a visit to —— Hall in Lancashire, I left the coach at
Preston. The landlady of the Red Lion became very suddenly anxious that
I should not take cold when she found out the destination of her
post-chaise. I arrived just after sunset at my friend’s lodge, and
ordering the postillion to a walk, drove leisurely through the gathering
twilight to the Hall. It was a mile of winding road through the
peculiarly delicious scenery of an English park, the game visible in
every direction, and the glades and woods disposed with that breadth and
luxuriance of taste that make the country houses of England palaces in
Arcadia. Anxious as I had been to meet my friend, whose hospitality I
had before experienced in Italy, I was almost sorry when the
closely-shaven sward and glancing lights informed me that my twilight
drive was near its end.
An arrival in a strange house in England seems, to a foreigner, almost
magical. The absence of all the bustle consequent on the same event
abroad, the silence, respectfulness, and self-possession of the
servants, the ease and expedition with which he is installed in a
luxurious room, almost with his second breath under the roof—his
portmanteau unstrapped, his toilet laid out, his dress shoes and
stockings at his feet, and the fire burning as if he had sat by it all
day—it is like the golden facility of a dream. “Dinner at seven!” are
the only words he has heard, and he finds himself (some three minutes
having elapsed since he was on the road) as much at home as if he had
lived there all his life, and pouring the hot water into his wash-basin
with the feeling that comfort and luxury in this country are very much
matters of course.
The bell rings for dinner, and the new-comer finds his way to the
drawing-room. He has not seen his host, perhaps, for a year; but his
_entrée_ is anything but a scene. A cordial shake of the hand, a simple
inquiry after his health, while the different members of the family
collect in the darkened room, and the preference of his arm by the lady
of the house to walk into dinner, are all that would remind him that he
and his host had ever parted. The soup is criticised, the weather
“resumed,” as the French have it, gravity prevails, and the wine that he
used to drink is brought him without question by the remembering butler.
The stranger is an object of no more attention than any other person,
except in the brief “glad to see you,” and the accompanying just
perceptible nod with which the host drinks wine with him; and, not even
in the _abandon_ of after-dinner conversation, are the mutual
reminiscences of the host and his friend suffered to intrude on the
indifferent portion of the company. The object is the general enjoyment,
and you are not permitted to monopolize the sympathies of the hour. You
thus escape the aversion with which even a momentary favorite is looked
upon in society, and in your turn you are not neglected, or bored with a
sensation, on the arrival of another. In what other country is
civilization carried to the same rational perfection?
I was under the hands of a physician during the week of my stay at
—— Hall, and only crept out with the lizards for a little sunshine at
noon. There was shooting in the park for those who liked it, and fox
hunting in the neighborhood for those who could follow, but I was
content (upon compulsion) to be innocent of the blood of hares and
partridges, and the ditches of Lancashire are innocent of mine. The
well-stocked library, with its caressing chairs, was a paradise of
repose after travel; and the dinner, with its delightful society,
sufficed for the day’s event.
My host was himself very much of a cosmopolite; but his neighbors, one
or two most respectable squires of the old school among them, had the
usual characteristics of people who have passed their lives on one spot,
and though gentlemanlike and good-humored, were rather difficult to
amuse. I found none of the uproariousness which distinguished the Squire
Western of other times. The hale fox-hunter was in white cravat and
black coat, and took wine and politics moderately; and his wife and
daughters, though silent and impracticable, were well-dressed, and
marked by that indefinable stamp of “blood,” visible no less in the
gentry than in the nobility of England.
I was delighted to encounter at my friend’s table one or two of the old
English peculiarities, gone out nearer the metropolis. Toasted cheese
and spiced ale—“familiar creatures” in common life—were here served up
with all the circumstance that attended them when they were not
disdained as the allowance of maids of honor. On the disappearance of
the pastry, a massive silver dish, chased with the ornate elegance of
ancient plate, holding coals beneath, and protected by a hinged cover,
was set before the lady of the house. At the other extremity of the
table stood a “peg tankard” of the same fashion, in the same massive
metal, with two handles, and of an almost fabulous capacity. Cold cheese
and port were at a discount. The celery, albeit both modish and popular,
was neglected. The crested cover erected itself on its hinge, and
displayed a flat surface, covered thinly with blistering cheese, with a
_soupçon_ of brown in its complexion, quivering and delicate, and of a
most stimulating odor. A little was served to each guest, and commended
as it deserved, and then the flagon’s head was lifted in its turn by the
staid butler, and the master of the house drank first. It went around
with the sun, not disdained by the ladies’ lips in passing, and came to
me, something lightened of its load. As a stranger I was advised of the
law before lifting it to my head. Within, from the rim to the bottom,
extended a line of silver pegs, supposed to contain, in the depth from
one to the other, a fair draught for each bibber. The flagon must not be
taken from the lips, and the penalty of drinking deeper than the first
peg below the surface, was to drink to the second—a task for the friar
of Copmanhurst. As the visible measure was of course lost when the
tankard was dipped, it required some practice or a cool judgment not to
exceed the draught. Raising it with my two hands, I measured the
distance with my eye, and watched till the floating argosy of toast
should swim beyond the reach of my nose. The spicy odor ascended
gratefully to the brain. The cloves and cinnamon clung in a dark circle
to the edges. I drank without drawing breath, and complacently passed
the flagon. As the sea of all settled to a calm, my next neighbor
silently returned the tankard. I had exceeded the draught. There was a
general cry of “drink! drink!” and sounding my remaining capacity with
the plummet of a long breath, I laid my hands once more on the vessel,
and should have paid the penalty or perished in the attempt, but for the
grace shown me as a foreigner, at the intercession of that sex
distinguished for its mercy.
This adherence to the more hearty viands and customs of olden time, by
the way, is an exponent of a feeling sustained with peculiar tenacity in
that part of England. Cheshire and Lancashire are the stronghold of that
race peculiar to this country, the _gentry_. In these counties the
peerage is no authority for gentle birth. A title unsupported by
centuries of honorable descent, is worse than nothing; and there is many
a squire, living in his immemorial “Hall,” who would not exchange his
name and pedigree for the title of ninety-nine in a hundred of the
nobility of England. Here reigns _aristocracy_. Your Baron Rothschild,
or your new-created lord from the Bank or the Temple, might build
palaces in Cheshire, and live years in the midst of its proud gentry
unvisited. They are the cold cheese, celery, and port, in comparison
with the toasted cheese and spiced ale.