The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
However little, therefore, the character may have suited in the first
instance, it has gradually adapted itself to the nation, or rather they
have adapted themselves to each other; and a stranger who wishes to
study English peculiarities may gather much valuable information from
the innumerable portraits of John Bull as exhibited in the windows
of the caricature-shops. Still, however, he is one of those fertile
humorists that are continually throwing out new portraits and presenting
different aspects from different points of view; and, often as he has
been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a slight sketch
of him such as he has met my eye.
John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain, downright, matter-of-fact
fellow, with much less of poetry about him than rich prose. There is
little of romance in his nature, but a vast deal of strong natural
feeling. He excels in humor more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay;
melancholy rather than morose; can easily be moved to a sudden tear or
surprised into a broad laugh; but he loathes sentiment and has no turn
for light pleasantry. He is a boon companion, if you allow him in to
have his humor and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend
in a quarrel with life and purse, however soundly he may be cudgelled.
In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity to be
somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded personage, who thinks not merely
for himself and family, but for all the country round, and is most
generously disposed to be everybody’s champion. He is continually
volunteering his services to settle his neighbor’s affairs, and takes
it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter of consequence without
asking his advice, though he seldom engages in any friendly office of
the kind without finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties,
and then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily took
lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence, and having
accomplished himself in the use of his limbs and his weapons and become
a perfect master at boxing and cudgel-play, he has had a troublesome
life of it ever since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most
distant of his neighbors but he begins incontinently to fumble with the
head of his cudgel, and consider whether his interest or honor does not
require that he should meddle in the broil. Indeed, he has extended his
relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole country
that no event can take place without infringing some of his finely-spun
rights and dignities. Couched in his little domain, with these
filaments stretching forth in every direction, he is like some choleric,
bottle-bellied old spider who has woven his web over a whole chamber,
so that a fly cannot buzz nor a breeze blow without startling his repose
and causing him to sally forth wrathfully from his den.
Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow at bottom, yet he
is singularly fond of being in the midst of contention. It is one of
his peculiarities, however, that he only relishes the beginning of an
affray; he always goes into a fight with alacrity, but comes out of
it grumbling even when victorious; and though no one fights with more
obstinacy to carry a contested point, yet when the battle is over and he
comes to the reconciliation he is so much taken up with the mere shaking
of hands that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that they have
been quarrelling about. It is not, therefore, fighting that he ought so
much to be on his guard against as making friends. It is difficult to
cudgel him out of a farthing; but put him in a good humor and you may
bargain him out of all the money in his pocket. He is like a stout ship
which will weather the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts
overboard in the succeeding calm.
He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad, of pulling out
a long purse, flinging his money bravely about at boxing-matches,
horse-races, cock-fights, and carrying a high head among “gentlemen of
the fancy:” but immediately after one of these fits of extravagance he
will be taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at the most
trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being ruined and brought upon
the parish; and in such moods will not pay the smallest tradesman’s
bill without violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most punctual
and discontented paymaster in the world, drawing his coin out of his
breeches pocket with infinite reluctance, paying to the uttermost
farthing, but accompanying every guinea with a growl.
With all his talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful provider and
a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is of a whimsical kind, its chief
object being to devise how he may afford to be extravagant; for he will
begrudge himself a beefsteak and pint of port one day that he may roast
an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and treat all his neighbors on
the next.
His domestic establishment is enormously expensive, not so much from
any great outward parade as from the great consumption of solid beef
and pudding, the vast number of followers he feeds and clothes, and his
singular disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a most
kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants humor his
peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little now and then, and do
not peculate grossly on him before his face they may manage him to
perfection. Everything that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat.
His house-servants are well paid and pampered and have little to do. His
horses are sleek and lazy and prance slowly before his state carriage;
and his house-dogs sleep quietly about the door and will hardly bark at
a housebreaker.
His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray with age, and
of a most venerable though weather-beaten appearance. It has been built
upon no regular plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts erected
in various tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of Saxon
architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and old English oak
can make it. Like all the relics of that style, it is full of obscure
passages, intricate mazes, and dusty chambers, and, though these have
been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the
original edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken
place; towers and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults:
wings built in time of peace; and out-houses, lodges, and offices run up
according to the whim or convenience of different generations, until it
has become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An
entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile that
must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of having
been altered and simplified at various periods, has still a look of
solemn religious pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments
of John’s ancestors, and it is snugly fitted up with soft cushions and
well-lined chairs, where such of his family as are inclined to church
services may doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties.
To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; but he is staunch in
his religion and piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that many
dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his
neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.
To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large expense, a pious
and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous personage
and a truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the
children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants
to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay their
rents punctually and without grumbling.
The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat heavy and
often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of former times,
fitted up with rich though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and
loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens,
extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting-halls all speak of the
roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern festivity at
the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of
rooms apparently deserted and time-worn, and towers and turrets that
are tottering to decay, so that in high winds there is danger of their
tumbling about the ears of the household.
John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice thoroughly
overhauled, and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and the
others strengthened with their materials; but the old gentleman always
grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent house;
that it is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests;
that it has stood for several hundred years, and therefore is not likely
to tumble down now; that as to its being inconvenient, his family is
accustomed to the inconveniences and would not be comfortable without
them; that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction, these
result from its being the growth of centuries and being improved by the
wisdom of every generation; that an old family, like his, requires
a large house to dwell in; new, upstart families may live in modern
cottages and snug boxes; but an old English family should inhabit an
old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the building
as superfluous, he insists that it is material to the strength or
decoration of the rest and the harmony of the whole, and swears that the
parts are so built into each other that if you pull down one, you run
the risk of having the whole about your ears.
The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition to
protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an
ancient and honorable family to be bounteous in its appointments and
to be eaten up by dependents; and so, partly from pride and partly
from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and
maintenance to his superannuated servants.
The consequence is, that, like many other venerable family
establishments, his manor is incumbered by old retainers whom he cannot
turn off, and an old style which he cannot lay down. His mansion is like
a great hospital of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit
too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use in
housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty
pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder are seen
lolling about its ways, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its tree,
or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and
out-house is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families;
for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off are sure to leave
John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be
struck against the most mouldering tumble-down tower but out pops, from
some cranny or loophole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on,
who has lived at John’s expense all his life, and makes the most
grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the head of
a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal that John’s honest
heart never can withstand; so that a man who has faithfully eaten his
beef and pudding all his life is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and
tankard in his old days.
A great part of his park also is turned into paddocks, where his
broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the
remainder of their existences--a worthy example of grateful recollection