The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
which, if some of his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their
discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these
old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol
their past services, and boast, with some little vain-glory, of the
perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which they have carried
him.
He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family usages and
family encumbrances to a whimsical extent. His manor is infested by
gangs of gypsies; yet he will not suffer them to be driven off, because
they have infested the place time out of mind and been regular poachers
upon every generation of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry
branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest
it should molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. Owls have
taken possession of the dovecote, but they are hereditary owls and must
not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney with
their nests; martins build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter
about the towers and perch on every weather-cock; and old gray-headed
rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of
their holes undauntedly in broad daylight. In short, John has such a
reverence for everything that has been long in the family that he will
not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old family
abuses.
All these whims and habits have concurred woefully to drain the old
gentleman’s purse; and as he prides himself on punctuality in money
matters and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they have
caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too,
has been increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are
continually taking place in his family. His children have been brought
up to different callings and are of different ways of thinking; and as
they have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not
fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture
of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear
that the old establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever
may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat
the old gentleman to retrench his expenses and to put his whole system
of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice
has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his
sons. This is a noisy, rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who
neglects his business to frequent ale-houses--is the orator of village
clubs and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father’s
tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or
retrenchment than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and
roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going nothing
can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors the old man about his
spendthrift practices; ridicules his tastes and pursuits; insists that
he shall turn the old servants out of doors, give the broken-down horses
to the hounds, send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher
in his place; nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with
the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He
rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks
away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the
door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse,
yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern
convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over which he
preaches about his father’s extravagance.
It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees with the old
cavalier’s fiery temperament. He has become so irritable from repeated
crossings that the mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal
for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too
sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all
fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at
times run so high that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom,
an officer who has served abroad, but is at present living at home on
half-pay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or
wrong, likes nothing so much as a rocketing, roistering life, and is
ready at a wink or nod to out sabre and flourish it over the orator’s
head if he dares to array himself against parental authority.
These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad, and are rare food
for scandal in John’s neighborhood. People begin to look wise and shake
their heads whenever his affairs are mentioned. They all “hope that
matters are not so bad with him as represented; but when a man’s
own children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly
managed. They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears and is
continually dabbling with money-lenders. He is certainly an open-handed
old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast; indeed, they never
knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing revelling, and
prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull’s estate is a very fine one and has
been in the family a long while, but, for all that, they have known many
finer estates come to the hammer.”
What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary embarrassments
and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. Instead of that
jolly round corporation and smug rosy face which he used to present, he
has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple.
His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those
prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about
him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and
wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on
both sides of his once sturdy legs.
Instead of strutting about as formerly with his three-cornered hat on
one side, flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with
a hearty thump upon the ground, looking every one sturdily in the face,
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking-song, he now goes
about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down,
his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of
his breeches pockets, which are evidently empty.
Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present, yet for all this the
old fellow’s spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the
least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an instant;
swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the country; talks
of laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate; and
with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel longs exceedingly to
have another bout at quarter-staff.
Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I
confess I cannot look upon John’s situation without strong feelings
of interest. With all his odd humors and obstinate prejudices he is a
sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow
as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors
represent him. His virtues are all his own--all plain, homebred, and
unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities.
His extravagance savors of his generosity, his quarrelsomeness of his
courage, his credulity of his open faith, his vanity of his pride, and
his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a rich
and liberal character. He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound
and solid within; whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to
the growth and grandeur of the timber; and whose branches make a fearful
groaning and murmuring in the least storm from their very magnitude and
luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his old family
mansion that is extremely poetical and picturesque; and as long as it
can be rendered comfortably habitable I should almost tremble to see it
meddled with during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of
his advisers are no doubt good architects that might be of service; but
many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work
with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop until
they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves among
the ruins. All that I wish is, that John’s present troubles may teach
him more prudence in future--that he may cease to distress his mind
about other people’s affairs; that he may give up the fruitless attempt
to promote the good of his neighbors and the peace and happiness of
the world, by dint of the cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home;
gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich estate according
to his fancy; husband his income--if he thinks proper; bring his unruly
children into order--if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient
prosperity; and long enjoy on his paternal lands a green, an honorable,
and a merry old age.
THE PRIDE OF THE VILLAGE.
May no wolfe howle; no screech owle stir
A wing about thy sepulchre!
No boysterous winds or stormes come hither,
To starve or wither
Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,
Love kept it ever flourishing.
HERRICK.
IN the course of an excursion through one of the remote counties of
England, I had struck into one of those cross-roads that lead through
the more secluded parts of the country, and stopped one afternoon at a
village the situation of which was beautifully rural and retired. There
was an air of primitive simplicity about its inhabitants not to be found
in the villages which lie on the great coach-roads. I determined to
pass the night there, and, having taken an early dinner, strolled out to
enjoy the neighboring scenery.
My ramble, as is usually the case with travellers, soon led me to the
church, which stood at a little distance from the village. Indeed, it
was an object of some curiosity, its old tower being completely overrun
with ivy so that only here and there a jutting buttress, an angle of
gray wall, or a fantastically carved ornament peered through the verdant
covering. It was a lovely evening. The early part of the day had been
dark and showery, but in the afternoon it had cleared up, and, though
sullen clouds still hung overhead, yet there was a broad tract of golden
sky in the west, from which the setting sun gleamed through the dripping
leaves and lit up all Nature into a melancholy smile. It seemed like the
parting hour of a good Christian smiling on the sins and sorrows of the
world, and giving, in the serenity of his decline, an assurance that he
will rise again in glory.
I had seated myself on a half-sunken tombstone, and was musing, as one
is apt to do at this sober-thoughted hour, on past scenes and early
friends--on those who were distant and those who were dead--and
indulging in that kind of melancholy fancying which has in it something
sweeter even than pleasure. Every now and then the stroke of a bell from
the neighboring tower fell on my ear; its tones were in unison with the
scene, and, instead of jarring, chimed in with my feelings; and it was
some time before I recollected that it must be tolling the knell of some
new tenant of the tomb.
Presently I saw a funeral train moving across the village green; it
wound slowly along a lane, was lost, and reappeared through the breaks
of the hedges, until it passed the place where I was sitting. The pall
was supported by young girls dressed in white, and another, about the