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Title: Bracebridge Hall

Author: Washington Irving

Release Date: December 1, 2004  [eBook #14228]

Language: English

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BRACEBRIDGE HALL

by

WASHINGTON IRVING

Illustrated by R. Caldecott.

London.
MacMillan & Co.
Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh

1877







[Illustration: "The chivalry of the Hall prepared to take the
field."--_Frontispiece._]



[Illustration: Title-Page]



[Illustration: Heading to Preface]


PREFACE


The success of "OLD CHRISTMAS" has suggested the re-publication of its
sequel "BRACEBRIDGE HALL," illustrated by the same able pencil, but
condensed so as to bring it within reasonable size and price.


[Illustration: Tailpiece to Preface]



[Illustration: Contents]


CONTENTS


THE HALL

THE BUSY MAN

FAMILY SERVANTS

THE WIDOW

THE LOVERS

FAMILY RELIQUES

AN OLD SOLDIER

THE WIDOW'S RETINUE

READY-MONEY JACK

BACHELORS

A LITERARY ANTIQUARY

THE FARM-HOUSE

HORSEMANSHIP

LOVE SYMPTOMS

FALCONRY

HAWKING

FORTUNE-TELLING

LOVE-CHARMS

A BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS

GIPSIES

VILLAGE WORTHIES

THE SCHOOLMASTER

THE SCHOOL

A VILLAGE POLITICIAN

THE ROOKERY

MAY-DAY

THE CULPRIT

LOVERS' TROUBLES

THE WEDDING


[Illustration: Tailpiece to Contents]




[Illustration: List of Illustrations]


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


   Designed by Randolph Caldecott,
   and
   Arranged and Engraved by J. D. Cooper


THE HAWKING PARTY.

TITLE-PAGE.

HEADING TO PREFACE

TAILPIECE TO PREFACE

HEADING TO CONTENTS

TAILPIECE TO CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

TAILPIECE TO ILLUSTRATIONS

THE HALL

THE TERRACE GARDEN

STOPPING TO GATHER A FLOWER

BREAKING A POINTER

THE CHILDREN DANCE IN THE HALL

"SEVERAL UNHAPPY BIRDS IN DURANCE"

OLD CHRISTY

"TWO PAMPERED CURS THAT BARKED OUT OF EACH WINDOW"

ARRIVAL OF THE WIDOW

HEADING TO "FAMILY SERVANTS"

THE OLD HOUSEKEEPER

PHOEBE WILKINS

"SHE DRINKS THE HEALTH OF THE COMPANY"

CONTEMPLATION

THE WIDOW

KENSINGTON GARDENS

A SAGE ADVISER

MASTER SIMON OVER THE ACCOUNTS

HEADING TO "THE LOVERS"

THE LOVERS

THE TRIO

HEADING TO "FAMILY RELIQUES"

EFFIGY IN MARBLE

JULIA AND THE CAPTAIN IN THE GALLERY

THE SALUTATION

GENERAL HARBOTTLE

"PUBLIC DISTRESS, SIR, IS ALL HUMBUG!"

CANINE PETS

THE OLD COACHMAN

DIGNITY AND IMPUDENCE

CONFIDENTIAL WHISPER

READY-MONEY JACK EXPOUNDING

IN AT THE DEATH

QUELLING THE BRAWL

QUARTER-STAFF

MULLIGATAWNEY CLUB

CHAFFING THE MILKMAID

CONJUGAL EXTINGUISHER

A LITERARY ANTIQUARY

A BOOKWORM

"COME, TELL ME, SAYS ROSA, AS KISSING AND KISSED"

HEADING TO "THE FARM-HOUSE"

"HE SHONE LIKE A BOTTLE"

A TAILPIECE

CHRISTY ON PEPPER

A HUNTER

THE TUTOR'S DISMISSAL

THE OFFERING

MRS. HANNAH

ASLEEP WHEN HE READS

FALCONRY IN OLDEN TIMES

PHYSICKING THE HAWKS

"WELL, WELL, HAVE IT YOUR OWN WAY, CHRISTY!"

HAWKING

THE CONSULTATION IN THE FIELD

THE QUARRY IN SIGHT

JULIA'S MISHAP

PLUMING HER WINGS

THE GIPSY ENCAMPMENT

A GIPSY GIRL

THE GENERAL IN THE TOILS

"GOD SAVE THE KING!"

TOSSING THE PANCAKE

JACK JILTS PHOEBE

THE LOVE-SPELL

MASTER SIMON AT THE WINDOW

MASTER SIMON IN LOVE

GENTLEMEN'S JOKES

STARLIGHT TOM ON THE WATCH

A GIPSY PARTY

FORTUNE-TELLING

HEADING TO "VILLAGE WORTHIES"

"MASTER SIMON PINCHED THE DAUGHTER'S CHEEK"

THE APOTHECARY

HEADING TO "THE SCHOOLMASTER"

SLINGSBY AND READY-MONEY JACK

"ON THE ROAD"

THE SCHOOL

THE PRODIGAL

THE TRUANTS

LAYING DOWN THE LAW

THE VILLAGE POLITICIAN

THE LANDLADY

THE ANTAGONISTS

THE ROOKERY

AFTER THE STRAWS

ROOKS ON THE SHEEP

THE HERMIT OWL

BACHELOR'S HALL

MAY-DAY

MAY-DAY QUEEN

THE GENERAL NONPLUSSED

MAY QUEEN AND BRIDE-ELECT

MAY-DAY MELEE

RUMPLED FEATHERS

THE CAPTURE

CONSCIENCE MAKES COWARDS OF THE DOGS

THE TRIBUNAL

THE GUARD

TAILPIECE

A SOLEMN CONSULTATION

LOVE DOCUMENTS

SLINGSBY AND PHOEBE

BUTLER WITH BRIDE CUP

THE WEDDING

RURAL ARTILLERY

MASTER SIMON OPENS THE BALL

RECONCILIATION

A MAIDEN CONFESSION

MASTER SIMON'S FINALE

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Illustrations]




[Illustration: The Hall]

THE HALL.

     The ancientest house, and the best for housekeeping in this
     county or the next, and though the master of it write but
     squire, I know no lord like him.

     MERRY BEGGARS.


The reader, if he has perused the volumes of the Sketch Book, will
probably recollect something of the Bracebridge family, with which I
once passed a Christmas. I am now on another visit at the Hall, having
been invited to a wedding which is shortly to take place. The squire's
second son, Guy, a fine, spirited young captain in the army, is about to
be married to his father's ward, the fair Julia Templeton. A gathering
of relations and friends has already commenced, to celebrate the joyful
occasion; for the old gentleman is an enemy to quiet, private weddings.
"There is nothing," he says, "like launching a young couple gaily, and
cheering them from the shore; a good outset is half the voyage."

Before proceeding any farther, I would beg that the squire might not be
confounded with that class of hard-riding, fox-hunting gentlemen so
often described, and, in fact, so nearly extinct in England. I use this
rural title, partly because it is his universal appellation throughout
the neighbourhood, and partly because it saves me the frequent
repetition of his name, which is one of those rough old English names at
which Frenchmen exclaim in despair.

The squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the old English country
gentleman; rusticated a little by living almost entirely on his estate,
and something of a humourist, as Englishmen are apt to become when they
have an opportunity of living in their own way. I like his hobby passing
well, however, which is, a bigoted devotion to old English manners and
customs; it jumps a little with my own humour, having as yet a lively
and unsated curiosity about the ancient and genuine characteristics of
my "fatherland."

There are some traits about the squire's family also, which appear to me
to be national. It is one of those old aristocratical families, which, I
believe, are peculiar to England, and scarcely understood in other
countries; that is to say, families of the ancient gentry, who, though
destitute of titled rank, maintain a high ancestral pride; who look down
upon all nobility of recent creation, and would consider it a sacrifice
of dignity to merge the venerable name of their house in a modern title.

This feeling is very much fostered by the importance which they enjoy on
their hereditary domains. The family mansion is an old manor-house,
standing in a retired and beautiful part of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants
have been always regarded through the surrounding country as "the great
ones of the earth;" and the little village near the hall looks up to the
squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and an old family
of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the present day; and it is
probably the peculiar humour of the squire that has retained this
secluded specimen of English housekeeping in something like the genuine
old style.

I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique wing of the
house. The prospect from my window, however, has quite a different
aspect from that which it wore on my winter visit. Though early in the
month of April, yet a few warm, sunshiny days have drawn forth the
beauties of the spring, which, I think, are always most captivating on
their first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned garden are gay
with flowers; and the gardener has brought out his exotics, and placed
them along the stone balustrades. The trees are clothed with green buds
and tender leaves; when I throw open my jingling casement I smell the
odour of mignonette, and hear the hum of the bees from the flowers
against the sunny wall, with the varied song of the throstle, and the
cheerful notes of the tuneful little wren.

[Illustration: The Terrace Garden]

While sojourning in this stronghold of old fashions, it is my intention
to make occasional sketches of the scenes and characters before me. I
would have it understood, however, that I am not writing a novel, and
have nothing of intricate plot, or marvellous adventure, to promise the
reader. The Hall of which I treat has, for aught I know, neither
trap-door, nor sliding-panel, nor donjon-keep: and indeed appears to
have no mystery about it. The family is a worthy, well-meaning family,
that, in all probability, will eat and drink, and go to bed, and get up
regularly, from one end of my work to the other; and the squire is so
kind-hearted an old gentleman, that I see no likelihood of his throwing
any kind of distress in the way of the approaching nuptials. In a word,
I cannot foresee a single extraordinary event that is likely to occur in
the whole term of my sojourn at the Hall.

[Illustration: Stopping to Gather a Flower]

I tell this honestly to the reader, lest when he find me dallying along,
through every-day English scenes, he may hurry ahead, in hopes of
meeting with some marvellous adventure farther on. I invite him, on the
contrary, to ramble gently on with me, as he would saunter out into the
fields, stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen to a bird,
or admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at the end of his
career. Should I, however, in the course of my loiterings about this old
mansion, see or hear anything curious, that might serve to vary the
monotony of this every-day life, I shall not fail to report it for the
reader's entertainment.

    For freshest wits I know will soon be wearie
    Of any book, how grave so e'er it be,
    Except it have odd matter, strange and merrie,
    Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee.[A]

[Footnote A: Mirror for Magistrates.]




[Illustration: Breaking a Pointer]

THE BUSY MAN.

     A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and my
     master's means, and much good do him with it. He does hold my
     master up with his stones, and songs, and catches, and such
     tricks, and jigs you would admire--he is with him now.

     JOVIAL CREW.


By no one has my return to the Hall been more heartily greeted than by
Mr. Simon Bracebridge, or Master Simon, as the squire most commonly
calls him. I encountered him just as I entered the park, where he was
breaking a pointer, and he received me with all the hospitable
cordiality with which a man welcomes a friend to another one's house. I
have already introduced him to the reader as a brisk old
bachelor-looking little man; the wit and superannuated beau of a large
family connection, and the squire's factotum. I found him, as usual,
full of bustle; with a thousand petty things to do, and persons to
attend to, and in chirping good-humour; for there are few happier beings
than a busy idler; that is to say, a man who is eternally busy about
nothing.

I visited him, the morning after my arrival, in his chamber, which is in
a remote corner of the mansion, as he says he likes to be to himself,
and out of the way. He has fitted it up in his own taste, so that it is
a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's notions of convenience and
arrangement. The furniture is made up of odd pieces from all parts of
the house, chosen on account of their suiting his notions, or fitting
some corner of his apartment; and he is very eloquent in praise of an
ancient elbow-chair, from which he takes occasion to digress into a
censure on modern chairs, as having degenerated from the dignity and
comfort of high-backed antiquity.

Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he calls his study. Here
are some hanging shelves, of his own construction, on which are several
old works on hawking, hunting, and farriery, and a collection or two of
poems and songs of the reign of Elizabeth, which he studies out of
compliment to the squire; together with the Novelists' Magazine, the
Sporting Magazine, the Racing Calendar, a volume or two of the Newgate
Calendar, a book of peerage, and another of heraldry.

His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closet; and about the walls
of his apartment are hooks to hold his fishing-tackle, whips, spurs, and
a favourite fowling-piece, curiously wrought and inlaid, which he
inherits from his grandfather. He has also a couple of old single-keyed
flutes, and a fiddle, which he has repeatedly patched and mended
himself, affirming it to be a veritable Cremona: though I have never
heard him extract a single note from it that was not enough to make
one's blood run cold.

From this little nest his fiddle will often be heard, in the stillness
of mid-day, drowsily sawing some long-forgotten tune; for he prides
himself on having a choice collection of good old English music, and
will scarcely have anything to do with modern composers. The time,
however, at which his musical powers are of most use is now and then of
an evening, when he plays for the children to dance in the hall, and he
passes among them and the servants for a perfect Orpheus.

[Illustration: The Children Dance in the Hall]

His chamber also bears evidence of his various avocations; there are
half copied sheets of music; designs for needlework; sketches of
landscapes, very indifferently executed; a camera lucida; a magic
lantern, for which he is endeavouring to paint glasses; in a word, it is
the cabinet of a man of many accomplishments, who knows a little of
everything, and does nothing well.

After I had spent some time in his apartment admiring the ingenuity of
his small inventions, he took me about the establishment, to visit the
stables, dog-kennel, and other dependencies, in which he appeared like a
general visiting the different quarters of his camp; as the squire
leaves the control of all these matters to him, when he is at the Hall.
He inquired into the state of the horses; examined their feet;
prescribed a drench for one, and bleeding for another; and then took me
to look at his own horse, on the merits of which he dwelt with great
prolixity, and which, I noticed, had the best stall in the stable.

After this I was taken to a new toy of his and the squire's, which he
termed the falconry, where there were several unhappy birds in durance,
completing their education. Among the number was a fine falcon, which
Master Simon had in especial training, and he told me that he would show
me, in a few days, some rare sport of the good old-fashioned kind. In
the course of our round, I noticed that the grooms, gamekeeper,
whippers-in, and other retainers, seemed all to be on somewhat of a
familiar footing with Master Simon, and fond of having a joke with him,
though it was evident they had great deference for his opinion in
matters relating to their functions.

[Illustration: "Several unhappy birds in durance"]

There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman, as hot as a
pepper-corn; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a threadbare velvet
jockey-cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that, from much wear, shone
as though they had been japanned. He was very contradictory and
pragmatical, and apt, as I thought, to differ from Master Simon now and
then out of mere captiousness. This was particularly the case with
respect to the treatment of the hawk, which the old man seemed to have
under his peculiar care, and, according to Master Simon, was in a fair
way to ruin; the latter had a vast deal to say about _casting_, and
_imping_, and _gleaming_, and _enseaming_, and giving the hawk the
_rangle_, which I saw was all heathen Greek to old Christy; but he
maintained his point notwithstanding, and seemed to hold all his
technical lore in utter disrespect.

[Illustration: Old Christy]

I was surprised at the good humour with which Master Simon bore his
contradictions, till he explained the matter to me afterwards. Old
Christy is the most ancient servant in the place, having lived among
dogs and horses the greater part of a century, and been in the service
of Mr. Bracebridge's father. He knows the pedigree of every horse on the
place, and has bestrid the great-great-grandsires of most of them. He
can give a circumstantial detail of every fox-hunt for the last sixty or
seventy years, and has a history of every stag's head about the house,
and every hunting trophy nailed to the door of the dog-kennel.

All the present race have grown up under his eye, and humour him in his
old age. He once attended the squire to Oxford when he was a student
there, and enlightened the whole university with his hunting lore. All
this is enough to make the old man opinionated, since he finds, on all
these matters of first-rate importance, he knows more than the rest of
the world. Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil, and acknowledges
that he derived his first knowledge in hunting from the instructions of
Christy; and I much question whether the old man does not still look
upon him as rather a greenhorn.

On our return homewards, as we were crossing the lawn in front of the
house, we heard the porter's bell ring at the lodge, and shortly
afterwards, a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly up the avenue. At sight
of it my companion paused, considered for a moment, and then, making a
sudden exclamation, hurried away to meet it. As it approached I
discovered a fair, fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed in an
old-fashioned riding-habit, with a broad-brimmed white beaver hat, such
as may be seen in Sir Joshua Reynolds' paintings. She rode a sleek white
pony, and was followed by a footman in rich livery, mounted on an
over-fed hunter. At a little distance in the rear came an ancient
cumbrous chariot, drawn by two very corpulent horses, driven by as
corpulent a coachman, beside whom sat a page dressed in a fanciful green
livery. Inside of the chariot was a starched prim personage, with a look
somewhat between a lady's companion and a lady's maid; and two pampered
curs that showed their ugly faces and barked out of each window.

[Illustration: "Two pampered curs that barked out of each window"]

There was a general turning out of the garrison to receive this new
comer. The squire assisted her to alight, and saluted her
affectionately; the fair Julia flew into her arms, and they embraced
with the romantic fervour of boarding-school friends. She was escorted
into the house by Julia's lover, towards whom she showed distinguished
favour; and a line of the old servants, who had collected in the hall,
bowed most profoundly as she passed.

I observed that Master Simon was most assiduous and devout in his
attentions upon this old lady. He walked by the side of her pony up the
avenue; and while she was receiving the salutations of the rest of the
family, he took occasion to notice the fat coachman, to pat the sleek
carriage-horses, and, above all, to say a civil word to my lady's
gentlewoman, the prim, sour-looking vestal in the chariot.

[Illustration: Arrival of the Widow]

I had no more of his company for the rest of the morning. He was swept
off in the vortex that followed in the wake of this lady. Once indeed
he paused for a moment, as he was hurrying on some errand of the good
lady's, to let me know that this was Lady Lillycraft, a sister of the
squire's, of large fortune, which the captain would inherit, and that
her estate lay in one of the best sporting counties in all England.




[Illustration: Family Servants]

FAMILY SERVANTS.

     Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping.
     They are like rats in a mansion, or mites in a cheese,
     bespeaking the antiquity and fatness of their abode.


In my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may often be tempted to dwell on
circumstances of a trite and ordinary nature, from their appearing to me
illustrative of genuine national character. It seems to be the study of
the squire to adhere, as much as possible, to what he considers the old
landmarks of English manners. His servants all understand his ways, and,
for the most part, have been accustomed to them from infancy; so that,
upon the whole, his household presents one of the few tolerable
specimens that can now be met with, of the establishment of an English
country gentleman of the old school. By the by, the servants are not
the least characteristic part of the household; the housekeeper, for
instance, has been born and brought up at the Hall, and has never been
twenty miles from it; yet she has a stately air that would not disgrace
a lady that had figured at the court of Queen Elizabeth.

I am half-inclined to think that she has caught it from living so much
among the old family pictures. It may, however, be owing to a
consciousness of her importance in the sphere in which she has always
moved; for she is greatly respected in the neighbouring village, and
among the farmers' wives, and has high authority in the household,
ruling over the servants with quiet but undisputed sway.

She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes, and pointed nose and chin. Her
dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears a small, well-starched
ruff, a laced stomacher, full petticoats, and a gown festooned and open
in front, which, on particular occasions, is of ancient silk, the legacy
of some former dame of the family, or an inheritance from her mother,
who was housekeeper before her. I have a reverence for these old
garments, as I make no doubt they have figured about these apartments in
days long past, when they have set off the charms of some peerless
family beauty; and I have sometimes looked from the old housekeeper to
the neighbouring portraits, to see whether I could not recognise her
antiquated brocade in the dress of some one of those long-waisted dames
that smile on me from the walls.

[Illustration: The Old Housekeeper]

Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and she wears
over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down under the chin.
Her manners are simple and primitive, heightened a little by a proper
dignity of station.

The Hall is her world, and the history of the family the only history
she knows, excepting that which she has read in the Bible. She can give
a biography of every portrait in the picture gallery, and is a complete
family chronicle.

She is treated with great consideration by the squire. Indeed, Master
Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote current among the
servants, of the squire's having been seen kissing her in the picture
gallery, when they were both young. As, however, nothing further was
ever noticed between them, the circumstance caused no great scandal;
only she was observed to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, and
refused the hand of the village innkeeper, whom she had previously
smiled on.

The old butler, who was formerly footman, and a rejected admirer of
hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those little cabals
that will occasionally take place among the most orderly servants,
arising from the common propensity of the governed to talk against
administration; but he has left it off, of late years, since he has
risen into place, and shakes his head rebukingly when it is mentioned.

It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell on the looks of
the squire when he was a young man at college; and she maintains that
none of his sons can compare with their father when he was of their age,
and was dressed out in his full suit of scarlet, with his hair craped
and powdered, and his three-cornered hat.

She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft-hearted baggage, named Phoebe
Wilkins, who has been transplanted to the Hall within a year or two, and
been nearly spoiled for any condition of life. She is a kind of
attendant and companion of the fair Julia's; and from loitering about
the young lady's apartments, reading scraps of novels, and inheriting
second-hand finery, has become something between a waiting-maid and a
slip-shod fine lady.

[Illustration: Phoebe Wilkins]

She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as she will
inherit all her aunt's property; which, if report be true, must be a
round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated wealth of two
housekeepers' savings; not to mention the hereditary wardrobe, and the
many little valuables and knick-knacks treasured up in the housekeeper's
room. Indeed the old housekeeper has the reputation among the servants
and the villagers of being passing rich; and there is a japanned chest
of drawers and a large iron-bound coffer in her room, which are supposed
by the housemaids to hold treasures of wealth.

The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, who, indeed, pays a
little court to her, as to a person high in authority: and they have
many discussions on points of family history, in which, notwithstanding
his extensive information, and pride of knowledge, he commonly admits
her superior accuracy. He seldom returns to the Hall, after one of his
visits to the other branches of the family, without bringing Mrs.
Wilkins some remembrance from the ladies of the house where he has been
staying.

Indeed all the children in the house look up to the old lady with
habitual respect and attachment, and she seems almost to consider them
as her own, from their having grown up under her eye. The Oxonian,
however, is her favourite, probably from being the youngest, though he
is the most mischievous, and has been apt to play tricks upon her from
boyhood.

I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony which, I believe, is
peculiar to the Hall. After the cloth is removed at dinner, the old
housekeeper sails into the room and stands behind the squire's chair,
when he fills her a glass of wine with his own hands, in which she
drinks the health of the company in a truly respectful yet dignified
manner, and then retires. The squire received the custom from his
father, and has always continued it.

[Illustration: "She drinks the health of the company"]

There is a peculiar character about the servants of old English families
that reside principally in the country. They have a quiet, orderly,
respectful mode of doing their duties. They are always neat in their
persons, and appropriately, and, if I may use the phrase, technically
dressed; they move about the house without hurry or noise; there is
nothing of the bustle of employment, or the voice of command; nothing of
that obtrusive housewifery that amounts to a torment. You are not
persecuted by the process of making you comfortable; yet everything is
done, and is done well. The work of the house is performed as if by
magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing is done by fits and
starts, nor at awkward seasons; the whole goes on like well-oiled
clockwork, where there is no noise nor jarring in its operations.

English servants, in general, are not treated with great indulgence, nor
rewarded by many commendations; for the English are laconic and reserved
towards their domestics; but an approving nod and kind word from master
or mistress, goes as far here, as an excess of praise or indulgence
elsewhere. Neither do servants exhibit any animated marks of affection
to their employers; yet, though quiet, they are strong in their
attachments; and the reciprocal regard of masters or servants, though
not ardently expressed, is powerful and lasting in old English families.

The title of "an old family servant" carries with it a thousand kind
associations in all parts of the world; and there is no claim upon the
home-bred charities of the heart more irresistible than that of having
been "born in the house." It is common to see grey-headed domestics of
this kind attached to an English family of the "old school," who
continue in it to the day of their death in the enjoyment of steady
unaffected kindness, and the performance of faithful unofficious duty. I
think such instances of attachment speak well for master and servant,
and the frequency of them speaks well for national character.

These observations, however, hold good only with families of the
description I have mentioned, and with such as are somewhat retired, and
pass the greater part of their time in the country. As to the powdered
menials that throng the walls of fashionable town residences, they
equally reflect the character of the establishments to which they
belong; and I know no more complete epitomes of dissolute heartlessness
and pampered inutility.

But the good "old family servant!"--The one who has always been linked,
in idea, with the home of our heart; who has led us to school in the
days of prattling childhood; who has been the confidant of our boyish
cares, and schemes, and enterprises; who has hailed us as we came home
at vacations, and been the promoter of all our holiday sports; who, when
we, in wandering manhood, have left the paternal roof, and only return
thither at intervals, will welcome us with a joy inferior only to that
of our parents; who, now grown grey and infirm with age, still totters
about the house of our fathers in fond and faithful servitude; who
claims us, in a manner, as his own; and hastens with querulous eagerness
to anticipate his fellow-domestics in waiting upon us at table; and who,
when we retire at night to the chamber that still goes by our name, will
linger about the room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant
word about times that are past--who does not experience towards such a
being a feeling of almost filial affection?

I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the gravestones of such
valuable domestics, recorded with the simple truth of natural feeling. I
have two before me at this moment; one copied from a tombstone of a
churchyard in Warwickshire:

"Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential servant to George
Birch, Esq. of Hampstead Hall. His grateful friend and master caused
this inscription to be written in memory of his discretion, fidelity,
diligence, and continence. He died (a bachelor) aged 84, having lived
44 years in the same family."

The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham churchyard:

"Here lie the remains of Mr. James Tappy, who departed this life on the
8th of September 1818, aged 84, after a faithful service of 60 years in
one family; by each individual of which he lived respected, and died
lamented by the sole survivor."

Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the glow about the
heart that I felt while copying this honest epitaph in the churchyard of
Eltham. I sympathised with this "sole survivor" of a family, mourning
over the grave of the faithful follower of his race, who had been, no
doubt, a living memento of times and friends that had passed away; and
in considering this record of long and devoted services, I called to
mind the touching speech of Old Adam in "As You Like It," when tottering
after the youthful son of his ancient master:

    "Master, go on, and I will follow thee
    To the last gasp, with love and loyalty!"

     NOTE.--I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen
     somewhere in the chapel of Windsor Castle, put up by the late
     King to the memory of a family servant who had been a
     faithful attendant of his lamented daughter, the Princess
     Amelia. George III. possessed much of the strong domestic
     feeling of the old English country gentleman; and it is an
     incident curious in monumental history, and creditable to the
     human heart,--a monarch erecting a monument in honour of the
     humble virtues of a menial.

[Illustration: Contemplation]




[Illustration: The Widow]

THE WIDOW.

    She was so charitable and pitious
    She would weep if that she saw a mouse
    Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled;
    Of small hounds had she, that she fed
    With rost flesh, milke, and wastel bread;
    But sore wept she if any of them were dead,
    Or if man smote them with a yard smart.

    CHAUCER.


Notwithstanding the whimsical parade made by Lady Lillycraft on her
arrival, she has none of the petty stateliness that I had imagined; but
on the contrary she has a degree of nature, and simple-heartedness, if I
may use the phrase, that mingles well with her old-fashioned manners and
harmless ostentation. She dresses in rich silks, with long waist; she
rouges considerably, and her hair, which is nearly white, is frizzled
out, and put up with pins. Her face is pitted with the small-pox, but
the delicacy of her features shows that she may once have been
beautiful; and she has a very fair and well-shaped hand and arm, of
which, if I mistake not, the good lady is still a little vain.

I have had the curiosity to gather a few particulars concerning her. She
was a great belle in town between thirty and forty years since, and
reigned for two seasons with all the insolence of beauty, refusing
several excellent offers; when, unfortunately, she was robbed of her
charms and her lovers by an attack of the small-pox. She retired
immediately into the country, where she some time after inherited an
estate, and married a baronet, a former admirer, whose passion had
suddenly revived; "having," as he said, "always loved her mind rather
than her person."

The baronet did not enjoy her mind and fortune above six months, and
had scarcely grown very tired of her, when he broke his neck in a
fox-chase and left her free, rich, and disconsolate. She has remained on
her estate in the country ever since, and has never shown any desire to
return to town, and revisit the scene of her early triumphs and fatal
malady. All her favourite recollections, however, revert to that short
period of her youthful beauty. She has no idea of town but as it was at
that time; and continually forgets that the place and people must have
changed materially in the course of nearly half a century. She will
often speak of the toasts of those days as if still reigning; and, until
very recently, used to talk with delight of the royal family, and the
beauty of the young princes and princesses. She cannot be brought to
think of the present king otherwise than as an elegant young man, rather
wild, but who danced a minuet divinely; and before he came to the crown,
would often mention him as the "sweet young prince."

She talks also of the walks in Kensington Gardens, where the gentlemen
appeared in gold-laced coats and cocked hats, and the ladies in hoops,
and swept so proudly along the grassy avenues; and she thinks the ladies
let themselves sadly down in their dignity, when they gave up cushioned
head-dresses and high-heeled shoes. She has much to say too of the
officers who were in the train of her admirers; and speaks familiarly of
many wild young blades that are now, perhaps, hobbling about
watering-places with crutches and gouty shoes.

[Illustration: Kensington Gardens]

Whether the taste the good lady had of matrimony discouraged her or not,
I cannot say; but, though her merits and her riches have attracted many
suitors, she has never been tempted to venture again into the happy
state. This is singular too, for she seems of a most soft and
susceptible heart: is always talking of love and connubial felicity; and
is a great stickler for old-fashioned gallantry, devoted attentions, and
eternal constancy, on the part of the gentlemen. She lives, however,
after her own taste. Her house, I am told, must have been built and
furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison: everything about it
is somewhat formal and stately; but has been softened down into a degree
of voluptuousness, characteristic of an old lady very tender-hearted and
romantic, and that loves her ease. The cushions of the great arm-chairs,
and wide sofas, almost bury you when you sit down on them. Flowers of
the most rare and delicate kind are placed about the rooms and on little
japanned stands; and sweet bags lie about the tables and mantelpieces.
The house is full of pet dogs, Angola cats, and singing birds, who are
as carefully waited upon as she is herself.

She is dainty in her living, and a little of an epicure, living on
white meats, and little lady-like dishes, though her servants have
substantial old English fare, as their looks bear witness. Indeed, they
are so indulged, that they are all spoiled, and when they lose their
present place they will be fit for no other. Her ladyship is one of
those easy-tempered beings that are always doomed to be much liked, but
ill served, by their domestics, and cheated by all the world.

Much of her time is passed in reading novels, of which she has a most
extensive library, and has a constant supply from the publishers in
town. Her erudition in this line of literature is immense: she has kept
pace with the press for half a century. Her mind is stuffed with
love-tales of all kinds, from the stately amours of the old books of
Chivalry, down to the last blue-covered romance, reeking from the press:
though she evidently gives the preference to those that came out in the
days of her youth, and when she was first in love. She maintains that
there are no novels written now-a-days equal to Pamela and Sir Charles
Grandison; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the head of all
romances.

[Illustration: A Sage Adviser]

She does a vast deal of good in her neighbourhood, and is imposed upon
by every beggar in the county. She is the benefactress of a village
adjoining to her estate, and takes a special interest in all its love
affairs. She knows of every courtship that is going on; every love-lorn
damsel is sure to find a patient listener and sage adviser in her
ladyship. She takes great pains to reconcile all love quarrels, and
should any faithless swain persist in his inconstancy, he is sure to
draw on himself the good lady's violent indignation.

[Illustration: Master Simon over the Accounts]

I have learned these particulars partly from Frank Bracebridge, and
partly from Master Simon. I am now able to account for the assiduous
attention of the latter to her ladyship. Her house is one of his
favourite resorts, where he is a very important personage. He makes her
a visit of business once a year, when he looks into all her affairs;
which, as she is no manager, are apt to get into confusion. He examines
the books of the overseer, and shoots about the estate, which, he says,
is well stocked with game, notwithstanding that it is poached by all
the vagabonds in the neighbourhood.

It is thought, as I before hinted, that the captain will inherit the
greater part of her property, having always been her chief favourite;
for, in fact, she is partial to a red coat. She has now come to the Hall
to be present at his nuptials, having a great disposition to interest
herself in all matters of love and matrimony.




[Illustration: The Lovers]

THE LOVERS.

     Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo the
     winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear
     on the earth, the time of the singing of birds is come, and
     the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.

     SONG OF SOLOMON.


To a man who is a little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to boot; and
who, by dint of some experience in the follies of life, begins to look
with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and eke of woman; to such a
man, I say, there is something very entertaining in noticing the conduct
of a pair of young lovers. It may not be as grave and scientific a study
as the loves of the plants, but it is certainly as interesting.

I have therefore derived much pleasure, since my arrival at the Hall,
from observing the fair Julia and her lover. She has all the
delightful blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inexperienced in
coquetry, who has made her first conquest; while the captain regards her
with that mixture of fondness and exultation, with which a youthful
lover is apt to contemplate so beauteous a prize.

I observed them yesterday in the garden, advancing along one of the
retired walks. The sun was shining with delicious warmth, making great
masses of bright verdure, and deep blue shade. The cuckoo, that
"harbinger of spring," was faintly heard from a distance; the thrush
piped from the hawthorn, and the yellow butterflies sported, and toyed,
and coquetted in the air.

[Illustration: "The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, listening
to his conversation."--PAGE 43.]

The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, listening to his
conversation, with her eyes cast down, a soft blush on her cheek, and a
quiet smile on her lips, while in the hand that hung negligently by her
side was a bunch of flowers. In this way they were sauntering slowly
along, and when I considered them, and the scene in which they were
moving, I could not but think it a thousand pities that the season
should ever change, or that young people should ever grow older, or that
blossoms should give way to fruit, or that lovers should ever get
married.

From what I have gathered of family anecdote, I understand that the fair
Julia is the daughter of a favourite college friend of the squire; who,
after leaving Oxford, had entered the army, and served for many years in
India, where he was mortally wounded in a skirmish with the natives. In
his last moments he had, with a faltering pen, recommended his wife and
daughter to the kindness of his early friend.

The widow and her child returned to England helpless, and almost
hopeless. When Mr. Bracebridge received accounts of their situation, he
hastened to their relief. He reached them just in time to soothe the
last moments of the mother, who was dying of a consumption, and to make
her happy in the assurance that her child should never want a protector.

The good squire returned with his prattling charge to his stronghold,
where he has brought her up with a tenderness truly paternal. As he has
taken some pains to superintend her education, and form her taste, she
has grown up with many of his notions, and considers him the wisest as
well as the best of men. Much of her time, too, has been passed with
Lady Lillycraft, who has instructed her in the manners of the old
school, and enriched her mind with all kinds of novels and romances.
Indeed, her ladyship has had a great hand in promoting the match between
Julia and the captain, having had them together at her country seat the
moment she found there was an attachment growing up between them: the
good lady being never so happy as when she has a pair of turtles cooing
about her.

I have been pleased to see the fondness with which the fair Julia is
regarded by the old servants of the Hall. She has been a pet with them
from childhood, and every one seems to lay some claim to her education;
so that it is no wonder that she should be extremely accomplished. The
gardener taught her to rear flowers, of which she is extremely fond. Old
Christy, the pragmatical huntsman, softens when she approaches; and as
she sits lightly and gracefully in her saddle, claims the merit of
having taught her to ride; while the housekeeper, who almost looks upon
her as a daughter, intimates that she first gave her an insight into the
mysteries of the toilet, having been dressing-maid in her young days to
the late Mrs. Bracebridge. I am inclined to credit this last claim, as I
have noticed that the dress of the young lady had an air of the old
school, though managed with native taste, and that her hair was put up
very much in the style of Sir Peter Lely's portraits in the
picture-gallery.

Her very musical attainments partake of this old-fashioned character,
and most of her songs are such as are not at the present day to be found
on the piano of a modern performer. I have, however, seen so much of
modern fashions, modern accomplishments, and modern fine ladies, that I
relish this tinge of antiquated style in so young and lovely a girl; and
I have had as much pleasure in hearing her warble one of the old songs
of Herrick, or Carew, or Suckling, adapted to some simple old melody, as
I have had from listening to a lady amateur skylark it up and down
through the finest bravura of Rossini or Mozart.

We have very pretty music in the evenings, occasionally, between her and
the captain, assisted sometimes by Master Simon, who scrapes, dubiously,
on his violin; being very apt to get out, and to halt a note or two in
the rear. Sometimes he even thrums a little on the piano, and takes a
part in a trio, in which his voice can generally be distinguished by a
certain quavering tone, and an occasional false note.

[Illustration: The Trio]

I was praising the fair Julia's performance to him after one of her
songs, when I found he took to himself the whole credit of having formed
her musical taste, assuring me that she was very apt; and, indeed,
summing up her whole character in his knowing way, by adding, that "she
was a very nice girl, and had no nonsense about her."




[Illustration: Family Reliques]

FAMILY RELIQUES.

    My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye,
    The dimple on her cheek; and such sweet skill
    Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown,
    These lips look fresh and lovely as her own.
    False colours last after the true be dead.
    Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,
    Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,
    Of all the music set upon her tongue,
    Of all that was past woman's excellence
    In her white bosom; look, a painted board,
    Circumscribes all!

    DEKKER.


An old English family mansion is a fertile subject for study. It
abounds with illustrations of former times, and traces of the tastes,
and humours, and manners of successive generations. The alterations and
additions, in different styles of architecture; the furniture, plate,
pictures, hangings; the warlike and sporting implements of different
ages and fancies; all furnish food for curious and amusing speculation.
As the squire is very careful in collecting and preserving all family
reliques, the Hall is full of remembrances of this kind. In looking
about the establishment, I can picture to myself the characters and
habits that have prevailed at different eras of the family history. I
have mentioned on a former occasion the armour of the crusader which
hangs up in the Hall. There are also several jack-boots, with enormously
thick soles and high heels, that belonged to a set of cavaliers, who
filled the Hall with the din and stir of arms during the time of the
Covenanters. A number of enormous drinking vessels of antique fashion,
with huge Venice glasses, and green hock glasses, with the apostles in
relief on them, remain as monuments of a generation or two of
hard-livers, that led a life of roaring revelry, and first introduced
the gout into the family.

I shall pass over several more such indications of temporary tastes of
the squire's predecessors; but I cannot forbear to notice a pair of
antlers in the great hall, which is one of the trophies of a hard-riding
squire of former times, who was the Nimrod of these parts. There are
many traditions of his wonderful feats in hunting still existing, which
are related by old Christy, the huntsman, who gets exceedingly nettled
if they are in the least doubted. Indeed, there is a frightful chasm, a
few miles from the Hall, which goes by the name of the Squire's Leap,
from his having cleared it in the ardour of the chase; there can be no
doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows the very dints of the horse's
hoofs on the rocks on each side of the chasm.

Master Simon holds the memory of this squire in great veneration, and
has a number of extraordinary stories to tell concerning him, which he
repeats at all hunting dinners; and I am told that they wax more and
more marvellous the older they grow. He has also a pair of Ripon spurs
which belonged to this mighty hunter of yore, and which he only wears on
particular occasions.

The place, however, which abounds most with mementoes of past times, is
the picture-gallery; and there is something strangely pleasing, though
melancholy, in considering the long rows of portraits which compose the
greater part of the collection. They furnish a kind of narrative of the
lives of the family worthies, which I am enabled to read with the
assistance of the venerable housekeeper, who is the family chronicler,
prompted occasionally by Master Simon. There is the progress of a fine
lady, for instance, through a variety of portraits. One represents her
as a little girl, with a long waist and hoop, holding a kitten in her
arms, and ogling the spectator out of the corners of her eyes, as if she
could not turn her head. In another we find her in the freshness of
youthful beauty, when she was a celebrated belle, and so hard-hearted as
to cause several unfortunate gentlemen to run desperate and write bad
poetry. In another she is depicted as a stately dame, in the maturity of
her charms; next to the portrait of her husband, a gallant colonel in
full-bottomed wig and gold-laced hat, who was killed abroad; and,
finally, her monument is in the church, the spire of which may be seen
from the window, where her effigy is carved in marble, and represents
her as a venerable dame of seventy-six.

[Illustration: Effigy in Marble]

In like manner I have followed some of the family great men, through a
series of pictures, from early boyhood to the robe of dignity, or
truncheon of command, and so on by degrees until they were gathered up
in the common repository, the neighbouring church.

There is one group that particularly interested me. It consisted of
four sisters of nearly the same age, who flourished about a century
since, and, if I may judge from their portraits, were extremely
beautiful. I can imagine what a scene of gaiety and romance this old
mansion must have been, when they were in the heyday of their charms;
when they passed like beautiful visions through its halls, or stepped
daintily to music in the revels and dances of the cedar gallery; or
printed, with delicate feet, the velvet verdure of these lawns. How must
they have been looked up to with mingled love, and pride, and reverence,
by the old family servants; and followed by almost painful admiration by
the aching eyes of rival admirers! How must melody, and song, and tender
serenade, have breathed about these courts, and their echoes whispered
to the loitering tread of lovers! How must these very turrets have made
the hearts of the young galliards thrill as they first discerned them
from afar, rising from among the trees, and pictured to themselves the
beauties casketed like gems within these walls! Indeed I have discovered
about the place several faint records of this reign of love and romance,
when the Hall was a kind of Court of Beauty. Several of the old romances
in the library have marginal notes expressing sympathy and approbation,
where there are long speeches extolling ladies' charms, or protesting
eternal fidelity, or bewailing the cruelty of some tyrannical fair one.
The interviews, and declarations, and parting scenes of tender lovers,
also bear the marks of having been frequently read, and are scored, and
marked with notes of admiration, and have initials written on the
margins; most of which annotations have the day of the month and year
annexed to them. Several of the windows, too, have scraps of poetry
engraved on them with diamonds, taken from the writings of the fair Mrs.
Phillips, the once celebrated Orinda. Some of these seem to have been
inscribed by lovers; and others, in a delicate and unsteady hand, and a
little inaccurate in the spelling, have evidently been written by the
young ladies themselves, or by female friends, who had been on visits to
the Hall. Mrs. Phillips seems to have been their favourite author, and
they have distributed the names of her heroes and heroines among their
circle of intimacy. Sometimes, in a male hand, the verse bewails the
cruelty of beauty and the sufferings of constant love; while in a female
hand it prudishly confines itself to lamenting the parting of female
friends. The bow-window of my bedroom, which has, doubtless, been
inhabited by one of these beauties, has several of these inscriptions. I
have one at this moment before my eyes, called "Camilla parting with
Leonora:"

    "How perished is the joy that's past,
      The present how unsteady!
    What comfort can be great, and last,
      When this is gone already!"

And close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some adventurous lover,
who had stolen into the lady's chamber during her absence:

    "THEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA.

    "I'd rather in your favour live,
      Than in a lasting name;
    And much a greater rate would give
      For happiness than fame.

    "THEODOSIUS. 1700."

When I look at these faint records of gallantry and tenderness; when I
contemplate the fading portraits of these beautiful girls, and think,
too, that they have long since bloomed, reigned, grown old, died, and
passed away, and with them all their graces, their triumphs, their
rivalries, their admirers; the whole empire of love and pleasure in
which they ruled--"all dead, all buried, all forgotten," I find a cloud
of melancholy stealing over the present gaieties around me. I was
gazing, in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of the lady
whose husband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia entered the
gallery, leaning on the arm of the captain. The sun shone through the
row of windows on her as she passed along, and she seemed to beam out
each time into brightness, and relapse into shade, until the door at the
bottom of the gallery closed after her. I felt a sadness of heart at
the idea that this was an emblem of her lot: a few more years of
sunshine and shade, and all this life, and loveliness, and enjoyment,
will have ceased, and nothing be left to commemorate this beautiful
being but one more perishable portrait; to awaken, perhaps, the trite
speculations of some future loiterer, like myself, when I and my
scribblings shall have lived through our brief existence, and been
forgotten.

[Illustration: Julia and the Captain in the Gallery]




[Illustration: The Salutation]

AN OLD SOLDIER.

     I've worn some leather out abroad; let out a heathen soul or
     two; fed this good sword with the black blood of pagan
     Christians; converted a few individuals with it.--But let that
     pass.

     THE ORDINARY.


The Hall was thrown into some little agitation, a few days since, by the
arrival of General Harbottle. He had been expected for several days, and
had been looked for rather impatiently by several of the family. Master
Simon assured me that I would like the general hugely, for he was a
blade of the old school, and an excellent table companion. Lady
Lillycraft, also, appeared to be somewhat fluttered, on the morning of
the general's arrival, for he had been one of her early admirers; and
she recollected him only as a dashing young ensign, just come upon the
town. She actually spent an hour longer at her toilet, and made her
appearance with her hair uncommonly frizzled and powdered, and an
additional quantity of rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and
shocked, therefore, at finding the little dashing ensign transformed
into a corpulent old general, with a double chin, though it was a
perfect picture to witness their salutations; the graciousness of her
profound curtsy, and the air of the old school with which the general
took off his hat, swayed it gently in his hand, and bowed his powdered
head.

All this bustle and anticipation has caused me to study the general with
a little more attention than, perhaps, I should otherwise have done; and
the few days that he has already passed at the Hall have enabled me, I
think, to furnish a tolerable likeness of him to the reader.

He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier of the old school, with
powdered head, side locks, and pigtail. His face is shaped like the
stern of a Dutch man-of-war, narrow at top, and wide at bottom, with
full rosy cheeks and a double chin; so, that, to use the cant of the
day, his organs of eating may be said to be powerfully developed.

The general, though a veteran, has seen very little active service,
except the taking of Seringapatam, which forms an era in his history. He
wears a large emerald in his bosom, and a diamond on his finger, which
he got on that occasion, and whoever is unlucky enough to notice either,
is sure to involve himself in the whole history of the siege. To judge
from the general's conversation, the taking of Seringapatam is the most
important affair that has occurred for the last century.

On the approach of warlike times on the Continent, he was rapidly
promoted to get him out of the way of younger officers of merit; until,
having been hoisted to the rank of general, he was quietly laid on the
shelf. Since that time his campaigns have been principally confined to
watering-places; where he drinks the waters for a slight touch of the
liver which he got in India; and plays whist with old dowagers, with
whom he has flirted in his younger days. Indeed he talks of all the
fine women of the last half-century, and, according to hints which he
now and then drops, has enjoyed the particular smiles of many of them.

He has seen considerable garrison duty, and can speak of almost every
place famous for good quarters, and where the inhabitants give good
dinners. He is a diner-out of the first-rate currency, when in town;
being invited to one place because he has been seen at another. In the
same way he is invited about the country seats, and can describe half
the seats in the kingdom, from actual observation; nor is any one better
versed in court gossip, and the pedigrees and intermarriages of the
nobility.

As the general is an old bachelor and an old beau, and there are several
ladies at the Hall, especially his quondam flame Lady Jocelyne, he is
put rather upon his gallantry. He commonly passes some time, therefore,
at his toilet, and takes the field at a late hour every morning, with
his hair dressed out and powdered, and a rose in his button-hole. After
he has breakfasted, he walks up and down the terrace in the sunshine,
humming an air, and hemming between every stave, carrying one hand
behind his back, and with the other touching his cane to the ground, and
then raising it up to his shoulder. Should he, in these morning
promenades, meet any of the elder ladies of the family, as he frequently
does Lady Lillycraft, his hat is immediately in his hand, and it is
enough to remind one of those courtly groups of ladies and gentlemen,
in old prints of Windsor Terrace or Kensington Gardens.

[Illustration: General Harbottle]

He talks frequently about "the service," and is fond of humming the old
song,

    "Why, soldiers, why,
      Should we be melancholy, boys?
    Why, soldiers, why,
      Whose business 'tis to die!"

I cannot discover, however, that the general has ever run any great risk
of dying, excepting from an apoplexy, or indigestion. He criticises all
the battles on the Continent, and discusses the merits of the
commanders, but never fails to bring the conversation ultimately to
Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I am told that the general was a perfect
champion at drawing-rooms, parades, and watering-places, during the late
war, and was looked to with hope and confidence by many an old lady,
when labouring under the terror of Buonaparte's invasion.

He is thoroughly loyal, and attends punctually on levees when in town.
He has treasured up many remarkable sayings of the late king,
particularly one which the king made to him on a field-day,
complimenting him on the excellence of his horse. He extols the whole
royal family, but especially the present king, whom he pronounces the
most perfect gentleman and best whist-player in Europe. The general
swears rather more than is the fashion of the present day; but it was
the mode of the old school. He is, however, very strict in religious
matters, and a staunch churchman. He repeats the responses very loudly
in church, and is emphatical in praying for the king and royal family.

At table his loyalty waxes very fervent with his second bottle, and the
song of "God save the King" puts him into a perfect ecstasy. He is
amazingly well contented with the present state of things, and apt to
get a little impatient at any talk about national ruin and agricultural
distress. He says he has travelled about the country as much as any man,
and has met with nothing but prosperity; and to confess the truth, a
great part of his time is spent in visiting from one country-seat to
another, and riding about the parks of his friends. "They talk of public
distress," said the general this day to me, at dinner, as he smacked a
glass of rich burgundy, and cast his eyes about the ample board; "they
talk of public distress, but where do we find it, sir? I see none. I see
no reason any one has to complain. Take my word for it, sir, this talk
about public distress is all humbug!"

[Illustration: "Public distress, sir, is all humbug!"]




[Illustration: Canine Pets]

THE WIDOW'S RETINUE.

     Little dogs and all!--LEAR.


In giving an account of the arrival of Lady Lillycraft at the Hall, I
ought to have mentioned the entertainment which I derived from
witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and the disposing of her
retinue. There is something extremely amusing to me in the number of
factitious wants, the loads of imaginary conveniences, but real
incumbrances, with which the luxurious are apt to burthen themselves. I
like to watch the whimsical stir and display about one of these petty
progresses. The number of robustious footmen and retainers of all kinds
bustling about, with looks of infinite gravity and importance, to do
almost nothing. The number of heavy trunks and parcels, and bandboxes,
belonging to my lady; and the solicitude exhibited about some humble,
odd-looking box by my lady's maid; the cushions piled in the carriage to
make a soft seat still softer, and to prevent the dreaded possibility of
a jolt; the smelling-bottles, the cordials, the baskets of biscuit and
fruit; the new publications; all provided to guard against hunger,
fatigue, or ennui; the led horses to vary the mode of travelling; and
all this preparation and parade to move, perhaps, some very
good-for-nothing personage about a little space of earth!

I do not mean to apply the latter part of these observations to Lady
Lillycraft, for whose simple kindheartedness I have a very great
respect, and who is really a most amiable and worthy being. I cannot
refrain, however, from mentioning some of the motley retinue she has
brought with her; and which, indeed, bespeak the overflowing kindness of
her nature, which requires her to be surrounded with objects on which to
lavish it.

In the first place, her ladyship has a pampered coachman, with a red
face, and cheeks that hang down like dewlaps. He evidently domineers
over her a little with respect to the fat horses; and only drives out
when he thinks proper, and when he thinks it will be "good for the
cattle."

[Illustration: The Old Coachman]

She has a favourite page to attend upon her person; a handsome boy of
about twelve years of age, but a mischievous varlet, very much spoiled,
and in a fair way to be good for nothing. He is dressed in green, with a
profusion of gold cord and gilt buttons about his clothes. She always
has one or two attendants of the kind, who are replaced by others as
soon as they grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought two dogs
with her also, out of a number of pets which she maintains at home. One
is a fat spaniel, called Zephyr--though heaven defend me from such a
zephyr! He is fed out of all shape and comfort; his eyes are nearly
strained out of his head; he wheezes with corpulency, and cannot walk
without great difficulty. The other is a little, old, grey-muzzled
curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, that kindles like a coal if you only
look at him; his nose turns up; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as
to show his teeth; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far
gone in misanthropy, and totally sick of the world. When he walks, he
has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his feet from the
ground; and he seldom makes use of more than three legs at a time,
keeping the other drawn up as a reserve. This last wretch is called
Beauty.

These dogs are full of elegant ailments unknown to vulgar dogs; and are
petted and nursed by Lady Lillycraft with the tenderest kindness. They
are pampered and fed with delicacies by their fellow-minion, the page;
but their stomachs are often weak and out of order, so that they cannot
eat; though I have now and then seen the page give them a mischievous
pinch, or thwack over the head, when his mistress was not by. They have
cushions for their express use, on which they lie before the fire, and
yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is the least draught of air.
When any one enters the room, they make a most tyrannical barking, that
is absolutely deafening. They are insolent to all the other dogs of the
establishment. There is a noble staghound, a great favourite of the
squire's, who is a privileged visitor to the parlour; but the moment he
makes his appearance, these intruders fly at him with furious rage; and
I have admired the sovereign indifference and contempt with which he
seems to look down upon his puny assailants. When her ladyship drives
out, these dogs are generally carried with her to take the air; when
they look out of each window of the carriage, and bark at all vulgar
pedestrian dogs. These dogs are a continual source of misery to the
household: as they are always in the way, they every now and then get
their toes trod on, and then there is a yelping on their part, and a
loud lamentation on the part of their mistress, that fills the room with
clamour and confusion.

[Illustration: Dignity and Impudence]

Lastly, there is her ladyship's waiting-gentlewoman, Mrs. Hannah, a
prim, pragmatical old maid; one of the most intolerable and intolerant
virgins that ever lived. She has kept her virtue by her until it has
turned sour, and now every word and look smacks of verjuice. She is the
very opposite to her mistress, for one hates, and the other loves, all
mankind. How they first came together I cannot imagine, but they have
lived together for many years; and the abigail's temper being tart and
encroaching, and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the former has got
the complete upper hand, and tyrannises over the good lady in secret.

Lady Lillycraft now and then complains of it, in great confidence, to
her friends, but hushes up the subject immediately, if Mrs. Hannah makes
her appearance. Indeed, she has been so accustomed to be attended by
her, that she thinks she could not do without her; though one great
study of her life is to keep Mrs. Hannah in good humour, by little
presents and kindnesses.

Master Simon has a most devout abhorrence, mingled with awe, for this
ancient spinster. He told me the other day, in a whisper, that she was a
cursed brimstone--in fact, he added another epithet, which I would not
repeat for the world. I have remarked, however, that he is always
extremely civil to her when they meet.

[Illustration: Confidential Whisper]




[Illustration: Ready-Money Jack Expounding]

READY-MONEY JACK.

    My purse, it is my privy wyfe,
    This song I dare both syng and say,
    It keepeth men from grievous stryfe
    When every man for hymself shall pay.
    As I ryde in ryche array
    For gold and sylver men wyll me floryshe;
    By thys matter I dare well saye,
    Ever gramercy myne owne purse.

    BOOK OF HUNTING.


On the skirts of the neighbouring village there lives a kind of small
potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representative of one of the most
ancient legitimate lines of the present day; for the empire over which
he reigns has belonged to his family time out of mind. His territories
comprise a considerable number of good fat acres; and his seat of power
is an old farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested, the stout oaken chair
of his ancestors. The personage to whom I allude is a sturdy old yeoman
of the name of John Tibbets, or rather Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, as he
is called throughout the neighbourhood.

The first place where he attracted my attention was in the churchyard on
Sunday; where he sat on a tombstone after service, with his hat a little
on one side, holding forth to a small circle of auditors, and, as I
presumed, expounding the law and the prophets, until, on drawing a
little nearer, I found he was only expatiating on the merits of a brown
horse. He presented so faithful a picture of a substantial English
yeoman, such as he is often described in books, heightened, indeed, by
some little finery peculiar to himself, that I could not but take note
of his whole appearance.

He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong muscular frame, and at least
six feet high, with a physiognomy as grave as a lion's, and set off with
short, curling, iron-gray locks. His shirt-collar was turned down, and
displayed a neck covered with the same short, curling, gray hair; and he
wore a coloured silk neckcloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in at the
bosom, with a green paste brooch on the knot. His coat was of dark-green
cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which was engraved a stag, with
his own name, John Tibbets, underneath. He had an inner waistcoat of
figured chintz, between which and his coat was another of scarlet cloth
unbuttoned. His breeches were also left unbuttoned at the knees, not
from any slovenliness, but to show a broad pair of scarlet garters. His
stockings were blue, with white clocks; he wore large silver
shoe-buckles; a broad paste buckle in his hatband; his sleeve buttons
were gold seven-shilling pieces; and he had two or three guineas hanging
as ornaments to his watch-chain.

On making some inquiries about him, I gathered that he was descended
from a line of farmers that had always lived on the same spot, and owned
the same property; and that half of the churchyard was taken up with the
tombstones of his race. He has all his life been an important character
in the place. When a youngster, he was one of the most roaring blades of
the neighbourhood. No one could match him at wrestling, pitching the
bar, cudgel play, and other athletic exercises. Like the renowned Pinner
of Wakefield, he was the village champion; carried off the prize at all
the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at the country round. Even to this day
the old people talk of his prowess, and undervalue, in comparison, all
heroes of the green that have succeeded him; nay, they say that if
Ready-Money Jack were to take the field even now, there is no one could
stand before him.

When Jack's father died, the neighbours shook their heads, and predicted
that young Hopeful would soon make way with the old homestead; but Jack
falsified all their predictions. The moment he succeeded to the paternal
farm he assumed a new character; took a wife; attended resolutely to his
affairs, and became an industrious, thrifty farmer. With the family
property he inherited a set of old family maxims, to which he steadily
adhered. He saw to everything himself; put his own hand to the plough;
worked hard; ate heartily; slept soundly; paid for everything in cash
down; and never danced except he could do it to the music of his own
money in both pockets. He has never been without a hundred or two
pounds in gold by him, and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has
gained him his current name, of which, by the by, he is a little proud;
and has caused him to be looked upon as a very wealthy man by all the
village.

Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he has never denied himself the
amusements of life, but has taken a share in every passing pleasure. It
is his maxim, that "he that works hard can afford to play." He is,
therefore, an attendant at all the country fairs and wakes, and has
signalised himself by feats of strength and prowess on every village
green in the shire. He often makes his appearance at horse-races, and
sports his half-guinea and even his guinea at a time; keeps a good horse
for his own riding, and to this day is fond of following the hounds, and
is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic revels, and
hospitalities too, for which his paternal farm-house has always been
noted; has plenty of good cheer and dancing at harvest-home, and above
all, keeps the "merry night,"[A] as it is termed, at Christmas.

[Footnote A: MERRY NIGHT; a rustic merry-making in a farm-house about
Christmas, common in some parts of Yorkshire. There is abundance of
homely fare, tea, cakes, fruit, and ale; various feats of agility,
amusing games, romping, dancing, and kissing withal. They commonly break
up at midnight.]

[Illustration: In at the Death]

With all his love of amusement, however, Jack is by no means a
boisterous jovial companion. He is seldom known to laugh even in the
midst of his gaiety; but maintains the same grave, lion-like demeanour.
He is very slow at comprehending a joke; and is apt to sit puzzling at
it, with a perplexed look, while the rest of the company is in a roar.
This gravity has, perhaps, grown on him with the growing weight of his
character; for he is gradually rising into patriarchal dignity in his
native place. Though he no longer takes an active part in athletic
sports, yet he always presides at them, and is appealed to on all
occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace on the village-green at
holiday games, and quells all brawls and quarrels by collaring the
parties and shaking them heartily, if refractory. No one ever pretends
to raise a hand against him, or to contend against his decisions; the
young men having grown up in habitual awe of his prowess, and in
implicit deference to him as the champion and lord of the green.

[Illustration: Quelling the Brawl]

He is a regular frequenter of the village inn, the landlady having been
a sweetheart of his in early life, and he having always continued on
kind terms with her. He seldom, however, drinks anything but a draught
of ale; smokes his pipe, and pays his reckoning before leaving the
tap-room. Here he "gives his little senate laws;" decides bets, which
are very generally referred to him; determines upon the characters and
qualities of horses; and indeed plays now and then the part of a judge,
in settling petty disputes between neighbours, which otherwise might
have been nursed by country attorneys into tolerable lawsuits. Jack is
very candid and impartial in his decisions, but he has not a head to
carry a long argument, and is very apt to get perplexed and out of
patience if there is much pleading. He generally breaks through the
argument with a strong voice, and brings matters to a summary
conclusion, by pronouncing what he calls the "upshot of the business,"
or, in other words, "the long and short of the matter."

Jack once made a journey to London, a great many years since, which has
furnished him with topics of conversation ever since. He saw the old
king on the terrace at Windsor, who stopped, and pointed him out to one
of the princesses, being probably struck with Jack's truly yeoman-like
appearance. This is a favourite anecdote with him, and has no doubt had
a great effect in making him a most loyal subject ever since, in spite
of taxes and poor's rates. He was also at Bartholomew-fair, where he had
half the buttons cut off his coat; and a gang of pick-pockets, attracted
by his external show of gold and silver, made a regular attempt to
hustle him as he was gazing at a show; but for once they found that they
had caught a tartar, for Jack enacted as great wonders among the gang as
Samson did among the Philistines. One of his neighbours, who had
accompanied him to town, and was with him at the fair, brought back an
account of his exploits, which raised the pride of the whole village;
who considered their champion as having subdued all London, and eclipsed
the achievements of Friar Tuck, or even the renowned Robin Hood himself.

Of late years the old fellow has begun to take the world easily; he
works less, and indulges in greater leisure, his son having grown up,
and succeeded to him both in the labours of the farm and the exploits of
the green. Like all sons of distinguished men, however, his father's
renown is a disadvantage to him, for he can never come up to public
expectation. Though a fine, active fellow of three-and-twenty, and
quite the "cock of the walk," yet the old people declare he is nothing
like what Ready-Money Jack was at his time of life. The youngster
himself acknowledges his inferiority, and has a wonderful opinion of the
old man, who indeed taught him all his athletic accomplishments, and
holds such a sway over him, that I am told, even to this day, he would
have no hesitation to take him in hands, if he rebelled against paternal
government.

The squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and shows him to all his
visitors as a specimen of old English "heart of oak." He frequently
calls at his house, and tastes some of his home-brewed, which is
excellent. He made Jack a present of old Tusser's Hundred Points of good
Husbandrie, which has furnished him with reading ever since, and is his
text-book and manual in all agricultural and domestic concerns. He has
made dog's ears at the most favourite passages, and knows many of the
poetical maxims by heart.

Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or fluttered by high
acquaintances; and though he cherishes a sturdy independence of mind and
manner, yet is evidently gratified by the attentions of the squire,
whom he has known from boyhood, and pronounces "a true gentleman every
inch of him." He is also on excellent terms with Master Simon, who is a
kind of privy councillor to the family; but his great favourite is the
Oxonian, whom he taught to wrestle and play at quarter-staff when a boy,
and considers the most promising young gentleman in the whole county.

[Illustration: Quarter-Staff]




[Illustration: Mulligatawney Club]

BACHELORS.

    The Bachelor most joyfully
      In pleasant plight doth pass his daies,
    Good fellowship and companie
      He doth maintain and kepe alwaies.

    EVANS' OLD BALLADS.


There is no character in the comedy of human life that is more difficult
to play well than that of an old bachelor. When a single gentleman,
therefore, arrives at that critical period when he begins to consider it
an impertinent question to be asked his age, I would advise him to look
well to his ways. This period, it is true, is much later with some men
than with others; I have witnessed more than once the meeting of two
wrinkled old lads of this kind, who had not seen each other for several
years, and have been amused by the amicable exchange of compliments on
each other's appearance that takes place on such occasions. There is
always one invariable observation, "Why, bless my soul! you look younger
than when last I saw you!" Whenever a man's friends begin to compliment
him about looking young, he may be sure that they think he is growing
old.

I am led to make these remarks by the conduct of Master Simon and the
general, who have become great cronies. As the former is the younger by
many years, he is regarded as quite a youthful gallant by the general,
who moreover looks upon him as a man of great wit and prodigious
acquirements. I have already hinted that Master Simon is a family beau,
and considered rather a young fellow by all the elderly ladies of the
connexion; for an old bachelor, in an old family connexion, is something
like an actor in a regular dramatic corps, who seems "to flourish in
immortal youth," and will continue to play the Romeos and Rangers for
half a century together.

Master Simon, too, is a little of the chameleon, and takes a different
hue with every different companion; he is very attentive and officious,
and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lillycraft; copies out little
namby-pamby ditties and love-songs for her, and draws quivers, and
doves, and darts, and Cupids, to be worked in the corners of her pocket
handkerchiefs. He indulges, however, in very considerable latitude with
the other married ladies of the family; and has many sly pleasantries to
whisper to them, that provoke an equivocal laugh and tap of the fan. But
when he gets among young company, such as Frank Bracebridge, the
Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to put on the mad wig, and to talk
in a very bachelor-like strain about the sex.

In this he has been encouraged by the example of the general, whom he
looks up to as a man who has seen the world. The general, in fact, tells
shocking stories after dinner, when the ladies have retired, which he
gives as some of the choice things that are served up at the
Mulligatawney Club, a knot of boon companions in London. He also repeats
the fat jokes of old Major Pendergast, the wit of the club, and which,
though the general can hardly repeat them for laughing, always make Mr.
Bracebridge look grave, he having a great antipathy to an indecent
jest. In a word, the general is a complete instance of the declension in
gay life, by which a young man of pleasure is apt to cool down into an
obscene old gentleman.

[Illustration: "I saw him and Master Simon conversing with a buxom
milkmaid in a meadow."--PAGE 87.]

I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two since, conversing with a
buxom milkmaid in a meadow; and from their elbowing each other now and
then, and the general's shaking his shoulders, blowing up his cheeks,
and breaking out into a short fit of irrepressible laughter, I had no
doubt they were playing the mischief with the girl.

As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but think they would
have made a tolerable group for a modern picture of Susannah and the two
elders. It is true the girl seemed in no wise alarmed at the force of
the enemy; and I question, had either of them been alone, whether she
would not have been more than they would have ventured to encounter.
Such veteran roisters are daring wags when together, and will put any
female to the blush with their jokes; but they are as quiet as lambs
when they fall singly into the clutches of a fine woman.

In spite of the general's years, he evidently is a little vain of his
person, and ambitious of conquests. I have observed him on Sunday in
church eyeing the country girls most suspiciously; and have seen him
leer upon them with a downright amorous look, even when he has been
gallanting Lady Lillycraft with great ceremony through the churchyard.
The general, in fact, is a veteran in the service of Cupid rather than
of Mars, having signalised himself in all the garrison towns and country
quarters, and seen service in every ball-room of England. Not a
celebrated beauty but he has laid siege to; and if his words may be
taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to be over veracious, it is
incredible what success he has had with the fair. At present he is like
a worn-out warrior, retired from service; but who still cocks his beaver
with a military air, and talks stoutly of fighting whenever he comes
within the smell of gunpowder.

I have heard him speak his mind very freely over his bottle, about the
folly of the captain in taking a wife; as he thinks a young soldier
should care for nothing but his "bottle and kind landlady." But, in
fact, he says, the service on the continent has had a sad effect upon
the young men; they have been ruined by light wines and French
quadrilles. "They've nothing," he says, "of the spirit of the old
service. There are none of your six-bottle men left, that were the souls
of a mess-dinner, and used to play the very deuce among the women."

As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a free and easy man,
with no baggage to take care of but his portmanteau; but, as Major
Pendergast says, a married man, with his wife hanging on his arm, always
puts him in mind of a chamber candlestick, with its extinguisher hitched
to it. I should not mind all this if it were merely confined to the
general; but I fear he will be the ruin of my friend, Master Simon, who
already begins to echo his heresies, and to talk in the style of a
gentleman that has seen life, and lived upon the town. Indeed, the
general seems to have taken Master Simon in hand, and talks of showing
him the lions when he comes to town, and of introducing him to a knot of
choice spirits at the Mulligatawney Club; which, I understand, is
composed of old nabobs, officers in the Company's employ, and other "men
of Ind," that have seen service in the East, and returned home burnt out
with curry and touched with the liver complaint. They have their
regular club, where they eat Mulligatawney soup, smoke the hookah, talk
about Tippoo Saib, Seringapatam, and tiger-hunting; and are tediously
agreeable in each other's company.

[Illustration: Conjugal Extinguisher]




[Illustration: A Literary Antiquary]

A LITERARY ANTIQUARY.

     Printed bookes he contemnes, as a novelty of this latter age;
     but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly; especially if the
     cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis
     between every syllable.

     MICO-COSMOGRAPHIE, 1628.


The squire receives great sympathy and support in his antiquated humours
from the parson, of whom I made some mention on my former visit to the
Hall, and who acts as a kind of family chaplain. He has been cherished
by the squire almost constantly since the time that they were
fellow-students at Oxford; for it is one of the peculiar advantages of
these great universities that they often link the poor scholar to the
rich patron, by early and heartfelt ties, that last through life,
without the usual humiliations of dependence and patronage. Under the
fostering protection of the squire, therefore, the little parson has
pursued his studies in peace. Having lived almost entirely among books,
and those, too, old books, he is quite ignorant of the world, and his
mind is as antiquated as the garden at the Hall, where the flowers are
all arranged in formal beds, and the yew-trees clipped into urns and
peacocks.

His taste for literary antiquities was first imbibed in the Bodleian
Library at Oxford; where, when a student, he passed many an hour
foraging among the old manuscripts. He has since, at different times,
visited most of the curious libraries in England, and has ransacked many
of the cathedrals. With all his quaint and curious learning, he has
nothing of arrogance or pedantry; but that unaffected earnestness and
guileless simplicity which seem to belong to the literary antiquary.

He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather dry in his manner: yet, on
his favourite theme, he kindles up, and at times is even eloquent. No
fox-hunter, recounting his last day's sport, could be more animated than
I have seen the worthy parson, when relating his search after a curious
document, which he had traced from library to library, until he fairly
unearthed it in the dusty chapter-house of a cathedral. When, too, he
describes some venerable manuscript, with its rich illuminations, its
thick creamy vellum, its glossy ink, and the odour of the cloisters that
seemed to exhale from it he rivals the enthusiasm of a Parisian epicure,
expatiating on the merits of a Perigord pie, or a _Pate de Strasbourg_.

His brain seems absolutely haunted with love-sick dreams about gorgeous
old works in "silk linings, triple gold bands, and tinted leather,
locked up in wire cases, and secured from the vulgar hands of the mere
reader;" and, to continue the happy expression of an ingenious writer,
"dazzling one's eyes, like eastern beauties peering through their
jealousies."

He has a great desire, however, to read such works in the old libraries
and chapter-houses to which they belong; for he thinks a black-letter
volume reads best in one of those venerable chambers where the light
struggles through dusty lancet windows and painted glass; and that it
loses half its zest if taken away from the neighbourhood of the
quaintly carved oaken book-case and Gothic reading-desk. At his
suggestion, the squire has had the library furnished in this antique
taste, and several of the windows glazed with painted glass, that they
may throw a properly tempered light upon the pages of their favourite
old authors.

The parson, I am told, has been for some time meditating a commentary on
Strutt, Brand, and Douce, in which he means to detect them in sundry
dangerous errors in respect to popular games and superstitions; a work
to which the squire looks forward with great interest. He is also a
casual contributor to that long-established repository of national
customs and antiquities, the Gentleman's Magazine, and is one of those
that every now and then make an inquiry concerning some obsolete customs
or rare legend; nay, it is said that several of his communications have
been at least six inches in length. He frequently receives parcels by
coach from different parts of the kingdom, containing mouldy volumes and
almost illegible manuscripts; for it is singular what an active
correspondence is kept up among literary antiquaries, and how soon the
fame of any rare volume, or unique copy, just discovered among the
rubbish of a library, is circulated among them. The parson is more busy
than common just now, being a little flurried by an advertisement of a
work, said to be preparing for the press, on the mythology of the middle
ages. The little man has long been gathering together all the hobgoblin
tales he could collect, illustrative of the superstitions of former
times; and he is in a complete fever lest this formidable rival should
take the field before him.

[Illustration: A Bookworm]

Shortly after my arrival at the Hall, I called at the parsonage, in
company with Mr. Bracebridge and the general. The parson had not been
seen for several days, which was a matter of some surprise, as he was an
almost daily visitor at the Hall. We found him in his study, a small,
dusky chamber, lighted by a lattice window that looked into the
churchyard, and was overshadowed by a yew-tree. His chair was surrounded
by folios and quartos, piled upon the floor, and his table was covered
with books and manuscripts. The cause of his seclusion was a work which
he had recently received, and with which he had retired in rapture from
the world, and shut himself up to enjoy a literary honeymoon
undisturbed. Never did boarding-school girl devour the pages of a
sentimental novel, or Don Quixote a chivalrous romance, with more
intense delight than did the little man banquet on the pages of this
delicious work. It was Dibdin's Bibliographical Tour; a work calculated
to have as intoxicating an effect on the imaginations of literary
antiquaries, as the adventures of the heroes of the Round Table on all
true knights; or the tales of the early American voyagers on the ardent
spirits of the age, filling them with dreams of Mexican and Peruvian
mines, and of the golden realm of El Dorado.

The good parson had looked forward to this bibliographical expedition as
of far greater importance than those to Africa, or the North Pole. With
what eagerness had he seized upon the history of the enterprise! With
what interest had he followed the redoubtable bibliographer and his
graphical squire in their adventurous roamings among Norman castles and
cathedrals, and French libraries, and German convents and universities;
penetrating into the prison-houses of vellum manuscripts and exquisitely
illuminated missals, and revealing their beauties to the world!

When the parson had finished a rapturous eulogy on this most curious and
entertaining work, he drew forth from a little drawer a manuscript
lately received from a correspondent, which perplexed him sadly. It was
written in Norman-French in very ancient characters, and so faded and
mouldered away as to be almost illegible. It was apparently an old
Norman drinking song, that might have been brought over by one of
William the Conqueror's carousing followers. The writing was just
legible enough to keep a keen antiquity hunter on a doubtful chase;
here and there he would be completely thrown out, and then there would
be a few words so plainly written as to put him on the scent again. In
this way he had been led on for a whole day, until he had found himself
completely at fault.

The squire endeavoured to assist him, but was equally baffled. The old
general listened for some time to the discussion, and then asked the
parson if he had read Captain Morris's or George Stephens's or Anacreon
Moore's bacchanalian songs; on the other replying in the negative, "Oh,
then," said the general, with a sagacious nod, "if you want a drinking
song, I can furnish you with the latest collection--I did not know you
had a turn for those kind of things; and I can lend you the
Encyclopaedia of Wit into the bargain. I never travel without them;
they're excellent reading at an inn."

It would not be easy to describe the odd look of surprise and perplexity
of the parson at this proposal; or the difficulty the squire had in
making the general comprehend, that though a jovial song of the present
day was but a foolish sound in the ears of wisdom, and beneath the
notice of a learned man, yet a trowl written by a tosspot several
hundred years since was a matter worthy of the gravest research, and
enough to set whole colleges by the ears.

I have since pondered much on this matter, and have figured to myself
what may be the fate of our current literature, when retrieved piecemeal
by future antiquaries, from among the rubbish of ages. What a Magnus
Apollo, for instance, will Moore become among sober divines and dusty
schoolmen! Even his festive and amatory songs, which are now the mere
quickeners of our social moments, or the delights of our drawing-rooms,
will then become matters of laborious research and painful collation.
How many a grave professor will then waste his midnight oil, or worry
his brain through a long morning, endeavouring to restore the pure text,
or illustrate the biographical hints of "Come tell me, says Rosa, as
kissing and kissed;" and how many an arid old book-worm, like the worthy
little parson, will give up in despair, after vainly striving to fill up
some fatal hiatus in "Fanny of Timmol!"

[Illustration: "Come, tell me, says Rosa, as kissing and kissed"]

Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as Moore that are doomed to
consume the oil of future antiquaries. Many a poor scribbler, who is
now apparently sent to oblivion by pastry-cooks and cheesemongers, will
then rise again in fragments, and flourish in learned immortality.

After all, thought I, time is not such an invariable destroyer as he is
represented. If he pulls down, he likewise builds up; if he impoverishes
one, he enriches another; his very dilapidations furnish matter for new
works of controversy, and his rust is more precious than the most costly
gilding. Under his plastic hand trifles rise into importance; the
nonsense of one age becomes the wisdom of another; the levity of the wit
gravitates into the learning of the pedant, and an ancient farthing
moulders into infinitely more value than a modern guinea.




[Illustration: The Farm-House]

THE FARM-HOUSE

                  --Love and hay
    Are thick sown, but come up full of thistles.

    BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.


I was so much pleased with the anecdotes which were told me of
Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, that I got Master Simon, a day or two since,
to take me to his house. It was an old-fashioned farm-house, built of
brick, with curiously twisted chimneys. It stood at a little distance
from the road, with a southern exposure, looking upon a soft green slope
of meadow. There was a small garden in front, with a row of beehives
humming among beds of sweet herbs and flowers. Well-scoured milking
tubs, with bright copper hoops, hung on the garden paling. Fruit trees
were trained up against the cottage, and pots of flowers stood in the
windows. A fat superannuated mastiff lay in the sunshine at the door;
with a sleek cat sleeping peacefully across him.

Mr. Tibbets was from home at the time of our calling, but we were
received with hearty and homely welcome by his wife--a notable, motherly
woman, and a complete pattern for wives, since, according to Master
Simon's account, she never contradicts honest Jack, and yet manages to
have her own way, and to control him in everything. She received us in
the main room of the house, a kind of parlour or hall, with great brown
beams of timber across it, which Mr. Tibbets is apt to point out with
some exultation, observing that they don't put such timber in houses
now-a-days. The furniture was old-fashioned, strong, and highly
polished; the walls were hung with coloured prints of the story of the
Prodigal Son, who was represented in a red coat and leather breeches.
Over the fireplace was a blunderbuss, and a hard-favoured likeness of
Ready-Money Jack, taken, when he was a young man, by the same artist
that painted the tavern sign; his mother having taken a notion that the
Tibbetses had as much right to have a gallery of family portraits as the
folks at the Hall.

The good dame pressed us very much to take some refreshment, and tempted
us with a variety of household dainties, so that we were glad to
compound by tasting some of her home-made wines. While we were there,
the son and heir-apparent came home; a good-looking young fellow, and
something of a rustic beau. He took us over the premises, and showed us
the whole establishment. An air of homely but substantial plenty
prevailed throughout; everything was of the best materials, and in the
best condition. Nothing was out of place, or ill made; and you saw
everywhere the signs of a man that took care to have the worth of his
money, and that paid as he went.

The farm-yard was well stocked; under a shed was a taxed cart, in trim
order, in which Ready-Money Jack took his wife about the country. His
well-fed horse neighed from the stable, and when led out into the yard,
to use the words of young Jack, "he shone like a bottle;" for he said
the old man made it a rule that everything about him should fare as well
as he did himself.

[Illustration: "He shone like a bottle"]

I was pleased to see the pride which the young fellow seemed to have of
his father. He gave us several particulars concerning his habits, which
were pretty much to the effect of those I have already mentioned. He had
never suffered an account to stand in his life, always providing the
money before he purchased anything; and, if possible, paying in gold and
silver. He had a great dislike to paper money, and seldom went without a
considerable sum in gold about him. On my observing that it was a wonder
he had never been waylaid and robbed, the young fellow smiled at the
idea of any one venturing upon such an exploit, for I believe he thinks
the old man would be a match for Robin Hood and all his gang.

I have noticed that Master Simon seldom goes into any house without
having a world of private talk with some one or other of the family,
being a kind of universal counsellor and confidant. We had not been long
at the farm before the old dame got him into a corner of her parlour,
where they had a long whispering conference together; in which I saw by
his shrugs that there were some dubious matters discussed, and by his
nods that he agreed with everything she said.

After we had come out, the young man accompanied us a little distance,
and then, drawing Master Simon aside into a green lane, they walked and
talked together for nearly half-an-hour. Master Simon, who has the usual
propensity of confidants to blab everything to the next friend they meet
with, let me know that there was a love affair in question; the young
fellow having been smitten with the charms of Phoebe Wilkins, the pretty
niece of the housekeeper at the Hall. Like most other love concerns, it
had brought its troubles and perplexities. Dame Tibbets had long been
on intimate gossiping terms with the housekeeper, who often visited the
farm-house; but when the neighbours spoke to her of the likelihood of a
match between her son and Phoebe Wilkins, "Marry come up!" she scouted
the very idea. The girl had acted as lady's maid, and it was beneath the
blood of the Tibbetses, who had lived on their own lands time out of
mind, and owed reverence and thanks to nobody, to have the heir-apparent
marry a servant!

These vapourings had faithfully been carried to the housekeeper's ear by
one of the mutual go-between friends. The old housekeeper's blood, if
not as ancient, was as quick as that of Dame Tibbets.

She had been accustomed to carry a high head at the Hall and among the
villagers; and her faded brocade rustled with indignation at the slight
cast upon her alliance by the wife of a petty farmer. She maintained
that her niece had been a companion rather than a waiting-maid to the
young ladies. "Thank heavens, she was not obliged to work for her
living, and was as idle as any young lady in the land; and when somebody
died, would receive something that would be worth the notice of some
folks with all their ready money."

A bitter feud had thus taken place between the two worthy dames, and the
young people were forbidden to think of one another. As to young Jack,
he was too much in love to reason upon the matter; and being a little
heady, and not standing in much awe of his mother, was ready to
sacrifice the whole dignity of the Tibbetses to his passion. He had
lately, however, had a violent quarrel with his mistress, in consequence
of some coquetry on her part, and at present stood aloof. The politic
mother was exerting all her ingenuity to widen this accidental breach;
but, as is most commonly the case, the more she meddled with this
perverse inclination of her son, the stronger it grew. In the meantime
Old Ready-Money was kept completely in the dark; both parties were in
awe and uncertainty as to what might be his way of taking the matter,
and dreaded to awaken the sleeping lion. Between father and son,
therefore, the worthy Mrs. Tibbets was full of business and at her wits'
end. It is true that there was no great danger of honest Ready-Money's
finding the thing out, if left to himself; for he was of a most
unsuspicious temper, and by no means quick of apprehension; but there
was daily risk of his attention being aroused by those cobwebs which his
indefatigable wife was continually spinning about his nose.

Such is the distracted state of politics in the domestic empire of
Ready-Money Jack; which only shows the intrigues and internal dangers to
which the best regulated governments are liable. In this perplexing
situation of their affairs, both mother and son have applied to Master
Simon for counsel; and, with all his experience in meddling with other
people's concerns, he finds it an exceedingly difficult part to play, to
agree with both parties, seeing that their opinions and wishes are so
diametrically opposite.

[Illustration: A Tailpiece]




[Illustration: Christy on Pepper]

HORSEMANSHIP.

     A coach was a strange monster in those days, and the sight of
     one put both horse and man into amazement. Some said it was a
     great crabshell brought out of China, and some imagined it to
     be one of the Pagan temples in which the Cannibals adored the
     divell.

     TAYLOR, THE WATER POET.


I have made casual mention, more than once, of one of the squire's
antiquated retainers, old Christy the huntsman. I find that his crabbed
humour is a source of much entertainment among the young men of the
family: the Oxonian, particularly, takes a mischievous pleasure now and
then in slyly rubbing the old man against the grain, and then smoothing
him down again; for the old fellow is as ready to bristle up his back
as a porcupine. He rides a venerable hunter called Pepper, which is a
counterpart of himself, a heady, cross-grained animal, that frets the
flesh off its bones; bites, kicks, and plays all manner of villanous
tricks. He is as tough, and nearly as old as his rider, who has ridden
him time out of mind, and is, indeed, the only one that can do anything
with him. Sometimes, however, they have a complete quarrel, and a
dispute for mastery, and then, I am told, it is as good as a farce to
see the heat they both get into, and the wrongheaded contest that
ensues; for they are quite knowing in each other's ways and in the art
of teasing and fretting each other. Notwithstanding these doughty
brawls, however, there is nothing that nettles old Christy sooner than
to question the merits of his horse; which he upholds as tenaciously as
a faithful husband will vindicate the virtues of the termagant spouse
that gives him a curtain lecture every night of his life.

The young men call old Christy their "professor of equitation," and in
accounting for the appellation, they let me into some particulars of the
squire's mode of bringing up his children. There is an odd mixture of
eccentricity and good sense in all the opinions of my worthy host. His
mind is like modern Gothic, where plain brick-work is set off with
pointed arches and plain tracery. Though the main groundwork of his
opinions is correct, yet he has a thousand little notions, picked up
from old books, which stand out whimsically on the surface of his mind.

Thus, in educating his boys, he chose Peachum, Markham, and such old
English writers for his manuals. At an early age he took the lads out of
their mother's hands, who was disposed, as mothers are apt to be, to
make fine orderly children of them, that should keep out of sun and
rain, and never soil their hands, nor tear their clothes.

In place of this, the squire turned them loose, to run free and wild
about the park, without heeding wind or weather. He was also
particularly attentive in making them bold and expert horsemen; and
these were the days when old Christy, the huntsman, enjoyed great
importance, as the lads were put under his care to practise them at the
leaping-bars, and to keep an eye upon them in the chase.

The squire always objected to their using carriages of any kind, and is
still a little tenacious on this point. He often rails against the
universal use of carriages, and quotes the words of honest Nashe to that
effect. "It was thought," says Nashe, in his Quaternio, "a kind of
solecism, and to savour of effeminacy, for a young gentleman in the
flourishing time of his age to creep into a coach, and to shroud himself
from wind and weather: our great delight was to out-brave the blustering
boreas upon a great horse; to arm and prepare ourselves to go with Mars
and Bellona into the field was our sport and pastime; coaches and
caroches we left unto them for whom they were first invented, for ladies
and gentlemen, and decrepit age and impotent people."

The squire insists that the English gentlemen have lost much of their
hardiness and manhood since the introduction of carriages. "Compare," he
will say, "the fine gentleman of former times, ever on horseback, booted
and spurred, and travel-stained, but open, frank, manly, and chivalrous,
with the fine gentleman of the present day, full of affectation and
effeminacy, rolling along a turnpike in his voluptuous vehicle. The
young men of those days were rendered brave, and lofty, and generous,
in their notions, by almost living in their saddles, and having their
foaming steeds 'like proud seas under them.' There is something," he
adds, "in bestriding a fine horse, that makes a man feel more than
mortal. He seems to have doubled his nature, and to have added to his
own courage and sagacity the power, the speed, and stateliness of the
superb animal on which he is mounted."

[Illustration: A Hunter]

"It is a great delight," says old Nashe, "to see a young gentleman with
his skill and cunning, by his voice, rod, and spur, better to manage and
to command the great Bucephalus, than the strongest Milo, with all his
strength; one while to see him make him tread, trot, and gallop the
ring; and one after to see him make him gather up roundly; to bear his
head steadily; to run a full career swiftly; to stop a sudden lightly;
anon after to see him make him advance, to yorke, to go back and side
long, to turn on either hand; to gallop the gallop galliard; to do the
capriole, the chambetta, and dance the curvetty."

In conformity to these ideas, the squire had them all on horseback at an
early age, and made them ride, slap-dash, about the country, without
flinching at hedge or ditch, or stone wall, to the imminent danger of
their necks.

Even the fair Julia was partially included in this system; and, under
the instructions of old Christy, has become one of the best horsewomen
in the county. The squire says it is better than all the cosmetics and
sweeteners of the breath that ever were invented. He extols the
horsemanship of the ladies in former times, when Queen Elizabeth would
scarcely suffer the rain to stop her accustomed ride. "And then think,"
he will say, "what nobler and sweeter beings it made them. What a
difference must there be, both in mind and body, between a joyous
high-spirited dame of those days, glowing with health and exercise,
freshened by every breeze that blows, seated loftily and gracefully on
her saddle, with plume on head, and hawk on hand, and her descendant of
the present day, the pale victim of routs and ball-rooms, sunk languidly
in one corner of an enervating carriage."

The squire's equestrian system has been attended with great success, for
his sons, having passed through the whole course of instruction without
breaking neck or limb, are now healthful, spirited, and active, and have
the true Englishman's love for a horse. If their manliness and frankness
are praised in their father's hearing, he quotes the old Persian maxim,
and says, they have been taught "to ride, to shoot, and to speak the
truth."

It is true the Oxonian has now and then practised the old gentleman's
doctrines a little in the extreme. He is a gay youngster, rather fonder
of his horse than his book, with a little dash of the dandy; though the
ladies all declare that he is "the flower of the flock." The first year
that he was sent to Oxford, he had a tutor appointed to overlook him, a
dry chip of the university. When he returned home in the vacation, the
squire made many inquiries about how he liked his college, his studies,
and his tutor. "Oh, as to my tutor, sir, I have parted with him some
time since." "You have; and, pray, why so?" "Oh, sir, hunting was all
the go at our college, and I was a little short of funds; so I
discharged my tutor, and took a horse, you know." "Ah, I was not aware
of that, Tom," said the squire, mildly.

When Tom returned to college his allowance was doubled, that he might be
enabled to keep both horse and tutor.

[Illustration: The Tutor's Dismissal]




[Illustration: The Offering]

LOVE SYMPTOMS.

     I will now begin to sigh, read poets, look pale, go neatly,
     and be most apparently in love.

     MARSTON.


I should not be surprised if we should have another pair of turtles at
the Hall, for Master Simon has informed me, in great confidence, that he
suspects the general of some design upon the susceptible heart of Lady
Lillycraft. I have, indeed, noticed a growing attention and courtesy in
the veteran towards her ladyship; he softens very much in her company,
sits by her at table, and entertains her with long stories about
Seringapatam, and pleasant anecdotes of the Mulligatawney Club. I have
even seen him present her with a full-blown rose from the hot-house, in
a style of the most captivating gallantry, and it was accepted with
great suavity and graciousness; for her ladyship delights in receiving
the homage and attention of the sex.

Indeed, the general was one of the earliest admirers that dangled in her
train during her short reign of beauty; and they flirted together for
half a season in London, some thirty or forty years since. She reminded
him lately, in the course of conversation about former days, of the time
when he used to ride a white horse, and to canter so gallantly by the
side of her carriage in Hyde Park; whereupon I have remarked that the
veteran has regularly escorted her since, when she rides out on
horseback; and I suspect he almost persuades himself that he makes as
captivating an appearance as in his youthful days.

It would be an interesting and memorable circumstance in the chronicles
of Cupid, if this spark of the tender passion, after lying dormant for
such a length of time, should again be fanned into a flame from amidst
the ashes of two burnt-out hearts. It would be an instance of
perdurable fidelity, worthy of being placed beside those recorded in one
of the squire's favourite tomes, commemorating the constancy of the
olden times; in which times, we are told, "men and wymmen coulde love
togyders seven yeres, and no licours luste swere betwene them, and
thenne was love, trouthe, and feythfulness; and lo in lyke wyse was used
love in Kyng Arthur's dayes."[A]

[Footnote A: Mort d'Arthur.]

Still, however, this may be nothing but a little venerable flirtation,
the general being a veteran dangler, and the good lady habituated to
these kind of attentions. Master Simon, on the other hand, thinks the
general is looking about him with the wary eye of an old campaigner; and
now that he is on the wane, is desirous of getting into warm winter
quarters.

Much allowance, however, must be made for Master Simon's uneasiness on
the subject, for he looks on Lady Lillycraft's house as one of the
strongholds where he is lord of the ascendant; and, with all his
admiration of the general, I much doubt whether he would like to see him
lord of the lady and the establishment.

There are certain other symptoms, notwithstanding, that give an air of
probability to Master Simon's intimations. Thus, for instance, I have
observed that the general has been very assiduous in his attentions to
her ladyship's dogs, and has several times exposed his fingers to
imminent jeopardy in attempting to pat Beauty on the head. It is to be
hoped his advances to the mistress will be more favourably received, as
all his overtures towards a caress are greeted by the pestilent little
cur with a wary kindling of the eye, and a most venomous growl. He has,
moreover, been very complaisant towards the lady's gentlewoman, the
immaculate Mrs. Hannah, whom he used to speak of in a way that I do not
choose to mention. Whether she has the same suspicions with Master Simon
or not, I cannot say; but she receives his civilities with no better
grace than the implacable Beauty; unscrewing her mouth into a most acid
smile, and looking as though she could bite a piece out of him. In
short, the poor general seems to have as formidable foes to contend with
as a hero of ancient fairy tale, who had to fight his way to his
enchanted princess through ferocious monsters of every kind, and to
encounter the brimstone terrors of some fiery dragon.

[Illustration: Mrs. Hannah]

There is still another circumstance which inclines me to give very
considerable credit to Master Simon's suspicions. Lady Lillycraft is
very fond of quoting poetry, and the conversation often turns upon it,
on which occasions the general is thrown completely out. It happened the
other day that Spenser's Fairy Queen was the theme for the great part of
the morning, and the poor general sat perfectly silent. I found him not
long after in the library with spectacles on nose, a book in his hand,
and fast asleep. On my approach he awoke, slipped the spectacles into
his pocket, and began to read very attentively. After a little while he
put a paper in the place, and laid the volume aside, which I perceived
was the Fairy Queen. I have had the curiosity to watch how he got on in
his poetical studies; but though I have repeatedly seen him with the
book in his hand, yet I find the paper has not advanced above three or
four pages; the general being extremely apt to fall asleep when he
reads.

[Illustration: Asleep When He Reads]




[Illustration: Falconry in Olden Times]

FALCONRY.

    Ne is there hawk which mantleth on her perch,
      Whether high tow'ring or accousting low,
    But I the measure of her flight doe search,
      And all her prey and all her diet know.

    SPENSER.


There are several grand sources of lamentation furnished to the worthy
squire, by the improvement of society, and the grievous advancement of
knowledge; among which there is none, I believe, that causes him more
frequent regret than the unfortunate invention of gunpowder. To this he
continually traces the decay of some favourite custom, and, indeed, the
general downfall of all chivalrous and romantic usages. "English
soldiers," he says, "have never been the men they were in the days of
the cross-bow and the long-bow; when they depended upon the strength of
the arm, and the English archer could draw a cloth-yard shaft to the
head. These were the times when, at the battles of Cressy, Poictiers,
and Agincourt, the French chivalry was completely destroyed by the
bowmen of England. The yeomanry, too, have never been what they were,
when, in times of peace, they were constantly exercised with the bow,
and archery was a favourite holiday pastime."

Among the other evils which have followed in the train of this fatal
invention of gunpowder, the squire classes the total decline of the
noble art of falconry. "Shooting," he says, "is a skulking, treacherous,
solitary sport in comparison; but hawking was a gallant, open, sunshiny
recreation; it was the generous sport of hunting carried into the
skies."

"It was, moreover," he says, "according to Braithewaite, the stately
amusement of high and mounting spirits; for, as the old Welsh proverb
affirms, in those times 'You might know a gentleman by his hawk, horse,
and greyhound.' Indeed, a cavalier was seldom seen abroad without his
hawk on his fist; and even a lady of rank did not think herself
completely equipped, in riding forth, unless she had her tassel-gentel
held by jesses on her delicate hand. It was thought in those excellent
days, according to an old writer, 'quite sufficient for noblemen to
winde their horn, and to carry their hawke fair; and leave study and
learning to the children of mean people.'"

Knowing the good squire's hobby, therefore, I have not been surprised at
finding that, among the various recreations of former times which he has
endeavoured to revive in the little world in which he rules, he has
bestowed great attention on the noble art of falconry. In this he of
course has been seconded by his indefatigable coadjutor, Master Simon:
and even the parson has thrown considerable light on their labours, by
various hints on the subject, which he has met with in old English
works. As to the precious work of that famous dame, Julianna Barnes; the
Gentleman's Academie, by Markham; and the other well-known treatises
that were the manuals of ancient sportsmen, they have them at their
fingers' ends: but they have more especially studied some old tapestry
in the house, whereon is represented a party of cavaliers and stately
dames, with doublets, caps, and flaunting feathers, mounted on horse,
with attendants on foot, all in animated pursuit of the game.

The squire has discountenanced the killing of any hawks in his
neighbourhood, but gives a liberal bounty for all that are brought him
alive; so that the Hall is well stocked with all kinds of birds of prey.
On these he and Master Simon have exhausted their patience and
ingenuity, endeavouring to "reclaim" them, as it is termed, and to train
them up for the sport; but they have met with continual checks and
disappointments. Their feathered school has turned out the most
intractable and graceless scholars; nor is it the least of their trouble
to drill the retainers who were to act as ushers under them, and to take
immediate charge of these refractory birds. Old Christy and the
gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces against the whole plan of
education; Christy having been nettled at hearing what he terms a
wild-goose chase put on a par with a fox-hunt; and the gamekeeper having
always been accustomed to look upon hawks as arrant poachers, which it
was his duty to shoot down, and nail, _in terrorem_, against the
out-houses.

Christy has at length taken the matter in hand, but has done still more
mischief by his intermeddling. He is as positive and wrongheaded about
this as he is about hunting. Master Simon has continual disputes with
him as to feeding and training the hawks. He reads to him long passages
from the old authors I have mentioned; but Christy, who cannot read, has
a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, and persists in treating
the hawks according to his own notions, which are drawn from his
experience, in younger days, in rearing of game cocks.

[Illustration: Physicking the Hawks]

The consequence is, that, between these jarring systems, the poor birds
have had a most trying and unhappy time of it. Many have fallen victims
to Christy's feeding and Master Simon's physicking; for the latter has
gone to work _secundum artem_, and has given them all the vomitings and
scourings laid down in the books; never were poor hawks so fed and
physicked before. Others have been lost by being but half "reclaimed,"
or tamed; for on being taken into the field, they have "raked," after
the game quite out of hearing of the call, and never returned to school.

All these disappointments had been petty, yet sore grievances to the
squire, and had made him to despond about success. He has lately,
however, been made happy by the receipt of a fine Welsh falcon, which
Master Simon terms a stately highflyer. It is a present from the
squire's friend, Sir Watkyn Williams Wynn; and is, no doubt, a
descendant of some ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that have
long lorded it over their kingdom of clouds, from Wynnstay to the very
summit of Snowdon, or the brow of Penmanmawr. Ever since the squire
received this invaluable present he has been as impatient to sally forth
and make proof of it as was Don Quixote to assay his suit of armour.
There have been some demurs as to whether the bird was in proper health
and training; but these have been overruled by the vehement desire to
play with a new toy; and it has been determined, right or wrong, in
season or out of season, to have a day's sport in hawking to-morrow.

The Hall, as usual, whenever the squire is about to make some new sally
on his hobby, is all agog with the thing. Miss Templeton, who is brought
up in reverence for all her guardian's humours, has proposed to be of
the party, and Lady Lillycraft has talked also of riding out to the
scene of action and looking on. This has gratified the old gentleman
extremely; he hails it as an auspicious omen of the revival of falconry,
and does not despair but the time will come when it will be again the
pride of a fine lady to carry about a noble falcon in preference to a
parrot or a lapdog.

I have amused myself with the bustling preparations of that busy spirit,
Master Simon, and the continual thwartings he receives from that
genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy. They have had half a dozen
consultations about how the hawk is to be prepared for the morning's
sport. Old Nimrod, as usual, has always got in a pet, upon which Master
Simon has invariably given up the point, observing in a good-humoured
tone, "Well, well, have it your own way, Christy; only don't put
yourself in a passion;" a reply which always nettles the old man ten
times more than ever.

[Illustration: "Well, well, have it your own way, Christy!"]




[Illustration: Hawking]

HAWKING.

    The soaring hawk, from fist that flies,
      Her falconer doth constrain
    Sometimes to range the ground about
      To find her out again;
    And if by sight, or sound of bell,
      His falcon he may see,
    Wo ho! he cries, with cheerful voice--
      The gladdest man is he.

    HANDEFULL OF PLEASANT DELITES.


At an early hour this morning the Hall was in a bustle, preparing for
the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whistling and singing under
my window at sunrise, as he was preparing the jesses for the hawk's
legs, and could distinguish now and then a stanza of one of his
favourite old ditties:

    "In peascod time, when hound to horn
      Gives note that buck be kill'd;
    And little boy with pipe of corn
      Is tending sheep a-field," etc.

A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was served up in the
great hall. The whole garrison of retainers and hangers-on were in
motion, reinforced by volunteer idlers from the village. The horses were
led up and down before the door; everybody had something to say and
something to do, and hurried hither and thither; there was a direful
yelping of dogs; some that were to accompany us being eager to set off,
and others that were to stay at home being whipped back to their
kennels. In short, for once, the good squire's mansion might have been
taken as a good specimen of one of the rantipole establishments of the
good old feudal times.

Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hall prepared to take the
field. The fair Julia was of the party, in a hunting-dress, with a light
plume of feathers in her riding-hat. As she mounted her favourite
Galloway, I remarked, with pleasure, that old Christy forgot his usual
crustiness, and hastened to adjust her saddle and bridle. He touched his
cap as she smiled on him and thanked him; and then, looking round at the
other attendants, gave a knowing nod of his head, in which I read pride
and exultation at the charming appearance of his pupil.

Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to witness the sport. She was
dressed in her broad white beaver, tied under the chin, and a
riding-habit of the last century. She rode her sleek, ambling pony,
whose motion was as easy as a rocking-chair; and was gallantly escorted
by the general, who looked not unlike one of the doughty heroes in the
old prints of the battle of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, accompanied
her on the other side; for this was a learned amusement in which he took
great interest; and, indeed, had given much counsel, from his knowledge
of old customs.

At length everything was arranged, and off we set from the Hall. The
exercise on horseback puts one in fine spirits; and the scene was gay
and animating. The young men of the family accompanied Miss Templeton.
She sat lightly and gracefully in her saddle, her plumes dancing and
waving in the air; and the group had a charming effect as they appeared
and disappeared among the trees, cantering along with the bounding
animation of youth. The squire and Master Simon rode together,
accompanied by old Christy mounted on Pepper. The latter bore the hawk
on his fist, as he insisted the bird was most accustomed to him. There
was a rabble rout on foot, composed of retainers from the Hall, and some
idlers from the village, with two or three spaniels for the purpose of
starting the game.

A kind of corps de reserve came on quietly in the rear, composed of Lady
Lillycraft, General Harbottle, the parson, and a fat footman. Her
ladyship ambled gently along on her pony, while the general, mounted on
a tall hunter, looked down upon her with an air of the most protecting
gallantry.

For my part, being no sportsman, I kept with this last party, or rather
lagged behind, that I might take in the whole picture; and the parson
occasionally slackened his pace and jogged on in company with me.

The