Bracebridge Hall written by Washington Irving
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Washington Irving >> Bracebridge Hall
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It was a beautiful morning, of that soft vernal temperature, that seems
to thaw all the frost out of one's blood, and to set all nature in a
ferment. The very fishes felt its influence: the cautious trout ventured
out of his dark hole to seek his mate, the roach and the dace rose up to
the surface of the brook to bask in the sunshine, and the amorous frog
piped from among the rushes. If ever an oyster can really fall in love,
as has been said or sung, it must be on such a morning.
The weather certainly had its effect even upon Master Simon, for he
seemed obstinately bent upon the pensive mood. Instead of stepping
briskly along, smacking his dog-whip, whistling quaint ditties, or
telling sporting anecdotes, he leaned on my arm, and talked about the
approaching nuptials; from whence he made several digressions upon the
character of womankind, touched a little upon the tender passion, and
made sundry very excellent, though rather trite, observations upon
disappointments in love. It was evident that he had something on his
mind which he wished to impart, but felt awkward in approaching it. I
was curious to see to what this strain would lead; but I was determined
not to assist him. Indeed, I mischievously pretended to turn the
conversation, and talked of his usual topics, dogs, horses, and hunting;
but he was very brief in his replies, and invariably got back, by hook
or by crook, into the sentimental vein.
[Illustration: "Here Master Simon made a pause, pulled up a tuft of
flowers, and threw them one by one into the water."--PAGE 165.]
At length we came to a clump of trees that overhung a whispering brook,
with a rustic bench at their feet. The trees were grievously scored with
letters and devices, which had grown out of all shape and size by the
growth of the bark: and it appeared that this grove had served as a kind
of register of the family loves from time immemorial. Here Master Simon
made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, threw them one by one into
the water, and at length, turning somewhat abruptly upon me, asked me if
ever I had been in love. I confess the question startled me a little, as
I am not over fond of making confessions of my amorous follies; and,
above all, should never dream of choosing my friend Master Simon for a
confidant. He did not wait, however, for a reply; the inquiry was merely
a prelude to a confession on his own part, and after several
circumlocutions and whimsical preambles, he fairly disburthened himself
of a very tolerable story of his having been crossed in love.
The reader will, very probably, suppose that it related to the gay widow
who jilted him not long since at Doncaster races;--no such thing. It was
about a sentimental passion that he once had for a most beautiful young
lady, who wrote poetry and played on the harp. He used to serenade her;
and indeed he described several tender and gallant scenes, in which he
was evidently picturing himself in his mind's eye as some elegant hero
of romance, though, unfortunately for the tale, I only saw him as he
stood before me, a dapper little old bachelor, with a face like an apple
that has dried with the bloom on it.
What were the particulars of this tender tale I have already forgotten;
indeed I listened to it with a heart like a very pebble stone, having
hard work to repress a smile while Master Simon was putting on the
amorous swain, uttering every now and then a sigh, and endeavouring to
look sentimental and melancholy.
All that I recollect is, that the lady, according to his account, was
certainly a little touched; for she used to accept all the music that he
copied for her harp, and all the patterns that he drew for her dresses;
and he began to flatter himself, after a long course of delicate
attentions, that he was gradually fanning up a gentle flame in her
heart, when she suddenly accepted the hand of a rich, boisterous,
fox-hunting baronet, without either music or sentiment, who carried her
by storm, after a fortnight's courtship.
Master Simon could not help concluding by some observation upon "modest
merit," and the power of gold over the sex. As a remembrance of his
passion, he pointed out a heart carved on the bark of one of the trees;
but which, in the process of time, had grown out into a large
excrescence; and he showed me a lock of her hair, which he wore in a
true lover's knot, in a large gold brooch.
I have seldom met with an old bachelor that had not, at some time or
other, his nonsensical moment, when he would become tender and
sentimental, talk about the concerns of the heart, and have some
confession of a delicate nature to make. Almost every man has some
little trait of romance in his life, which he looks back to with
fondness, and about which he is apt to grow garrulous occasionally. He
recollects himself as he was at the time, young and gamesome; and
forgets that his hearers have no other idea of the hero of the tale, but
such as he may appear at the time of telling it; peradventure, a
withered, whimsical, spindle-shanked old gentleman. With married men, it
is true, this is not so frequently the case; their amorous romance is
apt to decline after marriage; why, I cannot for the life of me imagine;
but with a bachelor, though it may slumber, it never dies. It is always
liable to break out again in transient flashes, and never so much as on
a spring morning in the country; or on a winter evening, when seated in
his solitary chamber, stirring up the fire and talking of matrimony.
The moment that Master Simon had gone through his confession, and, to
use the common phrase, "had made a clean breast of it," he became quite
himself again. He had settled the point which had been worrying his
mind, and doubtless considered himself established as a man of sentiment
in my opinion. Before we had finished our morning's stroll, he was
singing as blithe as a grasshopper, whistling to his dogs, and telling
droll stories; and I recollect that he was particularly facetious that
day at dinner on the subject of matrimony, and uttered several excellent
jokes not to be found in Joe Miller, that made the bride-elect blush and
look down, but set all the old gentlemen at the table in a roar, and
absolutely brought tears into the general's eyes.
[Illustration: Gentlemen's Jokes]
[Illustration: Starlight Tom on the Watch]
GIPSIES.
What's that to absolute freedom, such as the very beggars
have; to feast and revel here to-day, and yonder to-morrow;
next day where they please; and so on still, the whole country
or kingdom over? There's liberty! the birds of the air can
take no more.
JOVIAL CREW.
Since the meeting with the gipsies, which I have related in a former
paper, I have observed several of them haunting the purlieus of the
Hall, in spite of a positive interdiction of the squire. They are part
of a gang that has long kept about this neighbourhood, to the great
annoyance of the farmers, whose poultry-yards often suffer from their
nocturnal invasions. They are, however, in some measure, patronised by
the squire, who considers the race as belonging to the good old times;
which, to confess the private truth, seem to have abounded with
good-for-nothing characters.
This roving crew is called "Starlight Tom's Gang," from the name of its
chieftain, a notorious poacher. I have heard repeatedly of the misdeeds
of this "minion of the moon;" for every midnight depredation that takes
place in park, or fold, or farm-yard, is laid to his charge. Starlight
Tom, in fact, answers to his name; he seems to walk in darkness, and,
like a fox, to be traced in the morning by the mischief he has done. He
reminds me of that fearful personage in the nursery rhyme:
"Who goes round the house at night?
None but bloody Tom!
Who steals all the sheep at night?
None but one by one!"
In short, Starlight Tom is the scapegoat of the neighbourhood; but so
cunning and adroit, that there is no detecting him. Old Christy and the
gamekeeper have watched many a night in hopes of entrapping him; and
Christy often patrols the park with his dogs, for the purpose, but all
in vain. It is said that the squire winks hard at his misdeeds, having
an indulgent feeling towards the vagabond, because of his being very
expert at all kinds of games, a great shot with the cross-bow, and the
best morris dancer in the country.
The squire also suffers the gang to lurk unmolested about the skirts of
his estate, on condition that they do not come about the house. The
approaching wedding, however, has made a kind of Saturnalia at the Hall,
and has caused a suspension of all sober rule. It has produced a great
sensation throughout the female part of the household; not a housemaid
but dreams of wedding favours, and has a husband running in her head.
Such a time is a harvest for the gipsies: there is a public footpath
leading across one part of the park, by which they have free ingress,
and they are continually hovering about the grounds, telling the servant
girls' fortunes, or getting smuggled in to the young ladies.
I believe the Oxonian amuses himself very much by furnishing them with
hints in private, and bewildering all the weak brains in the house with
their wonderful revelations. The general certainly was very much
astonished by the communications made to him the other evening by the
gipsy girl: he kept a wary silence towards us on the subject, and
affected to treat it lightly; but I have noticed that he has since
redoubled his attentions to Lady Lillycraft and her dogs.
I have seen also Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's pretty and love-sick
niece, holding a long conference with one of these old sibyls behind a
large tree in the avenue, and often looking round to see that she was
not observed. I make no doubt that she was endeavouring to get some
favourable augury about the result of her love quarrel with young
Ready-Money, as oracles have always been more consulted on love affairs
than upon anything else. I fear, however, that in this instance the
response was not so favourable as usual, for I perceived poor Phoebe
returning pensively towards the house; her head hanging down, her hat in
her hand, and the riband trailing along the ground.
At another time, as I turned a corner of a terrace, at the bottom of the
garden, just by a clump of trees, and a large stone urn, I came upon a
bevy of the young girls of the family, attended by this same Phoebe
Wilkins. I was at a loss to comprehend the meaning of their blushing and
giggling, and their apparent agitation, until I saw the red cloak of a
gipsy vanishing among the shrubbery. A few moments after, I caught sight
of Master Simon and the Oxonian stealing along one of the walks of the
garden, chuckling and laughing at their successful waggery; having
evidently put the gipsy up to the thing, and instructed her what to say.
[Illustration: A Gipsy Party]
After all, there is something strangely pleasing in these tamperings
with the future, even where we are convinced of the fallacy of the
prediction. It is singular how willingly the mind will half deceive
itself, and with what a degree of awe we will listen even to these
babblers about futurity. For my part, I cannot feel angry with these
poor vagabonds that seek to deceive us into bright hopes and
expectations. I have always been something of a castle-builder, and have
found my liveliest pleasures to arise from the illusions which fancy has
cast over commonplace realities. As I get on in life, I find it more
difficult to deceive myself in this delightful manner; and I should be
thankful to any prophet, however false, that would conjure the clouds
which hang over futurity into palaces, and all its doubtful regions into
fairyland.
The squire, who, as I have observed, has a private goodwill towards
gipsies, has suffered considerable annoyance on their account. Not that
they requite his indulgence with ingratitude, for they do not depredate
very flagrantly on his estate; but because their pilferings and misdeeds
occasion loud murmurs in the village. I can readily understand the old
gentleman's humour on this point; I have a great toleration for all
kinds of vagrant, sunshiny existence, and must confess I take a
pleasure in observing the ways of gipsies. The English, who are
accustomed to them from childhood, and often suffer from their petty
depredations, consider them as mere nuisances; but I have been very much
struck with their peculiarities. I like to behold their clear olive
complexions, their romantic black eyes, their raven locks, their lithe,
slender figures, and to hear them, in low, silver tones, dealing forth
magnificent promises, of honours and estates, of world's worth, and
ladies' love.
Their mode of life, too, has something in it very fanciful and
picturesque. They are the free denizens of nature, and maintain a
primitive independence, in spite of law and gospel; of county gaols and
country magistrates. It is curious to see the obstinate adherence to the
wild, unsettled habits of savage life transmitted from generation to
generation, and preserved in the midst of one of the most cultivated,
populous, and systematic countries in the world. They are totally
distinct from the busy, thrifty people about them. They seem to be like
the Indians of America, either above or below the ordinary cares and
anxieties of mankind. Heedless of power, of honours, of wealth; and
indifferent to the fluctuations of the times, the rise or fall of grain,
or stock, or empires, they seem to laugh at the toiling, fretting world
around them, and to live according to the philosophy of the old song:
"Who would ambition shun,
And loves to lie i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather."
In this way they wander from county to county, keeping about the
purlieus of villages, or in plenteous neighbourhoods, where there are
fat farms and rich country seats. Their encampments are generally made
in some beautiful spot; either a green shady nook of a road; or on the
border of a common, under a sheltering hedge; or on the skirts of a fine
spreading wood. They are always to be found lurking about fairs and
races, and rustic gatherings, wherever there is pleasure, and throng,
and idleness. They are the oracles of milkmaids and simple serving
girls; and sometimes have even the honour of perusing the white hands
of gentlemen's daughters, when rambling about their father's grounds.
They are the bane of good housewives and thrifty farmers, and odious in
the eyes of country justices; but, like all other vagabond beings, they
have something to commend them to the fancy. They are among the last
traces, in these matter-of-fact days, of the motley population of former
times; and are whimsically associated in my mind with fairies and
witches, Robin Goodfellow, Robin Hood, and the other fantastical
personages of poetry.
[Illustration: Fortune-Telling]
[Illustration: Village Worthies]
VILLAGE WORTHIES.
Nay, I tell you, I am so well beloved in our town, that not
the worst dog in the street would hurt my little finger.
COLLIER OF CROYDON.
As the neighbouring village is one of those out-of-the-way, but
gossiping little places, where a small matter makes a great stir, it is
not to be supposed that the approach of a festival like that of May-Day
can be regarded with indifference, especially since it is made a matter
of such moment by the great folks at the Hall. Master Simon, who is the
faithful factotum of the worthy squire, and jumps with his humour in
everything, is frequent just now in his visits to the village, to give
directions for the impending fete; and as I have taken the liberty
occasionally of accompanying him, I have been enabled to get some
insight into the characters and internal politics of this very sagacious
little community.
Master Simon is in fact the Caesar of the village. It is true the squire
is the protecting power, but his factotum is the active and busy agent.
He intermeddles in all its concerns, is acquainted with all the
inhabitants and their domestic history, gives counsel to the old folks
in their business matters, and the young folks in their love affairs,
and enjoys the proud satisfaction of being a great man in a little
world.
He is the dispenser, too, of the squire's charity, which is bounteous;
and, to do Master Simon justice, he performs this part of his functions
with great alacrity. Indeed I have been entertained with the mixture of
bustle, importance, and kindheartedness which he displays. He is of too
vivacious a temperament to comfort the afflicted by sitting down moping
and whining and blowing noses in concert; but goes whisking about like a
sparrow, chirping consolation into every hole and corner of the village.
I have seen an old woman, in a red cloak, hold him for half an hour
together with some long phthisical tale of distress, which Master Simon
listened to with many a bob of the head, smack of his dog-whip, and
other symptoms of impatience, though he afterwards made a most faithful
and circumstantial report of the case to the squire. I have watched him,
too, during one of his pop visits into the cottage of a superannuated
villager, who is a pensioner of the squire, when he fidgeted about the
room without sitting down, made many excellent off-hand reflections with
the old invalid, who was propped up in his chair, about the shortness of
life, the certainty of death, and the necessity of preparing for "that
awful change;" quoted several texts of Scripture very incorrectly, but
much to the edification of the cottager's wife; and on coming out
pinched the daughter's rosy cheek, and wondered what was in the young
men, that such a pretty face did not get a husband.
[Illustration: "Master Simon pinched the daughter's cheek"]
He has also his cabinet councillors in the village, with whom he is very
busy just now, preparing for the May-Day ceremonies. Among these is the
village tailor, a pale-faced fellow, that plays the clarionet in the
church choir; and, being a great musical genius, has frequent meetings
of the band at his house, where they "make night hideous" by their
concerts. He is, in consequence, high in favour with Master Simon; and,
through his influence, has the making, or rather marring, of all the
liveries of the Hall; which generally look as though they had been cut
out by one of those scientific tailors of the Flying Island of Laputa,
who took measure of their customers with a quadrant. The tailor, in
fact, might rise to be one of the monied men of the village, was he not
rather too prone to gossip, and keep holidays, and give concerts, and
blow all his substance, real and personal, through his clarionet, which
literally keeps him poor both in body and estate. He has for the present
thrown by all his regular work, and suffered the breeches of the
village to go unmade and unmended, while he is occupied in making
garlands of particoloured rags, in imitation of flowers, for the
decoration of the May-pole.
Another of Master Simon's councillors is the apothecary, a short, and
rather fat man, with a pair of prominent eyes, that diverge like those
of a lobster. He is the village wise man; very sententious; and full of
profound remarks on shallow subjects. Master Simon often quotes his
sayings, and mentions him as rather an extraordinary man; and even
consults him occasionally in desperate cases of the dogs and horses.
Indeed he seems to have been overwhelmed by the apothecary's philosophy,
which is exactly one observation deep, consisting of indisputable
maxims, such as may be gathered from the mottoes of tobacco boxes. I had
a specimen of his philosophy in my very first conversation with him; in
the course of which he observed, with great solemnity and emphasis, that
"man is a compound of wisdom and folly;" upon which Master Simon, who
had hold of my arm, pressed very hard upon it, and whispered in my ear,
"That's a devilish shrewd remark!"
[Illustration: The Apothecary]
[Illustration: The Schoolmaster]
THE SCHOOLMASTER
There will no mosse stick to the stone of Sisiphus, no grasse
hang on the heels of Mercury, no butter cleave on the bread of
a traveller. For as the eagle at every flight loseth a
feather, which maketh her bauld in her age, so the traveller
in every country loseth some fleece, which maketh him a beggar
in his youth, by buying that for a pound which he cannot sell
again for a penny--repentance.
LILLY'S EUPHUES.
Among the worthies of the village, that enjoy the peculiar confidence of
Master Simon, is one who has struck my fancy so much that I have thought
him worthy of a separate notice. It is Slingsby, the schoolmaster, a
thin, elderly man, rather threadbare and slovenly, somewhat indolent in
manner, and with an easy, good-humoured look, not often met with in his
craft. I have been interested in his favour by a few anecdotes which I
have picked up concerning him.
He is a native of the village, and was a contemporary and playmate of
Ready-Money Jack in the days of their boyhood. Indeed, they carried on
a kind of league of mutual good offices. Slingsby was rather puny, and
withal somewhat of a coward, but very apt at his learning; Jack, on the
contrary, was a bully-boy out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books.
Slingsby helped Jack, therefore, to all his lessons: Jack fought all
Slingsby's battles; and they were inseparable friends. This mutual
kindness continued even after they left school, notwithstanding the
dissimilarity of their characters. Jack took to ploughing and reaping,
and prepared himself to till his paternal acres; while the other
loitered negligently on in the path of learning, until he penetrated
even into the confines of Latin and mathematics.
In an unlucky hour, however, he took to reading voyages and travels, and
was smitten with a desire to see the world. This desire increased upon
him as he grew up; so, early one bright, sunny morning, he put all his
effects in a knapsack, slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and
called in his way to take leave of his early schoolmate. Jack was just
going out with the plough: the friends shook hands over the farm-house
gate; Jack drove his team afield, and Slingsby whistled "Over the
hills, and far away," and sallied forth gaily to "seek his fortune."
Years and years passed by, and young Tom Slingsby was forgotten: when,
one mellow Sunday afternoon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat advanced in
life, with a coat out at elbows, a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a
few things tied in a handkerchief, and slung on the end of a stick, was
seen loitering through the village. He appeared to regard several houses
attentively, to peer into the windows that were open, to eye the
villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then to pass some
time in the churchyard, reading the tombstones.
At length he found his way to the farm-house of Ready-Money Jack, but
paused ere he attempted the wicket; contemplating the picture of
substantial independence before him. In the porch of the house sat
Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress, with his hat upon his head, his
pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before him, the monarch of all he
surveyed. Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poultry
were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees hummed from their
hives in the garden; the cattle lowed in the rich meadow: while the
crammed barns and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest.
The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously towards the house.
The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but
was immediately silenced by his master, who, taking his pipe from his
mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect the address of this equivocal
personage. The stranger eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his
dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon
his own threadbare and starveling condition, and the scanty bundle which
he held in his hand; then giving his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make
it meet his receding waistband; and casting another look, half sad, half
humorous at the sturdy yeoman, "I suppose," said he, "Mr. Tibbets, you
have forgot old times and old playmates?"
The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowledged that he
had no recollection of him.
[Illustration: "Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"--PAGE 189.]
"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger; "everybody seems to
have forgotten poor Slingsby?"
"Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"
"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his head.
Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling; thrust out his hand,
gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other hand
on a bench, "Sit down there," cried he, "Tom Slingsby!"
A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby was regaled
with the best cheer that the farm-house afforded; for he was hungry as
well as wayworn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedestrian. The
early playmates then talked over their subsequent lives and adventures.
Jack had but little to relate, and was never good at a long story. A
prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narrative; it
is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world, that are the true
heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the paternal farm, followed the same
plough that his forefathers had driven, and had waxed richer and richer
as he grew older. As to Tom Slingsby, he was an exemplification of the
old proverb, "A rolling stone gathers no moss." He had sought his
fortune about the world, without ever finding it, being a thing oftener
found at home than abroad. He had been in all kinds of situations, and
had learned a dozen different modes of making a living; but had found
his way back to his native village rather poorer than when he left it,
his knapsack having dwindled down to a scanty bundle.
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