Bracebridge Hall written by Washington Irving
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Washington Irving >> Bracebridge Hall
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As luck would have it, the squire was passing by the farm-house that
very evening, and called there, as is often his custom. He found the two
schoolmates still gossiping in the porch, and, according to the good old
Scottish song, "taking a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne." The
squire was struck by the contrast in appearance and fortunes of these
early playmates. Ready-Money Jack, seated in lordly state, surrounded by
the good things of this life, with golden guineas hanging to his very
watch chain, and the poor pilgrim Slingsby, thin as a weasel, with all
his worldly effects, his bundle, hat, and walking-staff, lying on the
ground beside him.
The good squire's heart warmed towards the luckless cosmopolite, for he
is a little prone to like such half-vagrant characters. He cast about
in his mind how he should contrive once more to anchor Slingsby in his
native village. Honest Jack had already offered him a present shelter
under his roof, in spite of the hints, and winks, and half remonstrances
of the shrewd Dame Tibbets; but how to provide for his permanent
maintenance was the question. Luckily the squire bethought himself that
the village school was without a teacher. A little further conversation
convinced him that Slingsby was as fit for that as for anything else,
and in a day or two he was seen swaying the rod of empire in the very
school-house where he had often been horsed in the days of his boyhood.
Here he has remained for several years, and being honoured by the
countenance of the squire, and the fast friendship of Mr. Tibbets, he
has grown into much importance and consideration in the village. I am
told, however, that he still shows, now and then, a degree of
restlessness, and a disposition to rove abroad again, and see a little
more of the world; an inclination which seems particularly to haunt him
about spring-time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer as the
vagrant humour, when once it has been fully indulged.
Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor Slingsby, I have more than
once mused upon the picture presented by him and his schoolmate
Ready-Money Jack, on their coming together again after so long a
separation. It is difficult to determine between lots in life, where
each is attended with its peculiar discontents. He who never leaves his
home repines at his monotonous existence, and envies the traveller,
whose life is a constant tissue of wonder and adventure; while he, who
is tossed about the world, looks back with many a sigh to the safe and
quiet shore which he has abandoned. I cannot help thinking, however,
that the man that stays at home, and cultivates the comforts and
pleasures daily springing up around him, stands the best chance for
happiness. There is nothing so fascinating to a young mind as the idea
of travelling; and there is very witchcraft in the old phrase found in
every nursery tale, of "going to seek one's fortune." A continual change
of place, and change of object, promises a continual succession of
adventure and gratification of curiosity. But there is a limit to all
our enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very
gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants, novelties
cease to excite surprise, until at length we cannot wonder even at a
miracle. He who has sallied forth into the world, like poor Slingsby,
full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different the distant
scene becomes when visited. The smooth place roughens as he approaches;
the wild place becomes tame and barren; the fairy tints that beguiled
him on still fly to the distant hill, or gather upon the land he has
left behind, and every part of the landscape seems greener than the spot
he stands on.
[Illustration: "On the road"]
[Illustration: The School]
THE SCHOOL.
But to come down from great men and higher matters to my
little children and poor school-house again; I will, God
willing, go forward orderly, as I proposed, to instruct
children and young men both for learning and manners.
ROGER ASCHAM.
Having given the reader a slight sketch of the village schoolmaster, he
may be curious to learn something concerning his school. As the squire
takes much interest in the education of the neighbouring children, he
put into the hands of the teacher, on first installing him in office, a
copy of Roger Ascham's Schoolmaster, and advised him, moreover, to con
over that portion of old Peachum which treats of the duty of masters,
and which condemns the favourite method of making boys wise by
flagellation.
He exhorted Slingsby not to break down or depress the free spirit of the
boys, by harshness and slavish fear, but to lead them freely and
joyously on in the path of knowledge, making it pleasant and desirable
in their eyes. He wished to see the youth trained up in the manners and
habitudes of the peasantry of the good old times, and thus to lay the
foundation for the accomplishment of his favourite object, the revival
of old English customs and character. He recommended that all the
ancient holidays should be observed, and that the sports of the boys, in
their hours of play, should be regulated according to the standard
authorities laid down by Strutt; a copy of whose invaluable work,
decorated with plates, was deposited in the school-house. Above all, he
exhorted the pedagogue to abstain from the use of birch, an instrument
of instruction which the good squire regards with abhorrence, as fit
only for the coercion of brute natures, that cannot be reasoned with.
Mr. Slingsby has followed the squire's instructions to the best of his
disposition and abilities. He never flogs the boys, because he is too
easy, good-humoured a creature to inflict pain on a worm. He is
bountiful in holidays, because he loves holidays himself, and has a
sympathy with the urchins' impatience of confinement, from having divers
times experienced its irksomeness during the time that he was seeing the
world. As to sports and pastimes, the boys are faithfully exercised in
all that are on record,--quoits, races, prison-bars, tipcat, trap-ball,
bandy-ball, wrestling, leaping, and what not. The only misfortune is,
that having banished the birch, honest Slingsby has not studied Roger
Ascham sufficiently to find out a substitute, or rather he has not the
management in his nature to apply one; his school, therefore, though one
of the happiest, is one of the most unruly in the country; and never was
a pedagogue more liked, or less heeded, by his disciples than Slingsby.
He has lately taken a coadjutor worthy of himself, being another stray
sheep that has returned to the village fold. This is no other than the
son of the musical tailor, who had bestowed some cost upon his
education, hoping to see him one day arrive at the dignity of an
exciseman, or at least of a parish clerk. The lad grew up, however, as
idle and musical as his father; and, being captivated by the drum and
fife of a recruiting party, he followed them off to the army. He
returned not long since, out of money, and out at elbows, the prodigal
son of the village. He remained for some time lounging about the place
in half-tattered soldier's dress, with a foraging cap on one side of his
head, jerking stones across the brook, or loitering about the tavern
door, a burthen to his father, and regarded with great coldness by all
warm householders.
[Illustration: The Prodigal]
Something, however, drew honest Slingsby towards the youth. It might be
the kindness he bore to his father, who is one of the schoolmaster's
greatest cronies; it might be that secret sympathy, which draws men of
vagrant propensities towards each other; for there is something truly
magnetic in the vagabond feeling; or it might be, that he remembered the
time when he himself had come back, like this youngster, a wreck to his
native place. At any rate, whatever the motive, Slingsby drew towards
the youth. They had many conversations in the village tap-room about
foreign parts, and the various scenes and places they had witnessed
during their wayfaring about the world. The more Slingsby talked with
him, the more he found him to his taste, and finding him almost as
learned as himself, he forthwith engaged him as an assistant or usher in
the school.
Under such admirable tuition, the school, as may be supposed, flourishes
apace; and if the scholars do not become versed in all the holiday
accomplishments of the good old times, to the squire's heart's content,
it will not be the fault of their teachers. The prodigal son has become
almost as popular among the boys as the pedagogue himself. His
instructions are not limited to school hours; and having inherited the
musical taste and talents of his father, he has bitten the whole school
with the mania. He is a great hand at beating a drum, which is often
heard rumbling from the rear of the school-house. He is teaching half
the boys of the village, also, to play the fife, and the pandean pipes;
and they weary the whole neighbourhood with their vague piping, as they
sit perched on stiles, or loitering about the barn-doors in the
evenings. Among the other exercises of the school, also, he has
introduced the ancient art of archery, one of the squire's favourite
themes, with such success, that the whipsters roam in truant bands about
the neighbourhood, practising with their bows and arrows upon the birds
of the air, and the beasts of the field; and not unfrequently making a
foray into the squire's domains, to the great indignation of the
gamekeepers. In a word, so completely are the ancient English customs
and habits cultivated at this school, that I should not be surprised if
the squire should live to see one of his poetic visions realised, and a
brood reared up, worthy successors to Robin Hood and his merry gang of
outlaws.
[Illustration: The Truants]
[Illustration: Laying Down the Law]
A VILLAGE POLITICIAN.
I am a rogue if I do not think I was designed for the helm of
state; I am so full of nimble stratagems, that I should have
ordered affairs, and carried it against the stream of a
faction, with as much ease as a skipper would laver against
the wind.--THE GOBLINS.
In one of my visits to the village with Master Simon, he proposed that
we should stop at the inn, which he wished to show me, as a specimen of
a real country inn, the head-quarters of village gossip. I had remarked
it before, in my perambulations about the place. It has a deep,
old-fashioned porch, leading into a large hall, which serves for
tap-room and travellers' room; having a wide fireplace, with high-backed
settles on each side, where the wise men of the village gossip over
their ale, and hold their sessions during the long winter evenings. The
landlord is an easy, indolent fellow, shaped a little like one of his
own beer barrels, and is apt to stand gossiping at his door, with his
wig on one side, and his hands in his pockets, whilst his wife and
daughter attend to customers. His wife, however, is fully competent to
manage the establishment; and, indeed, from long habitude, rules over
all the frequenters of the tap-room as completely as if they were her
dependants instead of her patrons. Not a veteran ale-bibber but pays
homage to her, having, no doubt, been often in her arrears. I have
already hinted that she is on very good terms with Ready-Money Jack. He
was a sweetheart of hers in early life, and has always countenanced the
tavern on her account. Indeed, he is quite "the cock of the walk" at the
tap-room.
As we approached the inn, we heard some one talking with great
volubility, and distinguished the ominous words "taxes," "poor's rates,"
and "agricultural distress." It proved to be a thin, loquacious fellow,
who had penned the landlord up in one corner of the porch, with his
hands in his pockets as usual, listening with an air of the most vacant
acquiescence.
The sight seemed to have a curious effect on Master Simon, as he
squeezed my arm, and, altering his course, sheered wide of the porch as
though he had not had any idea of entering. This evident evasion induced
me to notice the orator more particularly. He was meagre, but active in
his make, with a long, pale, bilious face; a black, ill-shaven beard, a
feverish eye, and a hat sharpened up at the sides into a most
pragmatical shape. He had a newspaper in his hand, and seemed to be
commenting on its contents, to the thorough conviction of mine host.
At sight of Master Simon the landlord was evidently a little flurried,
and began to rub his hands, edge away from his corner, and make several
profound publican bows; while the orator took no other notice of my
companion than to talk rather louder than before, and with, as I
thought, something of an air of defiance. Master Simon, however, as I
have before said, sheered off from the porch, and passed on, pressing my
arm within his, and whispering as we got by, in a tone of awe and
horror, "That's a radical! he reads Cobbett!"
I endeavoured to get a more particular account of him from my companion,
but he seemed unwilling even to talk about him, answering only in
general terms, that he was "a cursed busy fellow, that had a confounded
trick of talking, and was apt to bother one about the national debt, and
such nonsense;" from which I suspected that Master Simon had been
rendered wary of him by some accidental encounter on the field of
argument: for these radicals are continually roving about in quest of
wordy warfare, and never so happy as when they can tilt a gentleman
logician out of his saddle.
On subsequent inquiry my suspicions have been confirmed. I find the
radical has but recently found his way into the village, where he
threatens to commit fearful devastations with his doctrines. He has
already made two or three complete converts, or new lights; has shaken
the faith of several others; and has grievously puzzled the brains of
many of the oldest villagers, who had never thought about politics, or
scarce anything else, during their whole lives.
He is lean and meagre from the constant restlessness of mind and body;
worrying about with newspapers and pamphlets in his pockets, which he is
ready to pull out on all occasions. He has shocked several of the
staunchest villagers by talking lightly of the squire and his family;
and hinting that it would be better the park should be cut up into
small farms and kitchen gardens, or feed good mutton instead of
worthless deer.
[Illustration: The Village Politician]
He is a great thorn in the side of the squire, who is sadly afraid that
he will introduce politics into the village, and turn it into an
unhappy, thinking community. He is a still greater grievance to Master
Simon, who has hitherto been able to sway the political opinions of the
place, without much cost of learning or logic; but has been very much
puzzled of late to weed out the doubts and heresies already sown by
this champion of reform. Indeed, the latter has taken complete command
at the tap-room of the tavern, not so much because he has convinced, as
because he has out-talked all the established oracles. The apothecary,
with all his philosophy, was as nought before him. He has convinced and
converted the landlord at least a dozen times; who, however, is liable
to be convinced and converted the other way by the next person with whom
he talks. It is true the radical has a violent antagonist in the
landlady, who is vehemently loyal, and thoroughly devoted to the king,
Master Simon, and the squire. She now and then comes out upon the
reformer with all the fierceness of a cat-o'-mountain, and does not
spare her own soft-headed husband, for listening to what she terms such
"low-lived politics." What makes the good woman the more violent, is the
perfect coolness with which the radical listens to her attacks, drawing
his face up into a provoking supercilious smile; and when she has talked
herself out of breath, quietly asking her for a taste of her
home-brewed.
[Illustration: The Landlady]
The only person who is in any way a match for this redoubtable
politician is Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, who maintains his stand in the
tap-room, in defiance of the radical and all his works. Jack is one of
the most loyal men in the country, without being able to reason about
the matter. He has that admirable quality for a tough arguer, also, that
he never knows when he is beat. He has half a dozen old maxims, which he
advances on all occasions, and though his antagonist may overturn them
never so often, yet he always brings them anew into the field. He is
like the robber in Ariosto, who, though his head might be cut off half a
hundred times, yet whipped it on his shoulders again in a twinkling,
and returned as sound a man as ever to the charge.
Whatever does not square with Jack's simple and obvious creed, he sets
down for "French politics;" for, notwithstanding the peace, he cannot be
persuaded that the French are not still laying plots to ruin the nation,
and to get hold of the Bank of England. The radical attempted to
overwhelm him one day by a long passage from a newspaper; but Jack
neither reads nor believes in newspapers. In reply he gave him one of
the stanzas which he has by heart from his favourite, and indeed only
author, old Tusser, and which he calls his Golden Rules:
"Leave Princes' affairs undescanted on,
And tend to such doings as stand thee upon;
Fear God, and offend not the King nor his laws,
And keep thyself out of the magistrate's claws."
When Tibbets had pronounced this with great emphasis, he pulled out a
well-filled leathern purse, took out a handful of gold and silver, paid
his score at the bar with great punctuality, returned his money, piece
by piece, into his purse, his purse into his pocket, which he buttoned
up, and then giving his cudgel a stout thump upon the floor, and
bidding the radical "Good morning, sir!" with the tone of a man who
conceives he has completely done for his antagonist, he walked with
lion-like gravity out of the house. Two or three of Jack's admirers who
were present, and had been afraid to take the field themselves, looked
upon this as a perfect triumph, and winked at each other when the
radical's back was turned. "Ay, ay!" said mine host, as soon as the
radical was out of hearing, "let old Jack alone; I'll warrant he'll give
him his own!"
[Illustration: The Antagonists]
[Illustration: The Rookery]
THE ROOKERY.
But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime
In still repeated circles, screaming loud,
The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,
That hails the rising moon, have charms for me.
COWPER.
In a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that crowns a terrace walk, just on
the skirts of the garden, is an ancient rookery, which is one of the
most important provinces in the squire's rural domains. The old
gentleman sets great store by his rooks, and will not suffer one of them
to be killed, in consequence of which they have increased amazingly; the
tree tops are loaded with their nests; they have encroached upon the
great avenue, and have even established, in times long past, a colony
among the elms and pines of the churchyard, which, like other distant
colonies, has already thrown off allegiance to the mother-country.
The rooks are looked upon by the squire as a very ancient and
honourable line of gentry, highly aristocratical in their notions, fond
of place, and attached to church and state; as their building so
loftily, keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in the venerable
groves of old castles and manor-houses, sufficiently manifests. The good
opinion thus expressed by the squire put me upon observing more narrowly
these very respectable birds; for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt
to confound them with their cousins-german the crows, to whom, at the
first glance, they bear so great a family resemblance. Nothing, it
seems, could be more unjust or injurious than such a mistake. The rooks
and crows are, among the feathered tribes, what the Spaniards and
Portuguese are among nations, the least loving, in consequence of their
neighbourhood and similarity. The rooks are old-established
housekeepers, high-minded gentlefolk that have had their hereditary
abodes time out of mind; but as to the poor crows, they are a kind of
vagabond, predatory, gipsy race, roving about the country, without any
settled home; "their hands are against everybody, and everybody's
against them," and they are gibbeted in every corn-field. Master Simon
assures me that a female rook that should so far forget herself as to
consort with a crow, would inevitably be disinherited, and indeed would
be totally discarded by all her genteel acquaintance.
The squire is very watchful over the interests and concerns of his sable
neighbours. As to Master Simon, he even pretends to know many of them by
sight, and to have given names to them; he points out several which he
says are old heads of families, and compares them to worthy old
citizens, beforehand in the world, that wear cocked hats and silver
buckles in their shoes. Notwithstanding the protecting benevolence of
the squire, and their being residents in his empire, they seem to
acknowledge no allegiance, and to hold no intercourse or intimacy. Their
airy tenements are built almost out of the reach of gunshot; and,
notwithstanding their vicinity to the Hall, they maintain a most
reserved and distrustful shyness of mankind.
There is one season of the year, however, which brings all birds in a
manner to a level, and tames the pride of the loftiest highflyer; which
is the season of building their nests. This takes place early in the
spring, when the forest trees first begin to show their buds; the long
withy ends of the branches to turn green; when the wild strawberry, and
other herbage of the sheltered woodlands, put forth their tender and
tinted leaves, and the daisy and the primrose peep from under the
hedges. At this time there is a general bustle among the feathered
tribes; an incessant fluttering about, and a cheerful chirping,
indicative, like the germination of the vegetable world, of the reviving
life and fecundity of the year.
It is then that the rooks forget their usual stateliness, and their shy
and lofty habits. Instead of keeping up in the high regions of the air,
swinging on the breezy tree tops, and looking down with sovereign
contempt upon the humble crawlers upon earth, they are fain to throw off
for a time the dignity of a gentleman, and to come down to the ground,
and put on the painstaking and industrious character of a labourer. They
now lose their natural shyness, become fearless and familiar, and may be
seen flying about in all directions, with an air of great assiduity, in
search of building materials. Every now and then your path will be
crossed by one of these busy old gentlemen, worrying about with awkward
gait, as if troubled with the gout or with corns on his toes, casting
about many a prying look, turning down first one eye, then the other, in
earnest consideration upon every straw he meets with, until espying some
mighty twig, large enough to make a rafter for his air-castle, he will
seize upon it with avidity, and hurry away with it to the tree top;
fearing, apparently, lest you should dispute with him the invaluable
prize.
[Illustration: After the Straws]
Like other castle-builders, these airy architects seem rather fanciful
in the materials with which they build, and to like those most which
come from a distance. Thus, though there are abundance of dry twigs on
the surrounding trees, yet they never think of making use of them, but
go foraging in distant lands, and come sailing home, one by one, from
the ends of the earth, each bearing in his bill some precious piece of
timber.
Nor must I avoid mentioning what, I grieve to say, rather derogates from
the grave and honourable character of these ancient gentlefolk, that,
during the architectural season, they are subject to great dissensions
among themselves; that they make no scruple to defraud and plunder each
other; and that sometimes the rookery is a scene of hideous brawl and
commotion, in consequence of some delinquency of the kind. One of the
partners generally remains on the nest to guard it from depredation; and
I have seen severe contests when some sly neighbour has endeavoured to
filch away a tempting rafter that has captivated his eye. As I am not
willing to admit any suspicion hastily that should throw a stigma on the
general character of so worshipful a people, I am inclined to think that
these larcenies are very much discountenanced by the higher classes,
and even rigorously punished by those in authority; for I have now and
then seen a whole gang of rooks fall upon the nest of some individual,
pull it all to pieces, carry off the spoils, and even buffet the
luckless proprietor. I have concluded this to be some signal punishment
inflicted upon him by the officers of the police, for some pilfering
misdemeanour; or, perhaps, that it was a crew of bailiffs carrying an
execution into his house.
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