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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Old Country Life, by S. Baring Gould.
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48522 ***</div>
<div class="transnote">
<p class="ph3">Transcriber's Note</p>
<p>In the html version of this e-book, Midi, PDF, and MusicXML files have been provided for the songs.
To hear a song, click on the [Listen] link. To view a song in sheet-music form,
click on the [PDF] link. To view MusicXML code for a song,
click on the [MusicXML] link. All lyrics are set forth in text below the music images.</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
<h1 class="p4">OLD COUNTRY LIFE.</h1>
<hr class="chap p6" />
<p class="center f120"><i>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</i></p>
<p class="p2"><b>HISTORIC ODDITIES AND STRANGE EVENTS.</b><br />
<span class="in2left">Demy 8vo, 10s. 6d.</span><span class="in2right">[<em>Just published.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p2"><b>ARMINELL</b>: <b>A Social Romance.</b><br />
<span class="in2left">3 vols., crown 8vo. </span><span class="in2right">[<em>Now ready.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p2"><b>SONGS OF THE WEST</b>; <span class="in2left">Ballads and Songs of the
Peasantry of Devon and Cornwall, with their Traditional Melodies,
by <span class="smcap">Rev. S. Baring Gould</span>, M.A., and <span class="smcap">Rev. H. Fleetwood
Sheppard</span>, M.A., arranged for voice and pianoforte. Parts I.
and II., 3s. each, <i>net</i>. Parts III. and IV. <em>in-preparation.</em></span></p>
<p class="p2"><b>STRANGE SURVIVALS AND POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.</b><br /><br />
<span class="in2right">[<em>In Preparation.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p2"><b>YORKSHIRE ODDITIES.</b><br />
<span class="in2left">New and Cheaper Edition. </span><span class="in2right">[<em>In the Press.</em></span>
</p>
<hr class="chap p2" />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<a name="FRONT" id="FRONT"></a>
<img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" width="600" height="421" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Country Dance.</span></div>
<div class="captionr"><i>Frontispiece.</i></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap p2" />
<p class="ph1"> OLD COUNTRY LIFE.</p>
<p class="ph2"><span class="f75">BY</span><br />
<b>S. BARING GOULD, M.A.,</b>
<span class="f75"> AUTHOR OF<br />
"MEHALAH," "JOHN HERRING," ETC.</span><br /></p>
<p class="ph3 p4"> <i>WITH ILLUSTRATIONS</i><br />
BY W. PARKINSON, F. D. BEDFORD, AND F. MASEY.</p>
<p class="ph3 p4"> LONDON:<br />
METHUEN AND CO., 18, BURY STREET, W.C.<br />
<span class="smcap f90">Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company.<br />
1890.</span></p>
<p class="p2 center"> [<em>The right of reproduction is reserved.</em>]</p>
<hr class="chap p2" />
<p class="ph3">
<span class="smcap">Richard Clay & Sons, Limited,<br />
London & Bungay.</span>
</p>
<hr class="chap p2" />
<div class="chapter">
<h2 class="p4"> CONTENTS.</h2>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="TOC">
<tr class="f75"><td class="tocchap">CHAP.</td><td class="tocdesc"> </td><td class="tocpg">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">I.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">Old County Families</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">II.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Last Squire</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">III.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">Country Houses</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">IV.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Old Garden</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">V.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Country Parson</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_116">116</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">VI.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Hunting Parson</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">VII.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">Country Dances</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_174">174</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">VIII.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">Old Roads</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_198">198</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">IX.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">Family Portraits</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">X.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Village Musician</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">XI.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Village Bard</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_259">259</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">XII.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">Old Servants</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_284">284</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">XIII.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The Hunt</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_315">315</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocchap">XIV.</td><td class="tocdesc"><span class="smcap">The County Town</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_334">334</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<h2 class="p4"> LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h2>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Table of Illustrations">
<tr><td class="tdc" colspan="3"><span class="smcap">Head and tail pieces to each chapter by F. D. Bedford.</span></td></tr>
<tr class="f75"><td class="tocpg" colspan="3">PAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Country Dance</span>—<a href="#FRONT"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>W. Parkinson</i></td><td> </td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Old Dames with their Factotum Butler</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_5">5</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Sydenham House, Devon</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. Masey</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_7">7</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Wortham—An Empty Shell</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_24">24</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Grimstone</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_29">29</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Madame Grym</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>W. Parkinson</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_33">33</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Gryms, A Group of</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>From painting</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Courtyard, Little Hempston</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. Masey</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_57">57</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">House at Little Hempston</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_58">58</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Willsworthy</span></td>
<td class="tocdesc"><i>F. B. Bond</i></td>
<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_59">59</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="in2">"</span><span class="in2">"</span><span class="in2 smcap">Plan</span></td>
<td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td>
<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_60">60</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Kew Palace</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. Masey</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_63">63</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Tonacombe, North Cornwall</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_68">68</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">A Parlour Fireplace</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. B. Bond</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_73">73</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Garden from Tapestry</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_98">98</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Flaxley, from a print of</span> 1714</td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. D. Bedford</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_100">100</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">A Town House Garden Front, Launceston</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. Masey</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Old Country Parsonage, Bratton-Clovelly</span></td>
<td class="tocdesc"><i>F. D. Bedford</i></td>
<td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
"<span class="in2">"</span><span class="in2">" </span><span class="in2 smcap">Parson in Cassock</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>W. Parkinson</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_133">133</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Parson Chowne and Sally's Young Man</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_164">164</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Hippoclides before Clisthenes</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_175">175</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Minuet being Danced</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>W. Parkinson</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_196">196</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Packman's Way</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. D. Bedford</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_204">204</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">By the Road-side</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_207">207</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">An Old Travelling Carriage</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. Masey</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_214">214</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Sir Edward, a.d. 1668</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>J. D. Cooper</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">N. a.d. 1888</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_227">227</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Lady Northcote</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. D. Bedford</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Lady Young</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_232">232</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Old Church Orchestra</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>W. Parkinson</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_243">243</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">James Olver</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>From photo</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_257">257</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">John Helmore</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. D. Bedford</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Richard Hard</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">The Old Butler</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>W. Parkinson</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">The Hunt Passing</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_316">316</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">South Gate, Launceston</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. Masey</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_335">335</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Cottages at Woking</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_339">339</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">London Inn, Launceston</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_343">343</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Dockacre</span>, "</td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_349">349</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">House at Launceston</span></td><td class="tdc">"<span class="in2">"</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_353">353</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocdesc">
<span class="smcap">Old Cart, Slate Quarry, Lew Trenchard</span></td><td class="tocdesc"><i>F. D. Bedford</i></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_358">358</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>
<p class="ph2 p2">OLD COUNTRY LIFE.</p>
<hr class="r25" />
<h2 class="p2"><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br />
<span class="f75">OLD COUNTY FAMILIES.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch1.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="tomb of a knight" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_001t.jpg" alt="I" width="600" height="300" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_001b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">I</span> WONDER whether the day will
ever dawn on England when
our country houses will be as deserted as are those
in France and Germany? If so, that will be a sad
day for England. I judge from Germany. There,
after the Thirty Years' War, the nobles and gentry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span>
set-to to build themselves mansions in place of the
castles that had been burnt or battered down. In
them they lived till the great convulsion that shook
Europe and upset existing conditions social as well
as political. Napoleon overran Germany, and the
nobles and gentry had not recovered their losses
during that terrible period before the State took
advantage of their condition to transfer the land to
the peasantry. This was not done everywhere, but it
was so to a large extent in the south. Money was
advanced to the farmers to buy out their landlords,
and the impoverished nobility were in most cases
glad to sell. They disposed of the bulk of their
land, retaining in some cases the ancestral nest, and
that only. No doubt that the results were good in
one way—but where is a good unmixed? The
qualifying evil is considerable in this case.</p>
<p>The gentry or nobility—the terms are the same on
the Continent—went to live in the towns. They could
no longer afford to inhabit their country mansions.
They acquired a taste for town life, its conveniences,
its distractions, its amusements; they ceased to feel
interest in country pursuits; they only visited their
mansions for about eight weeks in the year, for the
<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Sommer-frische</i>. Those who could not afford to furnish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
two houses, carted that amount of furniture which
was absolutely necessary to their country houses for
the holiday, and that concluded, carted it back to
town again. This state of things continues. Whilst
the family is in residence at the Schloss it lives
economically; it is there for a little holiday; it does
not concern itself with the peasants, the sick, the
suffering, the necessitous. It is there—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pour s'amuser</i>.
The consequence is that the Schloss is without a
civilizing influence, without moral force in the place.
The country folk have little interest in the family, and
the family concerns itself less with the people.</p>
<p>Not only so, but it brings little money into the
place. It employs no labour. It is there not to keep
open house, but to shut up the purse. In former
days the landlord exacted his rents, but then he lived
in the midst of his tenants, and the money that came
in as rent went out as wage, and in payment for
butter, eggs, meat, oats, and hay. The money
collected out of a place returned to it again. It is
so in many country places in England now where
squire and parson live on the land.</p>
<p>In Germany the peasant has stepped out of obligation
to the landlord into bondage to the Jew,
who receives, but spends nothing. In France the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
condition is much the same; the great house is a
ruin, and so, very generally, is the family that occupies
and owns it, if it still lingers on in it.</p>
<p>I remember a stately château of the time of Louis
XIV., tenanted by two charming old ladies of the
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ancienne noblesse</i>, with grand historic names—the last
leaves that fluttered on a great family tree, with roots
in the remote past; and they fluttered sere to their
fall. They walked out every evening in the park
attended by their factotum, an old serving-man, who
was butler, coachman, gardener, and major-domo.
They kept but one female servant, who was cook,
lady's-maid, laundress, and house-maid. The old
ladies are dead now, and the roof of the château has
fallen in. They had no money to spend on the
house or in the village, and never was there a village
that more needed the circulation in it of a little
coin.</p>
<p>Great houses, with us, are only tenanted by their
owners when the London season is over; but that is
for a good deal longer than the German <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Sommer-frische</i>;
and when the family does come down, it is
as rain on a fleece of wool and as the drops that water
the earth. It fills the house with guests, and consumes
nearly all the market produce of the parish; and at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>
that season, as the people of the place know, money
begins to circulate.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 467px;">
<img src="images/i_b_005.jpg" width="467" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Old Dames with their Factotum Butler.</span></div>
</div>
<p>It is not, however, my intention to speak of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
great mansions of the nobility, but of those of the
squirearchy, who are in residence on their estates all
the year round.</p>
<p>These houses are elements of considerable blessing
to the country. The families of the squires are
always in the midst of the people, know the history,
and wants, and infirmities of every one. They care for
the good of the district. The ladies look after the girls;
the squire attends to the condition of the roads and
bridges; money is freely spent in the district, and a
considerable amount of culture and moral restraint
is acquired by those in the classes below, in the farm-houses
and the cottages. Such only who have been
in parishes that have been for generations squireless,
and also in those where a resident family has been
planted for centuries, can appreciate the difference in
general tone among the people.</p>
<p>Should the time come when the county family will
be taken away, then the parish will feel for some
time like a mouth from which a molar has been
drawn—there will be a vacancy that will cause unrest
and discomfort. The molar does not grind and
champ to sustain itself alone, but the entire body to
which it belongs, and it is much the same with the
country squire.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_007.jpg" width="600" height="395" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Sydenham House, Devon.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p>
<p>In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there
were far more resident gentry in the country than
there are at present. The number began to dwindle in
the eighteenth century. The registers of parishes are
instructive in this respect. In a parish there may
have been but a single manor, nevertheless there were
in it some three or four gentle families, of as good
blood as the lord of the manor, inhabiting bartons.
Let us take a parish or two as examples. Ugborough
in South Devon has valuable registers dating from
1538. In the sixteenth century we find in them the
names of the following families, all of gentle blood,
occupying good houses—the Spealts, the Prideaux,
the Stures, the Fowels, the Drakes, the Glass family,
the Wolcombes, the Fountaynes, the Heles, the
Crokers, the Percivals. In the seventeenth century
occur the Edgcumbes, the Spoores, the Stures, the
Glass family again, the Hillerdons, Crokers, Coolings,
Heles, Collings, Kempthornes, the Fowells, Williams,
Strodes, Fords, Prideaux, Stures, Furlongs, Reynolds,
Hurrells, Fownes, Copplestons, and Saverys. In the
eighteenth century there are only the Saverys and
Prideaux; by the middle of the nineteenth these are
gone. The grand old mansion of the Fowells that
passed to the Savery family is in Chancery, deserted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
save by a caretaker, falling to ruins. What other
mansions there were in the place are now farm-houses.</p>
<p>Let us take another parish—Staverton. That had
in it the grand mansion, Barkington, of the Rowes,
who owned other estates in the same parish, in which
were settled junior branches of the same family. All
have vanished, root and branch. The Woolstones
had a noble estate there. They are represented now
by a clergyman in the neighbourhood. The Prestons
were estated there also; they are gone, and their place
knoweth them no more. My own family had two
good houses there, Coombe and Pridhamsleigh, from
the beginning of the sixteenth century. Both were
sold at the end of last century. The Worths of
Worth had estates and a house there, and have only
a fine monument in the church to testify that they
ever lived and died there. In another book I have
mentioned the instance of Bratton-Clovelly, where
were the Coryndons, Burnabys, Ellacots of Ellacot,
Langfords of Langford, Calmadys, Willoughbys,
Incledons—all gone, and not one of their houses
remaining intact.</p>
<p>The country gentry in those days were not very
wealthy. They lived very much on the produce of
the home farm, and their younger sons went into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
trade, and their daughters, without any sense of
degradation, married yeomen.</p>
<p>In South Devon, at Slapton, lived in state the
Amerideths, deriving from Welsh princes. Griffith
Amerideth was the first to settle in Devon; he was
a tailor and draper in Exeter, and died in 1559. He
married a daughter of a very good family, and his
son married the eldest daughter of Lewis Fortescue,
one of the Barons of the Exchequer, and his grandchildren
married into the Fortescue, Rolle and
Loveys families, all of greatest position and fortune
in the West.</p>
<p>It has been claimed for the Glanvilles that they are
of Norman extraction; they, however, became tanners
at Whitchurch, where their tan-pits remain to this day,
though their mansion has lost all trace of antiquity.
Chief Justice Glanville, who came from this house,
and died in 1600, gave it splendour, yet his brother
and nephew were not ashamed of the tan-pits, and
even allowed a daughter of the house to marry a
Tavistock blacksmith, and entered him as "faber"
in the pedigree they enrolled with the heralds. The
Courtenays of Molland married their daughters to
farmers in the place. When, a few years ago, the
late Earl of Devon visited Molland, he met a hale<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
old yeoman there named Moggridge. He held out
his hand to him; "Cousin," said he, "jump into the
carriage with me, and let us have a drive together;
we have not met for one hundred and eighty years."
When the Woolstones of Staverton registered their
pedigree, they considered that there was nothing to
be ashamed of to enter one daughter as married
to a "clothier," another to an "agricola"—a
yeoman.</p>
<p>It was quite another matter when one of the sons
or daughters was guilty of misconduct; then he or
she was struck out of the pedigree. I know of one
or two little domestic scandals to which the registers
bear witness, and I know that in such cases those
who have stained the family name have not been
recorded in the heralds' book. But that Joan who
married a blacksmith, or Nicolas who was an armourer
in London should be cancelled—God forbid!</p>
<p>My own conviction is, confirmed by a very close
study of parochial registers, that some of the very
best blood in England is to be found among the
tradesmen of our county towns.</p>
<p>I know a little china and glass shop in the market-place
of a small country town. The name over
the shop is peculiar, but I know that it is one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
considerable antiquity. In the reign of Henry VII. a
Jewish refugee settled in Cornwall. His son, a barber-surgeon,
prospered, and became Mayor of Liskeard.
His children married well, mostly with families of
county position, and a son settled in the little town
I speak of, where he married one of the honourable
family of Edgecumbe. And now the lineal descendant
of this man, in the male line, keeps a
little china shop. I know—what perhaps he does
not—his arms, crest, and motto, to which he has
just claim.</p>
<p>Let us take another instance. When the lands
of the Abbey of Tavistock were made over to the
Russell family, on one of the largest farms or estates
that belonged to the Abbey was seated a family that
had been for a long time hereditary tenants under
the Abbot. In the same position they continued, only
under the Russells. In the reign of Elizabeth or of
James I. they built themselves a handsome residence,
with hall and mullioned windows, and laid out the
grounds, and dug fish-ponds about this mansion.
They also acquired lands of their own; amongst
other estates a house that had belonged to the
Speccots. They produced a sheriff of the county in
the eighteenth century. As late as 1820 they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
seated in their grand old mansion. Then—how I cannot
tell—there came a collapse. They lost the house
and lands they had held since the thirteenth century;
the Duke of Bedford pulled down the house, and the
family is now represented by a surgeon, a hairdresser,
and a hatter. The coat of arms borne by this family
is found in every book of heraldry, it is so remarkable—a
woman's breast distilling milk.</p>
<p>Sir Bernard Burke, in his <cite>Vicissitudes of Families</cite>,
tells the pathetic tale of the fall of the great baronial
family of Conyers. The elder line became extinct
in 1731, when the baronetcy fell to Ralph Conyers,
Chester-le-street, <em>a glazier</em>, whose father, John, was
grandson of the first Baronet. Sir Ralph intermarried
with Jane Blackiston, the eventual heiress
of the Blackistons of Shieldun, a family not less
ancient. His eldest son, Sir Blackiston Conyers, the
heir of two ancient houses, derived from them little
more than his name. He went into the navy, where
he reached the rank of lieutenant, and became on
leaving the navy collector of the port of Newcastle.
He died without a son, and his title and property
went to his nephew, Sir George, whose mother was a
lady of Lord Cathcart's family. In three years this
young fellow squandered the property and died, leaving<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
the barren title to his uncle, Thomas Conyers, who,
after an unsuccessful attempt at a humble business, in
his seventy-second year was residing as a pauper in
the workhouse of Chester-le-Street.</p>
<p>Mr. Surtees bestirred himself in his favour, collected
a little subscription, which enabled the old
baronet to leave the workhouse. This was in 1810, and
he died soon after, leaving three daughters married to
labouring men in the little town of Chester-le-Street.</p>
<p>I have already mentioned the Coryndons of
Bratton-Clovelly. It was a family not of splendour
but of antiquity.</p>
<p>In 1620, when they registered their pedigree, they
began with one Roger Coryndon, "who cam out of
the Easterne parts and lived at Bratton neere 200
yeares since." There they remained till the beginning
of this century, the property passing through the
hands of a John Coryndon, barber of Exeter; a
Thomas Coryndon, a tailor there; and George Coryndon,
a wheelwright in Plymouth dockyard in 1748,
whose son in a title-deed signs himself "gentleman,"
as he was perfectly justified in doing.</p>
<p>A family may be ruined by extravagance, but it
is not always through ruin that the representatives it
a family are to be found in humble or comparatively<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
humble circumstances; but that the junior members
of a gentle family went into trade. The occasion of
that irruption of false pride relative to "soiling the
hands with trade," was the great change that ensued
after Queen Anne's reign. When the trade of the
country grew, great fortunes were made in business,
at the same time that the landed gentry had become
impoverished, first through their losses in the Civil
War, then by the extravagance of the period of
the Restoration, together with drinking and gambling.
Vast numbers of estates changed hands, passed away
from the old aristocracy into the possession of men
who had amassed fortunes in trade, and it was among
the children of these rich retired tradesmen that there
sprang up such a contempt for whatever savoured of
the shop and the counting-house. I know a horse
that had been wont to draw an apple-cart for an itinerant
vendor of fruit. He had several admirable points
about him, indications that showed he was qualified
to make a good carriage-horse. He was bought by a
dealer, and sold to a squire. Then he was groomed,
put into silvered harness, and became a favourite with
the ladies as a docile beast to drive in a low carriage.
One day as his mistress was taking out a friend in the
trap, she told her the story of the horse. At the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
word "apple-cart" back went the ears of the brute,
and he kicked the carriage to pieces. After this it
was quite sufficient to visit the stable and to mention
"apple-cart" to set the horse kicking. Which story
may be applied to what has been said about the
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nouveaux-riches</i> of Queen Anne's time and trade.</p>
<p>It has often struck observers that wherever an
important county family has resided for many generations,
there are to be found among the poor many
families bearing the same name, and it is rashly
concluded that these are scions of the ancient stock.</p>
<p>It does so happen sometimes that these cottagers
represent the old family, but only very rarely. Representatives
are far more likely to be found as yeomen
or tradesmen. The bearing of the name is no
guarantee to filiation, even irregular; for it was by no
means infrequent for servants to bear their masters'
names; and the cottagers bearing the proud names
of Courtenay, Berkley, Percy, Devereux, probably have
not one drop of the noble blood of these families
in their veins. But this is a subject to which I will
return when speaking about old servants.</p>
<p>Now let us consider what was the origin of our
county families.</p>
<p>Some have been estated, lords of manors, for many<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span>
centuries, but these are few and far between. Then
comes a whole class of men who worked themselves
up from being yeomen, small owners into great
owners, by thrift and moderation. I know some
cases of small holders of land, who have held their
little properties for three or four centuries, but who
have never advanced in the social scale. Others have
added field to field, have taken advantage of the
improvidence of their neighbours, and have bought
them out. Then they have risen to become gentry.
But the most numerous class is that of the well-to-do
merchants, who have bought lands and founded
families. In my own county of Devon this is the
history of the origin of a considerable number of
those families which claimed a right to bear arms,
and proved their pedigrees before the heralds at the
beginning of the seventeenth century. Dartmouth,
Totnes, Exeter, Bideford, Barnstaple—all the great
commercial centres—saw the building up of county
families. The same process which began in the reign
of Elizabeth has continued to this day, and will
continue so long as the possession of a country house
and of acres proves attractive; and may it long so
continue, for what else does this mean than the
bringing of money into country places, and not of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span>
money only, but of intelligence, culture, and good
fellowship?</p>
<p>One of the most extraordinary phenomena of social
history in our land is the way in which the landed
aristocracy have become extinct in the male line;
how families of note have disappeared, as though
engulfed like Korah and his company. Recklessness
of living and ruin will not account for this. It is not
that they have parted with their acres that surprises
us, but the way in which the families have disappeared,
as if snuffed out altogether.</p>
<p>It is feasible—I do not say easy—to trace a family
of quite ordinary position with certainty through
many generations. Whoever had any property made
a will, or, if he neglected to make a will, had an
administration of his effects taken by the next of kin
after his death; and will or administration tell us
about the man and where he lived. Then we refer
to the parish registers, and with their assistance get
some more information. There are other means by
which additional matter may be acquired. Thus
it is quite possible to draw a pedigree—a genuine,
well-authenticated one—of almost any tradesman's or
yeoman's family from the time of Elizabeth.</p>
<p>Now Lieutenant-Colonel Vivian has spent infinite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
pains in tracing the genealogies of those families in
the West of England which bore arms, and were
accounted gentle at the beginning of the seventeenth
century down to the present day. For this purpose
he has searched all the wills extant relative to Devon
and Cornwall, and most of the parish registers in
these counties. Consequently, we can take his conclusions
as being as reliable as they can well be made.</p>
<p>In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the
heralds made periodical visitations of the counties,
and noted down the pedigrees of the gentle families,
enrolled such as had a right to bear arms, and disqualified
as <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ignobiles</i> such as had assumed the position
and arms of a gentleman without legitimate title.</p>
<p>In the county of Devon there were visitations by
the heralds in 1531, 1564, 1572, and 1620, this last
was the final visitation made. Now in the lists then
drawn up appear fourteen gentle families under letter
A, forty-seven under B, sixty-three under C.</p>
<p>Of the fourteen whose names began with A, the
Aclands alone remain. Of the forty-seven whose names
began with B, only five remain. Of the sixty-three under
C, fifty-eight are gone. Some few linger on, represented
in the female line, but such are not included, though
the descendants may have taken the ancient name.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>
<p>How are we to account for this amazing extinction?
The families were prolific, but apparently those most
prolific most rapidly exhausted their vitality.</p>
<p>The Arscotts go back to the beginning of the reign
of Henry VI., and spread over the north of Devon.
John Arscott of Arscott, who died in 1563, had eight
sons. His eldest son Humphry had indeed but two,
but of these, the eldest and heir had two, and the
second had six; yet in 1634 the estates devolved on a
daughter.</p>
<p>John Arscott in 1563 had three brothers. Of these
the next, Thomas, married a Bligh in 1551, and had
four sons. Of these the descendants of one alone
can be traced to a certain Roseclear Arscott of Holsworthy,
who left four sons; all these died without
issue. The son and heir is buried at Whitchurch,
near Tavistock, with the laconic entry—"Charles
Arscott, gent., of age, but not worth £300; buried
23 March, 1704-5."</p>
<p>The third of the four—of whom John Arscott was
the eldest—was Richard, who left four sons. Of
these the second, Humphry, was the father of seven,
and Tristram, the eldest, of two. Tristram's family
died out in the male line in 1620. Of the seven
sons of Humphry all traces have disappeared. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
fourth was John Arscott of Tetcott, he, like his elder
brothers, a man of good estate. His family became
extinct in the male line in 1788.</p>
<p>The Crymes family, of Buckland Monachorum,
was vastly prolific. William Crymes, who died in
1621, had <em>nine</em> sons; of these, as far as is known,
only three married—William, Lewis, and Ferdinando.
William left but one son; Lewis had a son who died
in infancy, and that son only; Ferdinando had a son
of the same name, whose only son died within a year
of his birth. Ellis Crymes, the son of William, and
inheritor of the estate, married twice, and had by his
first wife, a daughter of Sir Francis Drake, as many
as <em>ten</em> sons; by his second wife he had <em>six</em> more. Of
the ten first only eight had children; and of the
offspring of the second batch of six not a single
grandchild male lived. In two generations after this
prolific Ellis with his sixteen sons, the whole family
disappears. I do not say that it is absolutely blotted
out of the land of the living, but it is no longer
represented in the county, nor can it be traced further.</p>
<p>I can give an excellent example in my own family,
as I have taken great pains to trace all the ramifications.
In the Visitation of 1620, John Gould of
Coombe in Staverton is represented as father of seven<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
sons; and Prince, who wrote his <cite>Worthies of Devon</cite>,
published in 1701, in mentioning the family, comments
on its great expansion; yet of all these sons,
who, one would have supposed, would have half
peopled the county, but a single male lineal representative
remains, and he is over fifty, and unmarried.</p>
<p>The Heles were one of the most widely-spread and
deeply-rooted families in the West of England. At
an assize in Exeter in 1660, when Matthew Hele was
high-sheriff, the entire grand-jury, numbering about
twenty, was all composed of men of substance and
quality, and all bearing the name of Hele. Where
are they now? Vanished, root and branch.</p>
<p>Where are the Dynhams, once holding many lordships
in Devon? Gone, leaving an empty shell—their
old manor-house of Wortham—to show where
they had been.</p>
<p>In the seventeenth century John Bridgeman,
Bishop of Chester, father of Sir Orlando Bridgeman,
and ancestor of the Earl of Bradford, bought the
fine old mansion, Great Levers, that had at one time
belonged to the Lever family, then had passed to
the Ashtons. He reglazed his hall window, that was
in four compartments, with coats of arms. In the
first light he inserted the armorial bearings of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
Levers, with the motto "<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Olim</i>" (Formerly); in the
next the arms of the Ashtons, with the legend,
"<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Heri</i>" (Yesterday); then his own, with the text,
"<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Hodie</i>" (To-day); and he left the fourth and last
compartment without a blazoning, but with the motto,
"<i lang="la" xml:lang="la">Cras, nescio cujus</i>" (Whose to-morrow, I know not).</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_024.jpg" width="600" height="523" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Empty Shell.</span></div>
</div>
<p>Possibly one reason for the extinction, or apparent
extinction, of the squirarchal families is, that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
junior branches did not keep up their connexion with
the main family trunk, and so in time all reminiscence
of cousinship disappeared; and yet, this is not so
likely to have occurred in former times, when families
held together in a clannish fashion, as at present.</p>
<p>When Charles, thirteenth Duke of Norfolk, had
completed his restoration of Arundel Castle, he proposed
to entertain all the descendants of his ancestor,
Jock of Norfolk, who fell at Bosworth, but gave up
the intention on finding that he would have to invite
upwards of six thousand persons.</p>
<p>In the reign of James I., Lord Montague desired
leave of the king to cut off the entail of some land
that had been given to his ancestor, Sir Edward
Montague, chief justice in the reign of Henry VIII.,
with remainder to the Crown; and he showed the
king that it was most unlikely that it ever would
revert to the Crown, as at that time there were alive
four thousand persons derived from the body of Sir
Edward, who died in 1556. In this case the noble
race of Montague has lasted, and holds the Earldom
of Sandwich, and the Dukedom and Earldom of
Manchester. The name of Montague now borne by
the holder of the Barony of Rokeby is an assumption,
the proper family name being Robinson.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p>
<p>"When King James came into England," says
Ward in his <cite>Diary</cite>, "he was feasted at Boughton by
Sir Edward Montague, and his six sons brought
up the six first dishes. Three of them were lords,
and three more knights."</p>
<p>Fuller in his <em>Worthies</em> records that "Hester Sandys,
the wife of Sir Thomas Temple, of Stowe, Bart., had
four sons and nine daughters, which lived to be
married, and so exceedingly multiplied, that she saw
seven hundred extracted from her body," yet—what
became of the Temples? The estate of Stowe passed
out of the male line with Hester, second daughter of
Sir Richard Temple, who married Richard Grenville,
and she was created Countess Temple with limitation
to the heirs male of her body. There is at present
a (Sir) Grenville Louis John Temple, great-great-grandson
to (Sir) John Temple, who in 1786 assumed
the baronetcy conferred upon Sir Thomas Temple
of Stowe in 1611. This (Sir) John, who was born at
Boston, in the United States, assumed the baronetcy
on the receipt of a letter from the then Marquis of
Buckingham, informing him of the death of Sir
Richard Temple in 1786; but the heirship has not
been proved, and there exists a doubt whether the
claim can be substantiated.<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span></p>
<p>Innocent XIII. (1721-4) boasted that he had nine
uncles, eight brothers, four nephews, and seven grandnephews.
He thought, and others thought with him,
that the Conti family was safe to spread and flourish.
Yet, a century later, and not a Conti remained.</p>
<p>In the following chapter I will tell the story of the
extinction of a family that was of consequence and
wealth in the West of England, owning a good deal of
land at one time. The story is not a little curious,
and as all the particulars are known to me, I am able
to relate it with some minuteness. It affords a picture
of a condition of social life sufficiently surprising, and
at a period by no means remote.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_027.jpg" width="600" height="430" alt="" />
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<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br />
<span class="f75">THE LAST SQUIRE.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch2.jpg" width="600" height="465" alt="wood panelled room" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_028t.jpg" alt="I" width="600" height="365" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_028b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
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<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">I</span>N a certain wild and picturesque
region of the west, which
commands a noble prospect of Dartmoor, in a small
but antique mansion, which we will call Grimstone,
lived for generations a family called Grym. This
family rose to consequence after the last heralds'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
visitation, consequently did not belong to the aboriginal
gentry of the county. It produced a
chancellor, and an Archbishop of Canterbury.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_029.jpg" width="600" height="342" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Grimstone.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a></span></p>
<p>The family mansion is still standing, with granite
mullioned windows and quaint projecting porch, over
which is a parvise. A pair of carved stone gate-posts
give access to the turf plot in front of the house.
The mighty kitchen with three fireplaces shows
that the Gryms were a hospitable race, who would
on high days feed a large number of guests, and the
ample cellars show that they did more than feed them.
I cannot recall any library in the house, unless,
perhaps, the porch-room were intended for books;
if so, it continued to be intended for them only.</p>
<p>The first man of note in the family who lived at
Grimstone was Brigadier John Grym of the Guards,
born in 1699, a fine man and a gallant soldier. He
had one son, of the same name as himself, a man
amiable, weakly in mind, and of no moral force and
decision of character. His father and mother were
a little uneasy about him because he was so infirm
of purpose; they put their heads together, and concluded
that the best thing to do for him was to marry
him to a woman who had in abundance those qualities
in which their son was deficient. Now there lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
about four miles off, in a similar quaint old mansion,
a young lady of very remarkable decision of character.
She was poor, and one of a large family. She at once
accepted the offer made her in John Grym's name
by the Brigadier and his wife, and became Madame
John Grym, and on the death of the Brigadier,
Madame Grym, and despotic reigning queen of
Grimstone, who took the reins of government into
her firm hands, and never let them out of them.
The saying goes, when woman drives she drives
to the devil, and madame did not prove an
exception.</p>
<p>The marriage had taken place in 1794; the husband
died six years later, but madame survived till 1835.
Throughout the minority of her eldest son John,
that is to say, for sixteen or seventeen years, she had
the entire, uncontrolled management of the property,
and she managed pretty well in that time to ruin the
estate.</p>
<p>She was a litigious woman, always at strife with her
neighbours, proud and ambitious. Her ambition was
to extend the bounds of the property, but she had not
the capital to dispose of to enable her to pay for the
lands she purchased, and which were mortgaged to
two-thirds of their value. She borrowed money at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
five and six per cent., and bought property with it
that rendered only three and a half.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 456px;">
<img src="images/i_b_033.jpg" width="456" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Madame Grym.</span></div>
</div>
<p>She attended the parish vestries, where she made
her will felt, and pursued with implacable animosity
such farmers or landowners as did not submit to her
dictation. She drove a pair of ponies herself, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
whilst driving had her mind so engaged in her
schemes that she forgot to attend to the beasts;
they sometimes ran away with her, upset her, and
she was found on more than one occasion senseless
by the roadside, and her carriage shattered hard by.</p>
<p>As her affairs became worse, more and more intricately
involved, she began to be alarmed lest she
should be arrested for debt. For security she had
a house or pavilion erected in which to take refuge
should the officers of the law come for her. This
had a secret chamber, or well, made in the thickness
of the walls, accessible from an upper loft through a
trap-door. When she had received warning that she
was being looked for, she fled to the loft. The trap
was raised, and madame was lowered into the well
on a carpet or sheet, then the trap was closed and
covered with a mat. She had recourse to this place
of concealment on several occasions, and the secret
of the hiding-nest was not revealed till after her death.</p>
<p>The pavilion still stands, but has been converted
into a barn, and all the internal arrangements have
been altered.</p>
<p>When defeated in an action against a neighbour,
on success in which she had greatly set her heart,
she brought an action against the lawyer who had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>
conducted her case, charging him with having wilfully
understated her claims, withheld evidence, and acted
in collusion with the other side. She lost, of course,
and being unable to pay costs, escaped to London;
there she died. It is said that when the judgment
was given against her the church bells were rung,
so unpopular had she become.</p>
<p>In London she died, and her son, fearing lest her
body should be arrested for debt, had her packed in
bran, in a grand-piano case, and sent down by water
to Plymouth, whence it was conveyed by waggon, as
a piano, to Grimstone. The bill for the packing of
madame in bran in a piano case is still extant. The
waggoner who drove her in this case from Plymouth
did not die till the other day.</p>
<p>At the time when she was in constant alarm of a
warrant and execution, the portable plate of the house,
to the weight of about fifty pounds, was daily intrusted
to one of the labourers on the farm, who
carried it about with him, and when at work put it
in the hedge, and threw his jacket over it.</p>
<p>On one occasion, when the bailiffs were expected,
she was afraid lest her gig should be taken, and before
retiring into her well, she had it lifted by ropes and
concealed under hay above the stable.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_036.jpg" width="600" height="477" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Group of Gryms.</span></div>
</div>
<p>She left two sons, John, the elder, the heir to
Grimstone, and Ralph, the younger. Both inherited
the self-will, strength of character, and vindictiveness
of the mother, but the younger assuredly in double
measure. No sooner was she dead, than the brothers
flew at each other's throats, or, to be more exact,
Ralph flew at that of his more fortunate brother, if it
can be called fortunate to inherit an encumbered estate,
mortgaged almost to its value. Ralph instituted a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
Chancery suit against John. The younger brother
remained in the parish, residing in another house,
and occasionally accompanied his brother John when
out shooting, and they met in the hunting-field.</p>
<p>One day when they were out rabbiting together,
Ralph's gun suddenly went off, and riddled his brother's
beaver hat. John vowed that a deliberate attempt
had been made on his life by his brother. He forbade
him his house, and thenceforth would no more
associate with him in field sports. Ralph before his
mother's death had been put in a solicitor's office, but
had been dismissed from it for falling on a fellow-clerk
with a pistol and attempting to shoot him.
John remembered this, and if he mistrusted his
brother, it was not altogether without cause.</p>
<p>Now that he could no longer go to Grimstone, and
found himself regarded askance by the neighbours,
Ralph went up to town, where, having connexions in
good position, he got introduced into society, and he
made the acquaintance of a very charming girl with
a small fortune at her own disposal, of six thousand
pounds. He was a remarkably handsome young
man, with flashing blue eyes, and bold, well-chiselled
features, an erect bearing, and a brusque, haughty
manner. It is perhaps hardly to be wondered at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
that, with his personal good looks, and with his
indomitable will, he should bear down all opposition
on the part of the young lady's friends, and induce
her to throw in her lot with him.</p>
<p>According to the marriage settlement, half the wife's
fortune was to be at his disposal. It is almost unnecessary
to say, that he managed to get rid of that
within a twelvemonth. Thereupon ensued a series of
persecutions as mean as they were cruel. His object
was to force her to surrender the second three thousand
pounds. He attempted to cajole her out of this,
and when he failed by this means, he endeavoured to
frighten her into submission. To do this he put a
pistol under the pillow, and when she was asleep at his
side, discharged the pistol over her head. Then he
pretended that he had missed his mark, but assured
her he would not fail another time.</p>
<p>She had, fortunately, sufficient resolution to resist
intimidation. Whether she would have succumbed in
the end we cannot say, but, luckily for her, he was
arrested for costs in the Chancery suit against his
brother, and was lodged in the prison of King's Bench,
where he remained for seven years. Bethell, afterwards
Lord Westbury, was counsel against him.
Ralph Grym conducted his own case. Every now and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
then he was brought from prison into court, as some
fresh stage of the case was entered upon, and then
returned to his detention. One day Bethell informed
the judge that he moved for an "abatement," owing
to the death of one of the parties involved in the suit.
This was the first tidings Ralph Grym received of the
decease of his brother-in-law, who with his brother
John was party in the suit. His brother now abandoned
the action, and Ralph was let out of King's
Bench. He at once returned to the neighbourhood
of Grimstone, and sent a message to his brother on
the very first night of his return that he had a gun;
that he was passionately fond of shooting; that for
seven or eight years he had been debarred the pleasure;
that his hand had become shaky; and that—in
all human probability, when he was out shooting,
should John come in sight, his gun would go off
accidentally, and on this occasion <em>not</em> perforate the
beaver.</p>
<p>John took the hint and remained indoors, whilst
Ralph shot when and what he liked over his brother's
grounds. But this was a condition of affairs so intolerable,
that John deemed it expedient to come to
terms with his brother, give him five hundred pounds,
and pack him off to London.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span></p>
<p>Furnished with this sum, Ralph returned to town,
and there set up livery stables. He was himself a
first-rate rider, and he taught ladies riding, and conducted
riding parties in Epping forest. He made
money by purchasing good-looking horses that
were faulty in one or two particulars, at some ten
pounds or fifteen pounds, and as his horses were well
turned out, and well bred, he had the credit of mounting
his customers well. And he was not indisposed
to sell some of these for very considerable
sums.</p>
<p>Thus passed three or four years, the happiest in his
life, and he might have continued his livery stables, had
he not quarrelled with a groom and fought him. He
was thrown, and dislocated his hip. This was badly
set; it was a long job, and he was never again able to
ride comfortably. His business went back, he lost his
customers, and failed. Then, without a penny in his
pocket, he returned to Devon, and to the neighbourhood
of Grimstone, and lodged with the tenants on
the estate.</p>
<p>Utterly ruined in means and in credit, he became
a burden to his hosts. They declined to entertain
him wholly and severally, so he slept in one farmhouse,
and had his meals in one or another of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
neighbouring farms. His brother refused to see him,
defied his threats, and denied him money.</p>
<p>This went on for some time. At length his
hosts plainly informed him that he was no longer
welcome. He was not an agreeable guest, was
exacting, insolent, and violent. They met in consultation,
sent round the hat, collected a small subvention;
and then a gig was got ready, the money
thrust into his hand, and he was mounted in the trap
to be driven off to the nearest railway station, where
he might take a ticket for London, or Jericho.
The gig was at the door, and Ralph was settling
himself into it, when a man, breathless and without
a hat, arrived running from Grimstone, to say that
John Grym, his brother, had suddenly fallen down
dead. The trap that was to take Ralph away now
conveyed him to the mansion of his ancestors, to
take possession as heir, and he carried off with him
the proceeds of the subscription among the tenants.</p>
<p>John had died without issue, and intestate. Ralph
found in the house five hundred pounds in gold, a
thousand pounds' worth of stock was on the farm, three
hundred pounds' worth of wool was in store, and there
was much family plate and some family jewels.</p>
<p>Ralph's character from this moment underwent a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
change. When in town he had lived as a prodigal,
and squandered his money as it came in, was freehanded
and genial. In the year of Bloomsbury, when
the Derby was run in snow, he won three thousand
pounds by a bet, when he had not three-halfpence
of his own. Next year he won on the turf fifteen
hundred pounds; but money thus made slipped
through his fingers. No sooner, however, was he
squire of Grimstone than he became a miser, and that
so suddenly, that he had to be sued in the County
Court for the cheap calico he had ordered for a shroud
for his brother. He became the hardest of landlords
and the harshest of masters.</p>
<p>With his wife he was not reconciled. Repeated
efforts were made by well-intentioned persons to re-unite
them. He protested his willingness to receive her,
but only on the condition that she made over to him
the remaining three thousand pounds of her property.
To this condition she had the wisdom not to accede.
Before he was imprisoned she had borne him a
daughter, whom we will call Rosalind. He made
many attempts to get possession of the child, in the
hopes of thereby extorting the money from the
mother.</p>
<p>Before he became squire, Mrs. Grym lived in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
small house near Grimstone, on the interest of the
three thousand pounds, of course in a very small way.
On one occasion she was called to town, and was
unable to take little Rosalind with her. She accordingly
conveyed the child to the house of a neighbouring
rector, and entreated that she might be kept there
till her return, and be on no account surrendered to
the father should he attempt to claim her.</p>
<p>A couple of Sundays after her departure, between ten
and eleven in the morning, Ralph Grym appeared at
the parsonage, and asked to see the rector. He was
admitted, and after a little preliminary conversation,
stated his desire to have an interview with his child,
then aged five. This could not be refused. The
little girl was introduced, and Ralph talked to her, and
played with her.</p>
<p>In the meantime the bells for service were ringing.
The bell changed to the last single toll, five minutes
before divine worship began, and Mr. Grym made
no signs of being in a hurry to depart.</p>
<p>The rector, obliged to attend to his sacred duties,
drew his son aside, a boy of sixteen, and said to him,
"Harry, keep your eye on Rosalind, and on no account
suffer Mr. Grym to carry her off."</p>
<p>The boy accordingly remained at home.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span></p>
<p>"Well, young shaver," said Ralph, "what are you
staying here for?"</p>
<p>"My father does not wish me to go to church this
morning."</p>
<p>"Rosalind," said her father, "go, fetch your
bonnet, and come a walk with me. I have some
peppermints in my pocket."</p>
<p>The child, highly elated, got herself ready. Henry,
the rector's son, also prepared to go out.</p>
<p>"Young shaver, we don't want you," said Ralph,
rudely.</p>
<p>"My father ordered me to take a walk this morning,
sir."</p>
<p>"There are two ways—I and Rosalind go one, and
you the other," said Ralph.</p>
<p>"My father bade me on no account leave Rosalind."</p>
<p>Ralph growled and went on, the boy following.
Mr. Grym led the way for six miles, and the child
became utterly wearied. The father made every
effort to shake off the boy. He swore at him, he
threatened him, money he had not got to offer him;
all was in vain. At last, when the little girl sat down
exhausted, and began to cry, the father with an oath
left her.</p>
<p>"That," said Henry, in after life, "was the first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
time I had to do with Ralph Grym, and then I beat
him."</p>
<p>Many years after he had again to stand as Rosalind's
protector against Ralph, then striking at his
child with a dead hand, and again he beat him.</p>
<p>After her mother's death Ralph invited his daughter
to Grimstone, but only with the object of extorting
from her the three thousand pounds she had inherited
from her mother. When she refused to surrender
this, he let her understand that her presence was irksome
to him. He shifted the hour of dinner from
seven to nine, then to ten, and finally gave orders that
no dinner was to be served for a week. Still she did
not go.</p>
<p>"I want your room, Rosalind," he said roughly;
"I have a friend coming."</p>
<p>"The house is large, there are plenty of apartments;
he shall have mine, I will move into another."</p>
<p>"I want all the rooms."</p>
<p>"I see you want to drive me away."</p>
<p>"I beg you will suit yourself as to the precise hour
to-morrow when you leave."</p>
<p>Again, after some years, was Rosalind invited to
Grimstone; but it was with the same object, never
abandoned. On this occasion, when old Ralph found<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
that she was resolute not to surrender the three
thousand pounds, he turned her out of doors at night,
and she was forced to take refuge at the poor little
village tavern. He never forgave her.</p>
<p>Squire Grym was rough to his tenants. One
man, the village clerk, had a field of his, and Ralph
suddenly demanded of him two pounds above the
rent the man had hitherto paid. As he refused,
Ralph abruptly produced a horse-pistol, presented it
at the man's head, and said,</p>
<p>"Put down the extra two pounds, or I will blow
your brains out."</p>
<p>The clerk was a sturdy fellow, and was undaunted.
He looked the squire steadily in the eye, and
answered—</p>
<p>"I reckon <em>her</em> (<em>i. e.</em> the pistol), though old and
risty, won't miss, for if her <em>does</em>, I reckon your brains
'll make a purty mess on the carpet."</p>
<p>Ralph lowered the pistol with an oath, and said no
more. He was a suspicious man, and fancied that all
those about him conspired to rob him. When he
bore a grudge against a man, or suspected him, he
required some of his tenants to give evidence against
the man; he himself prepared the story they were to
swear to, and drilled them into the evidence they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
to give. The tenant who refused to do as he bid
was never forgiven.</p>
<p>He was never able to keep a bailiff over a twelvemonth.
When he died, at an age over eighty, in his
vindictiveness against his daughter, because she had
refused him the three thousand pounds, he left
everything of which he was possessed to the bailiff
then in his house. How the boy who had saved
Rosalind from being carried off by her father many
years before, and who was now a solicitor, came
to her aid, and secured for her something out of the
spoils, is history too recent to be told here.</p>
<p>Thus ended the family of Grym of Grimstone, and
thus did the old house and old acres pass away into
new hands.</p>
<p>Such is the story of the extinction of one family.
Others have been snuffed out, or have snuffed themselves
out, in other ways; strangely true it is, that of
the multitudes of old county families that once lived
in England, few remain on their paternal inheritance.</p>
<p>As I have told the story of the ruin of one family,
I will conclude this chapter with that of the saving of
another when trembling on the brink of ruin. Again
I will give fictitious names. The St. Pierres were
divided into two main branches, the one seated on a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
considerable estate on the Dart, near Ashburton, the
other on a modest property near the Tamar, on the
Devonshire side. In 1736 died Edward St. Pierre, the
last male representative of the elder branch, when he
left his property to the representative of the junior,
William Drake St. Pierre. This latter had an only
son, Edward, and a daughter. He was married to a
woman of considerable force of character. On his death
in 1766, Edward, then aged twenty-six, came in for a
very large property indeed; he was in the Dragoons,
and a dare-devil, gambling fellow. He eloped with a
married lady, and lived with her for some years. She
died, and was buried at Bath Abbey. He never
married, but continued his mad career till his death.</p>
<p>One day he had been gambling till late, and had
lost every guinea he had about him. Then he rode
off, put a black mask over his face, and waylaid the
man who had won the money of him, and on his
appearance challenged him to deliver. The man
recognized him, and incautiously exclaimed, "Oh,
Edward St. Pierre! I did not think this of you!"</p>
<p>"You know me, do you?" was the reply, and
Edward St. Pierre shot him dead.</p>
<p>Now there had been a witness, a man who had
seen Captain Edward take up his position, and who,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
believing him to be a highwayman, had secreted
himself, and waited his time to escape.</p>
<p>Edward St. Pierre was tried for the murder.
Dunning of Ashburton, then a rising lawyer, was
retained to defend him. It was essential to weaken or
destroy the testimony of the witness. Dunning had
recourse to an ingenious though dishonest device.
The murder had been committed when the moon was
full, or nearly full, so that in the brilliant white light
every object was as clear as by day.</p>
<p>Dunning procured a pocket almanack, removed the
sheet in which was the calendar of the month of the
murder, and had it reprinted at the same press, or
at all events with exactly similar type, altering the
moons, so as to make no moon on the night in
question.</p>
<p>On the day of trial he left this almanack in his
great-coat pocket, hanging up in the ante-room of the
court. The trial took place, and the witness gave his
evidence.</p>
<p>"How could you be sure that the man on horseback
was Captain St. Pierre?" asked the judge.</p>
<p>"My Lord, the full moon shone on him. I knew
his horse; I knew his coat. Besides, when he had
shot the other he took off his mask."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span></p>
<p>"The full moon was shining, do you say?"</p>
<p>"Yes, my Lord; I saw his face by the clear moonlight."</p>
<p>"Pass me a calendar. Who has got a calendar?"
asked the judge.</p>
<p>At that time almanacks were not so plentiful as
they are now. As it happened no one present had
one. Then Dunning stood up, and said,—</p>
<p>"My Lord, I had one yesterday, and I put it, I
think, in the pocket of my overcoat. If your Lordship
will send an apparitor into the ante-room to search
my pocket, it may there be found."</p>
<p>The calendar was produced—there was no moon.
The evidence against the accused broke down, and he
was acquitted.</p>
<p>This was considered at the time a clever move of
Mr. Dunning; it occurred to no one that it was
immoral. Captain St. Pierre had to pay Dunning
heavily; in fact, he made over to him a portion of
the estate in lieu of paying in cash, and later, when he
became further involved, he sold the property to the
Barings. Dunning was created Baron Ashburton, but
the title became extinct with his son, who bequeathed
his property to Alexander Baring, his first cousin, who
was elevated to the peerage under the title of Baron<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
Ashburton, and the St. Pierre property now belongs
to Lord Ashburton.</p>
<p>Captain Edward St. Pierre died in 1788, without
issue, and his sister became his heir; but he had got
rid of everything he could get rid of. Only the estate
near the Tamar had been saved from sale by his
mother taking it of him on a lease for ninety-nine
years. She was residing on it when the news reached
her that her good-for-nothing son was dead.</p>
<p>He had died at Shaldon, near Teignmouth, on the
29th June, and his last request was that he might be
carried to Bath, and laid by the side of the woman he
had wronged.</p>
<p>When his mother received the tidings of his death
she was in uncertainty what to do. All the last night
of June to the dawn of July 1, she sat in one tall-backed
arm-chair, musing what to do with the rest
of her life. Should she go to Bath, and spend the
remainder of her days at cards, amusing herself? or
should she devote it to a country life, and to repairing
the shattered fortunes of the family?</p>
<p>When morning broke her mind was made up.
She would adopt the nobler, the better cause; and
she carried it out to the end. As each farm fell
vacant in the parish she took it into her own hands,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
and farmed it herself, and succeeded so well, that
when the rival gentle family in the parish, owning
a handsome barton there, fell into difficulties, she
bought their estate, so as to make some amends for
the loss of the Ashburton property. That the chair
in which the old lady sat meets with respect <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">ça va
sans dire</i>.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 593px;">
<img src="images/i_b_052.jpg" width="593" height="600" alt="F. D. BEDFORD." />
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<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br />
<span class="f75">COUNTRY HOUSES.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch3.jpg" width="600" height="428" alt="country house" />
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</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_053t.jpg" alt="W" width="600" height="328" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_053b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
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<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">W</span>HAT a feature in English scenery is
the old country house! Compare the
seat that has been occupied for many generations
with the new mansion. The former with its embowering
trees, its lawns and ancient oaks, its avenues of
beech, the lofty, flaky Scotch pines in which the
rooks build, and about which they wheel and caw;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>
and the latter with new plantations, the evidence everywhere
present of hedges pulled down, manifest in the
trees propped up on hunches of clay.</p>
<p>There is nothing so striking to the eye on a return
to England from the Continent as the stateliness of
our trees. I do not know of any trees in Europe to
compare with ours. It is only with us that they are
allowed to grow to advanced age, and die by inches;
only with us are they given elbow-room to expand
into the full plenitude of their growth. On the Continent
every tree is known to the police, when it was
planted, when it attains its maximum of growth; and
then, down it comes.</p>
<p>Horace Walpole had no love of the country—indeed,
he hated it, and regarded the months that he spent
in Norfolk as intolerable. He laments in a letter to
Sir Horace Mann (Oct. 3rd, 1743), that the country
houses of the nobility and gentry of England are
scattered about in the country, and are not moved
up to town, where they would make streets of palaces,
like those of the great people of Florence, and Genoa,
and Bologna. "Think what London would be if the
chief houses were in it, as in the cities of other
countries, and not dispersed, like great rarity-plums
in a vast pudding of country."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span></p>
<p>It is precisely because our most noble mansions
are in the country, in a setting of their own, absolutely
incomparable, of park and grove, that they are unsurpassed
for loveliness anywhere. Framed in by
pines and deciduous trees, copper beech and silver
poplar, with shrubberies of azalea in every range of
colour, from scarlet, through yellow to white, and
rhododendrons full of bloom from early spring to
midsummer, and double cherry, almond, medlar.
Why, the very framing makes an ugly country house
look sweet and homelike.</p>
<p>But beautiful as are the parks and grounds about
our gentlemen's houses, they are but a remnant of
what once was. We see in our old churches, in our
mansions, that oak grew in profusion in England at
one time, and reached sizes we cannot equal now.
Great havoc was wrought with the woods and parks
in the time of the Commonwealth and at the Restoration.
The finest trees were cut down that ships
might be built of them for the royal navy; the
commissioners marked and took what trees they
would. Thus in 1664 Pepys had to select trees in
Clarendon Park, near Salisbury, which the Chancellor
had bought of the Duke of Albemarle. Very angry
the Chancellor was at having his park despoiled of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
his best timber, and Pepys gives us in his <cite>Diary</cite> an
amusing account of his trouble thereupon.</p>
<p>But to come to the houses themselves. Is there
anything more sweet, peaceful, comfortable than the
aspect of an old country house, of brick especially,
with brown tiled roof and clustering chimneys backed
by woods, with pleasure gardens at its side, and open
lawn and park before it? No, its equal is to be
found nowhere. The French château, the Italian
palace, the German schloss are not to be spoken of
in the same breath. Each has its charm, but there
is a coldness and stiffness in the first, a turned-inwardness
in the second, and a nakedness in the last
that prevent us from associating with them the ideas
of comfort and peace.</p>
<p>The true English country house is a product of
comparatively late times, that is to say, from the reign
of Henry VIII. onwards. Before that, the great
nobles lived in castles, and the smaller gentry in
houses of no great comfort and grandeur.</p>
<p>In the parish of Little Hempston, near Totnes, is
a perfect mansion of the fourteenth century, probably
the original manor-house of the Arundels, but given
to the Church, when it became a parsonage. It is now
used as a farm, and a very uncomfortable farm-house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
it makes. As one of the best preserved houses of that
period I know, it deserves a few words.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_057.jpg" width="600" height="471" alt="Courtyard:LITTLE HEMPSTON:" />
</div>
<p>This house consists of three courts; one is a mere
garden court, through which access was had to the
main entrance; through this passed the way into the
principal quadrangle. The third court was for stables
and cattle-sheds. Now this house has but a single
window in it looking outwards, and that is the great
hall window, all the rest look inwards into the tiny
quadrangle, which is almost like a well, never illumined
by the sun, so small is it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 532px;">
<img src="images/i_b_058.jpg" width="532" height="600" alt="House at
Little
Hempston :
S: Devon:" />
</div>
<p>The hall had in it a brazier in the midst, which
could never heat it, though the numbed fingers might
be thawed at it. Adjoining the hall is the ladies'
bower, a sitting-room dark as a vault, with indeed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
a fireplace in it. These were the sole rooms that
were occupied by day, the hall and the bower.</p>
<p>The Arundels had another place at Ebbfleet, near
Stratton, which was no bigger, and only a little less
gloomy; the windows were always made, for protection,
to look into a court. It was not till after the Wars
of the Roses that there was more light allowed into
the chambers.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_059.jpg" width="600" height="389" alt="A West Country
Manor House:" />
</div>
<p>I give a sketch and plan of a manor-house still
almost unaltered, called Willsworthy, in the parish of
Peter Tavy in Devon. It is built entirely of granite.
It has near it a ruined chapel, but what family occupied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
it and when I do not know; it has not certainly
been tenanted by gentlefolks since the reign of
Henry VIII.</p>
<p>It was not till the Tudor period that the houses of
our forefathers became comfortable and cheerful.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_060.jpg" width="600" height="559" alt="PLAN
OF AN ANCIENT
WEST-COUNTRY MANOR HOUSE" />
</div>
<p>We should be wrong, however, if we supposed that
in the Elizabethan period the windows were designed
so much for looking out at as for letting the sun
look in at. The old idea of a quadrangle was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
discarded, but it was modified. The quadrangle became
a pleasant garden within walls; the destruction
of the walls to afford vistas was the work of a later
age.</p>
<p>The normal plan of a house till the reign of
Elizabeth was the quadrangle; but then, in the more
modest mansions, the house itself did not occupy
more than a single side of the court, all the rest was
taken up with barns and stables, and the windows of
the house looked into this great stable-yard. On the
side of Coxtor, above Tavistock, stands an interesting
old yeoman's house, built of solid granite, which has
remained in the possession of the same worthy family
for many generations, and has remained unaltered.
This house, in little, shows us the disposition of the
old squire's mansion, for the yeoman copied the plan
of the house of the lord of the manor. A granite
doorway gives admission to the court, surrounded on
all sides but the north by stabling. On the north side,
raised above the yard by a flight of steps, is a small
terrace laid out in flower-beds; into this court all the
windows of the house look. We enter the porch, and
find ourselves in the hall, with its great fireplace, its
large south window, where sits the mistress at her
needlework, as of old; and here is the high table, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span>
wall panelled and carved, where sit the yeoman and
his family at meals, whilst the labourers sit below.
This very simple yet interesting house is quite a
fortress; it is walled up against the stormy gales that
sweep the moor. It is a prison too, for it catches and
holds captive the sunbeams that fall into the bright
little court.</p>
<p>We are too ready to regard our forefathers as fools,
but they knew a thing or two; they were well aware
that in England, if we want flowers to blow early
and freely, they must be sheltered.</p>
<p>It was not till the reign of Charles II. that the
fancy came on English people to do away with nooks
and corners, and to build oblong blocks of houses
without projections anywhere.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_063.jpg" width="600" height="362" alt="Kew Palace:" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a></span></p>
<p>The new Italian, or French château style, had its
advantages, but its counterbalancing disadvantages.
The main advantage was that the rooms were loftier
than before; the walls, white and gold, were more
cheerful at night; there may have been other advantages,
but these are the only two that are conspicuous.
The disadvantages were many. In the first place,
no shelter was provided out of doors from the wind;
no pleasant nooks, no sun-traps. The block of
building, naked and alone, stood in the midst of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span>
park, and the wind whistled round it, and the rain
drove against it. When the visitor arrived in bad
weather, he was blown in at the door, and nearly
blown through the hall. In our eagerness to make
vistas, obtain extensive landscapes, we have levelled
our enclosing walls. But what could have been a
sweeter prospect from a hall or parlour window, than
an enclosed garden full of flowers, with bees humming,
butterflies flitting, and fruit-trees ripening their burdens
against old red brick enclosing walls, tinted gorgeously
with lichens?</p>
<p>There is at present a fashion for being blown about
by the wind, so we unmuffle our mansions of their
enclosing walls and hedges. But England is a land
of wind. Nothing strikes an Englishman more, when
living abroad, than the general stillness of the air.
Look at the wonderful bulbous spires and cupolas to
towers on the Continent;—marvellously picturesque
they are. If examined, they are found to be very
generally covered with the most delicate slate work,
that folds in and out of the crinks and crannies, like
chain mail. Such slating would not endure three
winters in England; it would be torn adrift and
scattered like autumn leaves before an equinoctial gale.
We never had these bulbous spires in England,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
because the climate would not permit of their construction.
Our forefathers knew that this was a windy
world of ours—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Sing heigh ho for the wind and the rain,</div>
<div class="verse">For the rain it raineth every day,"</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>and they built their houses accordingly—to provide
the greatest possible amount of shelter from the cold
blasts of March, and from the driving rains of winter.
The house originally consisted on the ground-floor
of hall, parlour, kitchen, and entrance-porch and stairs.
In later times the side wing was carried further back,
and a second parlour was built, and the staircase
erected between the parlours.</p>
<p>At Upcott, in Broadwood, in Devon, is a house
that belonged to the Upcotts. The plan is much
the same as that of Willsworthy, even ruder, though
the house itself was finer. It had a porch, a hall,
and a dairy and kitchen. The parlour is of Queen
Anne's reign, and probably takes the place of one
earlier on the same spot. The plan of Hurlditch is
the same, a mansion of the important family of
Speccot. There also the parlour is comparatively
recent.</p>
<p>There was in a house previous to the reign of
Henry VII. but one good room, and that was the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
hall. It opened to the roof, and must have been cold
enough in winter, and draughty at all times.</p>
<p>At Wortham, the fine mansion of the Dynhams,
there was an arrangement, as far as I know, unique—two
halls, one for winter with a fire-place in it, serving
as a sort of lower story to the summer-hall, clear to
the roof—thus one is superposed on the other.</p>
<p>Tonacombe, a mansion of the Leys and Kempthornes
in Morwenstowe parish in Cornwall, is a
singularly untouched house of a somewhat similar
construction, but enlarged. Here there was the
tiny entrance-court into which the hall looked; the
hall itself being open to the roof, with its great fire-place,
and the parlour panelled with oak. All other
reception-rooms are later additions or alterations of
offices into parlours.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_068.jpg" width="600" height="518" alt="Tonacombe: North Cornwall." />
</div>
<p>With the reign of the Tudors a great sense of
security and an increase of wealth must have come to
the country gentry, for they everywhere began to
rebuild their houses, to give them more air and light,
and completely shook off that fear which had possessed
them previously of looking out into the world.
Then came in an age of great windows. It would
seem as though in the rebound they thought they
could not have light enough. Certainly glass must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span>
have been inexpensive in those days. It was the
same in the churches; the huge perpendicular windows
converted the sacred edifices into lanterns. The old
halls open to the roof gave way to ceiled halls, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
the newel staircase in the wall—very inconvenient,
impossible for the carrying up or down-stairs of large
furniture—was discarded for the broad and stately
staircase of oak.</p>
<p>It seems to me that the loss of shelter that
ensued on the abandonment of the quadrangle, or
of the E-shaped Elizabethan house, is not counterbalanced
by the compactness of the square or the
oblong block of the Queen Anne house. Moreover,
the advantages internally were not so great as
might be supposed, for, to light the very lofty room
the windows were made narrow and tall; thus shaped
they admitted far less sun than when they were broad
and not tall.</p>
<p>Only one who, like myself, has the happiness to
occupy a room with a six-light window, twelve feet wide
and five feet high, through which the sun pours in
and floods the whole room, whilst without the keen
March wind is cutting, cold and cruel, can appreciate
the blessedness of such a window, can tell the exhilarating
effect it has on the spirits, how it lets
the sun in, not only through the room, and on to
one's book or paper, but into the very heart and soul
as well.</p>
<p>A long upright narrow window does not answer the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span>
purpose for which it was constructed. The light
enters the room from the sky, not from the earth,
therefore only through the upper portion of a window.
The wide window gives us the greatest possible
amount of light. If we were but to revert to the
Elizabethan window, we would find a singular
improvement in our health and spirits.</p>
<p>Our old country houses were, say modern masons,
shockingly badly built. "Why, sir," said one to
me, "do look here at this wall. It is three foot
six thick—what waste of room!—and then only the
facing is with mortar between the stones, all the
rest of the stones are set in clay." I was engaged
building my porch when the man said this. So I,
convinced by his superior experience, apologized for
my forbears, and bade him rebuild with mortar
throughout. What was the result? That wall has
been to me ever since a worry. The rain beats
through it; every course of mortar serves as an
aqueduct, and the driving rain against that wall
traverses it as easily as if it were a sponge. Our
old houses were dry within—dry as snuff. Now we
cannot keep the wet out without cementing them
externally. Those fools, our forefathers, by breaking
the connexion prevented the water from penetrating.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span></p>
<p>Do any of my readers know the cosiness of an
oak-panelled or of a tapestried room? There is
nothing comparable to it for warmth. What the
reader certainly does know is, that from a papered
wall and from a plate-glass window there is ever a
cold current of air setting inwards. He supposes
that there is a draught creeping round the walls from
the door, or that the window-frame does not fit; and
he plugs, but cannot exclude the cold air. But the
origin of the draught is in the room itself, and it is
created by the fire. The wall is cold and the plate-glass
is cold, and the heated atmosphere of the room
is lowered in temperature against these cold surfaces,
and returns in the direction of the fire as a chill
draught. But when the room is lined with oak or
with woven woollen tapestry, then the walls are
warm, and they give back none of these chill recoil
currents. The fire has not the double obligation
laid on it of heating the air of the apartment and
the walls.</p>
<p>In Germany and Russia during the winter double
windows are set up in every room, and by this means
a film of warm air is interposed between the heated
atmosphere of the room and the external cold air.
That our ancestors did not attempt,—plate-glass was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
not known to them,—but they did what they could in
the right direction. They covered the chill stone
and plaster walls of the rooms with non-conducting
materials.</p>
<p>The oak-panelled room was, it can hardly be
denied, difficult to light at night, as the dark walls
absorbed the candle rays. But that mattered little at
a time when every one went to bed with the sun.
When later hours were kept, then the oak panels were
painted white. But now that we have mineral oils,
not to mention gas and electric lighting, we may
well scrape off the white paint and restore the dark
oak. Then, for an evening, the sombre background
has quite a marvellous effect in setting off the
bright ladies' dresses, and showing off fresh pretty
faces.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 461px;">
<img src="images/i_b_073.jpg" width="461" height="600" alt="A Parlour Fireplace" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Oak-panelled Parlour, Lew Trenchard.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a></span></p>
<p>Before the reign of Elizabeth the staircase was not
an important feature in the house. The hall reached
to the roof, and the stairs were winding flights of
stone steps in turrets, or in the thickness of the wall;
when the fashion set in to ceil the halls low, then
the staircase became a stately feature of the house.
But it was more than a stately feature, it was the
great ventilating shaft of the house; it was to the
house what the tower is to the church, the chimney<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span>
by which the stale fumes might pass away. The
great staircase window, made up of thousands of
little pieces of glass set in lead, acted as a colander
through which the outer air streamed in and the
inner vitiated air escaped. Where there is a central
quadrangle, this was in many cases glazed in; then
a staircase led to a series of galleries about it, lighted
from above, communicating with the several suites of
apartments. Many of our old inns are thus constructed.
The reader will remember the picture of
the court of the White Hart in <cite>Pickwick</cite>, with the
first introduction of Sam Weller. The central court
serves as a ventilator to the house, and so does its
dwindled representative, the well-staircase. Those
fools, our forefathers, again, if they shut out the
winds and gave shelter to their houses, made ample
provision for internal ventilation.</p>
<p>What a degraded, miserable feature of the house is
the staircase now-a-days, with its steps seven inches
instead of four, and the tread nine and a half inches
instead of thirteen. It takes an effort to go up-stairs
now, it is a scramble; it was an easy, a leisurely, and a
dignified ascent formerly. Then again, our staircases
are narrow—one of four feet is of quite a respectable
width; but the old Elizabethan staircase measured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span>
from six feet to eight feet wide. That of Blickling
Hall, Norfolk is seven feet eight inches. There the
ascent is single to the first landing; after that the
stair branches off, one for the ascent, the other for
the descent. The first ascent is of eight steps; then
after the main landing, on each side eleven steps to
the second landing; then nine more lead to the level
of the upper storys and grand corridor. On such
staircases as these furniture can be conveyed up and
down without damage to the walls, or injury to the
furniture. Architects who build modern narrow and
steep staircases, forget that often a coffin has to be
conveyed with its tenant down them; and this can
be done neither with convenience nor dignity upon
them.</p>
<p>But let us think of the staircase on a brighter
occasion than a funeral. The grand old flight of
steps with its landings, and with sometimes its bay-window
with seats in it on one of the landings, how
it lends itself to the exigencies of a sitting-out place
at a ball. The window is filled with azaleas; the
walls hung with full-length family portraits; the
broad dark oak stairs are carpeted with crimson; a
chandelier pendant from the moulded Elizabethan
ceiling-drop sheds a soft golden light over the scene;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
and on the landings, on the steps themselves, sit the
dancers after the exertions of a waltz or a galop,
enjoying the fresher air, and forming a picture of
almost ideal charm. Then also it is that the
ventilating advantages of the great staircase become
most manifest. The dancing has been in the hall,
which has become hot; the door on to the stairs is
thrown open; there is a circulation of air at once,
and in two minutes the atmosphere of the ball-room
has renewed itself.</p>
<p>In the matter of sleeping arrangements we have
certainly made an advance on those of our ancestors.
I have already mentioned Upcott, which belonged
to a family of that name that expired in the reign
of Henry VII. The hall is small, but has a huge
fire-place in it. In the window is a coat of arms, in
stained glass, representing Upcott impaling an unknown
coat, party per pale, argent and sable, three
dexter hands couped at the wrist, counterchanged.
Now this house has or had but a <em>single</em> bedroom.
There may have been, and there probably was, a
separate apartment for the squire and his wife, over
the parlour, which was rebuilt later; but for all
the rest of the household there existed but one large
dormitory over the hall, in which slept the unmarried<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
ladies of the family, and the maid-servants, and where
was the nursery for the babies. All the men of the
family, gentle and serving, slept in the hall about the
fire on the straw, and fern, and broom that littered
the pavement.</p>
<p>That house is a very astonishing one to me, for
it reveals a state of affairs singularly rude—at a comparatively
late period. Things were improved in
this particular later; bedrooms many were constructed,
communicating with each other. At the head of
the stairs slept the squire and his wife, and all
the rooms tenanted by the rest of the household were
accessible only through that. The females, daughters
of the house and maid-servants, lay in rooms on one
side, say the right, the maids in those most distant,
reached through the apartments of the young ladies;
those of the men lay on the left, the sons of the
house nearest the chamber of the squire, the serving-men
furthest off.</p>
<p>When the party in the house retired for the night,
a file of damsels marched up-stairs, domestic servants
first, passed through the room of their master and
mistress, then through those of the young ladies,
and were shut in at the end; next entered the
daughters of the house to their several chambers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
the youngest lying near the room of the serving-maids,
the eldest most outside, near that of her father
and mother. That procession disposed of, a second
mounted the stairs, consisting of the men of the
house, the stable-boy first, and the son and heir last,
and were disposed of similarly to the females, but on
the opposite side of the staircase. Then, finally, the
squire and his wife retired to roost in the chamber
that commanded those of all the rest of the household.
This arrangement still subsists in our old
fashioned farm-houses.</p>
<p>Now may be understood the odd provision in a
will proved in the Consistory Court of Canterbury
in 1652 (Bowyer, f. 57)—"I give to my son
Thomas the sole fee-simple and inheritance of my
dwelling-house, and all my lands and hereditaments
thereto belonging, to him and to his heirs for ever.
And my will is, that Joan my daughter shall have
free <em>ingress</em>, <em>egress</em>, and <em>regress</em> to the bedd in the
chambre where she now lieth, so long as she continueth
unmarried."</p>
<p>But to this arrangement followed another, more
practical and convenient, that of having a grand corridor
up-stairs, out of which opened the doors of the
bedrooms; or, where there was a glazed-in quadrangle<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
with staircase and landings around it, there the
doors of the bedrooms opened from these landings.
The corridor was used as a room for dancing, or for
music, or for games; it was the recreation place of
the house on a rainy day. Being up-stairs, and away
from library and parlours, the young people might
skip, and play blind-man's buff, dance, and disturb
no one; nor was there much furniture in these
corridors to stand in the way and get knocked
over.</p>
<p>This corridor is a feature of an old house so very
dear to young folks, and so very advantageous to
their health, that it is a pity in our modern houses
we have got rid of it.</p>
<p>A word on the furniture of our old country houses
must not be omitted. Unfortunately there set in
at the beginning of this century a most detestable
fashion in furniture, absolutely void of taste; and to
make room for the villainous articles then imported
into our old country houses, much beautiful old
work was turned out, very often was given to servants
when they married. The consequence is, that much
of it passed into cottages, where it soon got destroyed.
It was not only old carved oak that was cast forth,
for much of that had been got rid of in the Georgian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
epoch, but even the beautiful polished wood cabinets,
chests of drawers, and Chippendale chairs of a more
recent period.</p>
<p>Of early furniture, I mean mediæval, little remains
in our houses, for one reason, because there was in
them very little. The era of furniture was begun
with the Tudor monarchs; it was all of oak, and the
carving was influenced much by Holbein, who inspired
artists with admiration for German Renaissance.
Cabinets with architectural façades and heavy oak
furniture continued in the Elizabethan and Stuart
periods. The date of a chair can be told approximately
by the position of the rail binding together
the legs. The primary object of this brace was, to
hold the legs firmly, but it was also found to possess
the not less important advantage of providing a person
sitting in the chair with the means of keeping his
feet from the cold stone-slabbed pavement. When
boarded floors came into fashion, it became no longer
necessary to have the front brace of the chair placed
so near the floor, and to give more freedom to the
feet it was gradually heightened. Some time after
this the side braces were raised to the same level as
the front brace, and later still, as the first necessity
for their use was gradually lost sight of, they were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
dispensed with altogether. This was the first step
towards the bad system of construction now almost
universally practised, of leaving the legs of chairs
without any support at their lower extremities. At
the beginning of this century a still further deviation
from right principles ensued. The legs of chairs
were made to curve, and often to curve in such a
manner as to make them unserviceable for supporting
the weight reposed upon them.</p>
<p>"Let us examine an old oak chair, and see how
it was constructed. In the first place, we shall find
that the whole of the work is executed in solid oak,
the uprights forming the back, and the back legs
being made of one continuous piece; this at once
gives strength and backbone to the whole structure.
The framework holding the seat is next securely
tenoned, and pinned with oaken pegs into the four
legs, thus binding the whole of the parts firmly together.
Even at this stage we have a far more
strongly constructed piece of work than the modern
chair when quite completed; the old workman, however,
not content with this, next turned his attention
to the weakest part of all—the feet of the chair—and
securely fastened them together about three or four
inches from the floor with four strong braces, tenoning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>
each brace at both ends into the legs of the chair,
and securing it, as before, with oaken pegs. This
last addition made the whole a perfectly strong and
almost indestructible piece of framing, and constitutes
one of the most essential differences in the construction
of ancient and modern furniture. The legs
of most modern chairs are made to depend entirely
for strength on their hold, <em>at one end</em>, to the framing
of the seat of the chair, into which they are generally
only glued. The legs of the ancient chair, on the
other hand, are secured at <em>both ends</em>; and the four
braces connecting them together act as struts as
well as ties; they form an admirable protection
against any blow the chair may receive at its lower
extremities. Many of the old chairs constructed
on these excellent principles are now in good condition,
after nearly two hundred years of daily
use."<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p>
<p>In mediæval times there were trestles and boards
for a dining-table; but in Chaucer's time fixed
tables were coming into use. He tells how that
in the rich and luxurious Franklin's house there
were—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Alle deyntees that men cowde thynke,</div>
<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">*</span> <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
<div class="verse">His table dormant in his halle alway</div>
<div class="verse">Stood redy covered al the longe day."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>The "table dormant" was used only by very rich
people; it was a new fashion at the close of the fourteenth
century, and was expensive. It took its name
from the fact that it was slept upon at night; it served
as a bed for one of the men who lay in the hall.
This table consisted of a single long trestle with a
plank on it. It had but two legs, one at each end,
and a beam between supported by struts. But at the
same time that these tables came into fashion, another
variety was in use, supported by a pair of short trestles
at each end. The top of this table was also formed
of planks, but they were hinged together so as to be
easily folded up and removed, when additional space
was required. A table of this kind is referred to by
Shakespeare in <cite>Romeo and Juliet</cite>, when, as Capulet
enters the hall with his guests, he exclaims—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi8">"Come, musicians, play.</div>
<div class="verse">A hall! a hall! give room, and foot it, girls.</div>
<div class="verse">More light, you knaves; and turn the tables up."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>A remarkably cleverly constructed table of the reign
of Elizabeth exists at Slade in South Devon. It is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
based on the plan of the table dormant, but is convertible
into a settle when no longer required as a
table; the planking rests on the settle arms when
serving for a board, and slides back and assumes an
erect position when required as a settle back.</p>
<p>A "drawing-table" was a third variety. It was one
that was square framed, but could be drawn out at
both ends, so as to nearly double its normal length.</p>
<p>In a paper on 'Our Household Furniture,' contributed
to the <cite>Art Journal</cite> by Mr. G. T. Robinson,
an illustration of one of these tables is given; and
in speaking of the ingenuity displayed in the construction
of the sliding leaves, he says, "The whole
mechanism is admirably considered for the purpose it
has to fulfil. Indeed its adaptation for its purpose
was so good that the principle was long retained; and
Sheraton, so late as the commencement of the present
century, advocates its use for many writing or other
tables, and gives the rule for finding the exact rake of
the slides, and the technical details of all the other
parts."</p>
<p>It is difficult to understand why so admirable and
simple an arrangement was abandoned, for anything
more clumsy and unsatisfactory than the method
adopted in our modern dining-room tables for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span>
accomplishing a similar result can hardly be imagined.<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>
The only modern examples I have seen are some
manufactured by a firm in Brussels (Wattier, Steenpoort).</p>
<p>I confess that I look back with regret to the old
highly polished mahogany table for dessert. The
modern system of covering the table with white, and
strips of coloured silk, and setting it with sprigs of
ferns and flowers is very pretty, but then for the sake
of this prettiness we are letting the polish of our
tables go down. Hardly anywhere now does the
butler care to keep up the polish of the table; he
used to take a pride in it, now he knows that it is
never seen. Yet I know of two or three old country
houses into which the Russian fashion has not penetrated,
and where even to this day the mahogany is
shown, and shines like a mirror.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Hail, good comrades, every one,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Round the polished table;</div>
<div class="verse">Pass the bottle with the sun,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Drink, sirs! whilst ye're able.</div>
<div class="verse">Life is but a little span,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Full of painful thinking;</div>
<div class="verse">Let us live as fits a man,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">No good liquors blinking!"</div>
</div></div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span></p>
<p>So sang our grandfathers; but the song has gone
out with the polished table, and with the polished
table the quiet enjoyable drinking of good port and
sherry after the retirement of the ladies. The cigarette
is lighted—and who can enjoy port with the air full of
its perfumes?—and no sooner is the wine begun to be
appreciated, than the tray of coffee is presented, dug
into the side, as a reminder that now-a-days the
pleasant hour with good wine and agreeable male
companions is cut down to a quarter of an hour—has
gone out of fashion, along with the polished table, and
we must away into the drawing-room to talk empty
nothingnesses, and listen to bad music.</p>
<p>But we must not spend too much time over tables
and chairs. Marquetry became the fashion under
William and Mary, when upright clocks, bureaux,
and chairs were thus decorated. Under Louis XIV.
a new style of decoration was introduced by one
André Charles Buhl, who gave his name to it. He
was chief upholsterer to the king, and his rich and
brilliant marquetry of tortoise-shell and brass, so
combined as to form figures and subjects, was
extensively used in the furnishing of the new palace
at Versailles.</p>
<p>The fashion extended to England, and where tortoise-shell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
was not employed, the ground was gilt, then
painted over with black, leaving a pattern in gold
uncovered, and the whole was washed over with a
reddish-brown lacquer, which gave the effect of tortoise-shell.
Spaces thus treated were relieved by raised
work in wood carved and gilt in relief, in representation
of Buhl's brass work. We find this chiefly in mirror
and picture-frames.</p>
<p>Then followed the reign of Louis XV., the age of
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rococo</i>, of shell-shaped curves set against each other
back to back. It may have been barbarous, but it
was rich and beautiful. Then walls were painted white
and picked out with gold, the clearest, most brilliant,
turquoise-blues and rose-carmines came in. Painters
devoted themselves to the decoration of panels in the
walls of rooms and to ceilings, the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">dessus-de-portes</i>,
over-doors, generally in chiaroscuro, shepherds and
shepherdesses, nymphs, cherubs. There was a certain
amount of sombreness in the old Elizabethan house,
in the dark oak panelling, in the olive-greens of the
tapestry, that was distasteful to the merry men of the
epoch from Charles II. to the first Georges, and they
set themselves to make their interiors as sparkling
with gold and brilliant colour as possible on a white
instead of a dark ground.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>
<p>The discovery of Pompeii caused a return to a
simpler style of decoration, to purer forms; and
marquetry furniture was manufactured in exotic woods,
enriched with ormolu mountings. Paintings were
executed on copper and let into chimney-pieces, of
great delicacy and charm.</p>
<p>Chippendale, Heppelwhite, and Sheraton are names
associated with the mahogany furniture of the last
century, with tables with pierced galleries, chairs with
open strap work backs, cabinets of graceful curves, all
of admirable workmanship. Indeed cabinet-making
never attained a higher degree of delicacy and perfection
than at this period. I would point to some of
the bureaux of this date as real marvels of workmanship.
And look at the backs of the chairs—a good
Chippendale chair has the upright curled back at the
top, in a manner remarkable for beauty, and right in
principle, for it exposes no sharp angles to suffer from
a blow. The satin-wood furniture, some of it with
medallions painted on it, sideboards, work-tables,
chiffoniers, sometimes only decorated with delicate
garlands of laurel or bay painted or inlaid on the
satin-wood, is not to be disregarded. The only furniture
that cannot be loved is that of the first thirty
years of this century, when it violated all true principles<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span>
of construction, and manifested neither invention nor
taste in design.</p>
<p>Before leaving the consideration of old country
houses, one word must be said about their <em>setting</em>.
We now-a-days, when we build a mansion, look out
for the top of a hill, a good windy, exposed spot. It
never occurs to us that half the charm of a house
consists in the way in which it is framed. The
mediæval Germans lived on the tops of rocks, but
then their houses were castles, partly for defence, and
partly because they knew what was fit to be done.
Artistically, they made these castles eminently picturesque
with towers and gables that cut the sky. We
do not now build castles, but—well, the word is suitable—boxes;
and a box looks like a box on the top of a
hill against the sky, and nothing can make it look other.
Our English forefathers, in their sense of security, and
in their love of sun and shelter, sought out a hillside,
and built their mansions so as to have rising ground
behind it, to back it, and where they had not a hill,
there they had a wood of tall trees. A house thus set
is like a picture in a frame, a pretty face in a real
bonnet. I do not think that ladies who, in pursuance
of a vile fashion, wear hats, can be aware of the loss
of charm to the face. Let them take an ancestral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
portrait out of its frame, and hang it thus naked
against the wall. They will see at once that the frame
insulates it, draws attention to its beauties and enhances
them. It is the same with a house. It may be good
architecturally, but unless it be backed up by a green
hill covered with wood, tall Scotch pines, the haunt of
rooks, umbrageous beech, in autumn trees of gold,
it is nothing but an architectural study. How naked,
how forlorn a dear old house looks that has lost its
timber that surrounded it! I know one or two old
mansions that have been converted into farm-houses,
and their rear-guard of timber hewn down and sold.
There is a broken-hearted look about them that
reminds one of a carriage-horse degraded to go in a
cart. It feels its degradation, loses flesh, gloss, and
spirit.</p>
<p>I was one day walking with an old friend whom fate
doomed to live abroad all his life, but whose heart
was ever in his native land. We were strolling near
an old mansion, in its park, when he stopped, looked
at it, and said, "Ye gentlemen of England, that dwell
at home at ease—and in what ease! in what peace
and beauty! Indeed, I think that, as in all the
world there is not a type of man nobler, better,
more complete in every way than the true English<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>
gentleman, so do I think that nowhere—not approachably
even, anywhere—is there to be found a
house like the old English country house." And in
my heart I responded, Amen—It is so.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 574px;">
<img src="images/i_b_092.jpg" width="574" height="600" alt="F D BEDFORD" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br />
<span class="f75">THE OLD GARDEN.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch4.jpg" width="600" height="490" alt="formal garden" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_093t.jpg" alt="J" width="600" height="390" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_093b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">J</span>UST before the breaking forth of
the French Revolution, the Abbé de
Lille composed a poem in four cantos, entitled <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les
Jardins</i>, in which he enthusiastically urged the abandonment
of all formality in the laying out of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
garden, and the adoption of the new English style of
irregularity.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Avant de planter, avant que du terrain</div>
<div class="verse">Votre béche imprudente entame le sein,</div>
<div class="verse">Pour donnez aux jardins une forme plus pure,</div>
<div class="verse">Observez, connoissez, imitez la nature."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>An agreeable wildness—that was what was to be
sought. The Revolution came in, and hacked the
gardens about, and reduced them all to the state of
wildness.</p>
<p>What the Abbé de Lille wrote against was the
artificiality of the garden arrangement that had been
in vogue till then. Horace Walpole had already
written in the same strain. A rage had set in in
England for remodelling the gardens, and the new
fashion was called "English gardening."</p>
<p>Pliny the younger, in his delightful letters, speaks of
his gardens. As his Laurentine villa was his winter
retreat, it is not surprising that the gardens there take
no prominent part of his account. All he says of
them is, that the <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">gestatio</i>, or exercise ground, surrounded
the garden, and was bounded by a box-hedge;
where the box had perished, there were planted
tufts of rosemary. He mentions his vine-walk and
his trees, mostly mulberry and fig, as the soil was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
unsuited for other trees. On his Tuscan villa he is
more diffuse; the garden takes up a good part of
the description. He tells of the strange shapes into
which his box-trees were clipped, his slopes, his
terraces, shrubs methodically trimmed, a marble basin,
fountain, a cascade, bay-trees alternating with plane-trees,
a long straight walk, from which branched off
others hedged by apple-trees in espalier, and by box,
and ornamented with obelisks. Something like a
rural view was, indeed, contrived amidst so much
artificiality, but was speedily forgotten amidst the stiff
lines of box and the trimmed cypresses.</p>
<p>In the paintings of Herculaneum we see the representations
of gardens; they are square enclosures,
formed by trellis-work and espaliers, and regularly
ornamented with vases, fountains, and statues, elegantly
symmetrical. Now this arrangement of a garden
continued in Italy. It never changed, and the villa
gardens in and about Rome to this day reproduce the
plans and character of those that flourished there in
the classic age.</p>
<p>The villa-gardens in and about Rome! I cannot
write the words without an ache of heart, for I know
that they are disappearing rapidly, inevitably. Along
the Via Salaria I saw three in process of destruction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
during the late winter and spring of 1889. A great
slice of the Borghese grounds is being devastated to
make room for hideous streets and squares. The
Wolkonski gardens have been curtailed; those of
Villa Massimo Arsoli adjoining, almost destroyed and
built over; the Rospigliosi gardens gone; others
doomed; the glorious Ludovisi gardens, with their
cypresses and ilexes towering above the closed Porta
Pinciana and the ancient boundary wall, are in process
of extermination. "The grounds, which were of an
extent extraordinary when considered as being within
the walls of a capital, were laid out by Le Nôtre, and
were in the stiff French style of high-clipped hedges,
and avenues adorned with vases and sarcophagi.
With the fury against trees which characterizes
Italians, all the magnificent ilexes and cypresses were
cut down as soon as the land was secured, and the
plots of building-land rendered altogether hideous and
undesirable. In a few years not a trace will remain
of the picturesque glories of this once noble villa,
which, if acquired by the municipality, who refused to
purchase it, might have been made into public gardens
of beauty unrivalled in any European capital."
<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p>
<p>The railway station, with its sheds and sidings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
occupies the once matchless gardens of the Villa
Massimo Negroni, celebrated for its exquisite cypress
avenues and its stately terrace, lined with ancient
orange-trees and noble sarcophagi. The ground was
confiscated by the State, and the destruction of this
fair scene broke the heart of the owner, Prince
Massimo. The sweet gardens of the Villa Strozzi are
gone, now built over with ugly houses. Outside the
Porta Pia grand old gardens are being devastated also.</p>
<p>The Medici gardens remain; Hawthorn thus described
them. "They are laid out in the old
fashion of straight paths, with borders of box, which
form hedges of great height and density, and are
shorn and trimmed to the evenness of a wall of stone
at the top and sides. There are green alleys, with
long vistas, overshadowed by ilex-trees; and at each
intersection of the paths the visitor finds seats of
lichen-covered stone to repose on, and marble statues
that look forlornly at him, regretful of their lost noses.
In the more open portions of the gardens, before the
sculptured front of the villa, you see fountains and
flower-beds; and, in their season, a profusion of
roses, from which the genial sun of Italy distils a
fragrance to be scattered abroad by the no less genial
breeze."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span></p>
<p>The Boboli gardens at Florence remain to testify
to the ancient arrangement, with high walls of evergreens
and long avenues hedged up ten or twelve feet,
dense and impervious, above which rise the spires of
cypress and the domes of the stone-pine.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_098.jpg" width="600" height="355" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Garden from Tapestry.</span></div>
</div>
<p>Our English gardens were modelled on those of the
Italian palaces, the same subdivision of squares into
sections, with trimmed box enclosing them, and with
a statue or a fountain, or a carved and shaped yew
in the midst. The gardens were invariably enclosed
within walls. Where the ground sloped, at great
expense it was shaped into terraces, reached by flights
of steps. The greatest exactness in the design was
aimed at. As Pope observed—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi7">"Each alley has a brother,</div>
<div class="verse">And half the garden just reflects the other."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>When Pamela endured her persecution she was
allowed to walk in the garden, but this was so walled
round that escape from it was impossible. There
were seats in it on which she might repose in the sun.
There was a fish-pond in which she might angle, but
there was only one garden-door by which egress could
be obtained, and that was locked. It was the same
with Clarissa Harlowe. The garden of her father's
house was walled round.</p>
<p>The pleached alleys were constructed of lime or
beech trees platted and trimmed so as to form walls
of green. They were over-arched, and those walking
in them were as in a green bower. I know an old
château on the Moselle with such a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">berceau</i>, it has
in it windows commanding beautiful reaches of the
river; otherwise it is completely enclosed by leaves,
and fresh and sweet it is as a walk on a hot day.
In England we required shade less than shelter, and
the green funnels were not in such request as the long
lines of lofty yew or box hedge.</p>
<p>In King's <cite>Views of the Seats of our Nobility and
Gentry</cite>, at the beginning of the eighteenth century,
we see the utmost formality. Every house is approached<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
by two or three gardens, consisting perhaps
of a gravel-walk and two grass-plats, or borders of
flowers. Each rises above the other by two or three
steps, and as many walls and terraces, and so many
iron gates.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_100.jpg" width="600" height="485" alt="Flaxley the Seat of Mrs Bovey" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Flaxley, from a print of 1714.</span></div>
</div>
<p>Sir William Temple gives us his view of what constituted
a perfect garden in his day. "The perfectest
figure of a garden I ever saw, either at home or
abroad, was that of Moor Park, in Hertfordshire. I
will describe it for a model to those that meet with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
such a situation, and are above the regards of common
expense. It lies on the side of a hill, upon which the
house stands, but not very steep. The length of the
house, where the best rooms and of most use or pleasure
are, lies upon the breadth of the garden; the
great parlour opens into the midst of a terrace gravel-walk
that lies even with it, and which may lie about
three hundred paces long, and broad in proportion;
the border set with standard laurels and at large distances,
which have the beauty of orange-trees out of
flower and fruit. From this walk are three descents by
many stone steps, in the middle and at each end, into
a very large parterre. This is divided into quarters
by gravel-walks, and adorned with two fountains and
eight statues, at the several quarters. At the end of
the terrace-walk are two summer-houses, and the
sides of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters
open to the garden; over these two cloisters are two
terraces covered with lead and fenced with balusters;
and the passage into these airy walks is out of the two
summer-houses at the end of the first terrace-walk.
The cloister facing the south is covered with vines.
From the middle of the parterre is a descent by many
steps into the lower garden, which is all fruit-trees,
ranged about the several quarters of a wilderness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span>
which is very shady; the walks here are all green, and
there is a grotto embellished with figures of shell
rock-work, fountains, and water-works."</p>
<p>Nothing could be more formal, and nothing, I
think, could be more charming. Why should we
imitate wild nature? The garden is a product of
civilization. Why any more make of our gardens
imitation wild nature, than paint our children with
woad, and make them run about naked in an effort to
imitate nature unadorned? The very charm of a
garden is that it is taken out of savagery, trimmed,
clothed, and disciplined. The wall and hedge are
almost necessaries with us, to cut off the wind. See
how flowers of all kinds luxuriate, if given the screen
from the biting blast! If they like it, why should
not we?</p>
<p>I allow that the hacking of trees into fantastical
shapes deserved the scourge administered in the
one hundred and seventy-third number of <cite>The
Guardian</cite>, Sept. 29th, 1713. The writer there says—"How
contrary to simplicity is the modern practice
of gardening; we seem to make it our study to recede
from nature, not only in the various tonsure of greens
into the most regular and formal shapes, but even in
monstrous attempts beyond the reach of the art itself;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
we run into sculpture, and are yet better pleased to
have our trees in the most awkward figures of men
and animals, than in the most regular of their own.
A citizen is no sooner proprietor of a couple of yews,
but he entertains thoughts of erecting them into
giants, like those of Guildhall. I know an eminent
cook, who beautified his country-seat with a coronation
dinner in greens, where you see the champion flourishing
on horseback at one end of the table, and the
queen in perpetual youth at the other.</p>
<p>"For the benefit of all my loving countrymen of this
curious taste, I shall here publish a catalogue of greens
to be disposed of by an eminent town gardener, who
has lately applied to me upon this head. My correspondent
is arrived at such perfection, that he cuts
family pieces of men, women, or children. Any ladies
that please may have their own effigies in myrtle,
or their husbands in horn-beam. I shall proceed
to his catalogue, as he sent it for my recommendation.</p>
<p>"'Adam and Eve in yew; Adam a little shattered
by the fall of the tree of knowledge in the great
storm, Eve and the serpent very flourishing.</p>
<p>"'The Tower of Babel, not yet finished.</p>
<p>"'St. George in box; his arm scarce long enough,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>
but will be in condition to strike the dragon by next
April.</p>
<p>"'A Queen Elizabeth in phylyræa, a little inclining
to the green-sickness, but of full growth.</p>
<p>"'An old maid-of-honour in worm-wood.</p>
<p>"'Divers eminent poets in bays, somewhat blighted,
to be disposed of a pennyworth.</p>
<p>"'A quickset hog shot up into a porcupine, by its
being forgot a week in rainy weather,' &c."</p>
<p>But these absurdities do not affect the question of
hedges. I know a hedge of clay and stone built up
eight feet, and above that crowned with holly and
thorn, running from east to west, but with a point
or two of west in its face. I remember an old man,
a rector, chronically affected with bronchitis for fifteen
years, who felt the solace of this charming hedge
through the whole time. He could crawl out there
when the sun shone, and disregard the north and
east winds. In that hedge the primrose and the
foxglove were out prematurely. The rabbits loved
it dearly, and made it untidy with their burrowings
in the warm dry clay under the roots of the bushes.</p>
<p>If a ruthless craving for vistas had not prevailed in
and after Horace Walpole's time, every one of our
country houses and parsonages would have had these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
sweet sheltered walks, where invalids could creep
along and bask in the sun. We have had them
demolished, and so must away to the Riviera. Evelyn
had a great holly hedge in his garden at Sayes Court,
four hundred feet in length, five feet in diameter, and
nine feet high; and when the Court was let to the
Czar Peter, during his visit to the Deptford dockyard,
that barbarian drove his wheel-barrow through it,
and so injured the hedge that Evelyn claimed
damages, and received one hundred and fifty pounds
in compensation.</p>
<p>Another charming feature of the old garden—and
one that was costly to execute—was the terrace. The
slope of the hillside was taken in hand and was cut
away, so as to produce a level lawn with a level,
horizontal terrace-walk above it, and perhaps, where
the slope admitted of it, a second and superior terrace.
These terrace walls gave shelter, and as walks were
always dry, the drainage from them being rapid.
Trees, shrubs, flowers planted on them throve; there
was no stagnation of water about their roots, and the
sun, striking against the wall that enclosed the earth
for their roots, made it warm, cherishing to the
plants, as a hot bottle is a comfort to you who suffer
from cold feet in your bed.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span></p>
<p>Nowhere have I seen roses so revel, go mad with
delight and gratitude as in these terrace gardens.
The rose is peculiarly averse to wet feet. See how
the wild rose thrives in the clay-banked-up hedge!—a
hedge that seems to have no moisture in it, the
earth of which crumbles between the finger and thumb
like snuff.</p>
<p>Then, again, the rose hates wind, and the terrace
wall serves as a screen to it against its enemy. And—for
human roses!</p>
<p>Last summer I attended a garden-party at an ancient
country house with an old-fashioned garden. From
the lawn in front of the porch a flight of granite
steps led to a terrace nine feet above the lawn. This
terrace was planted with venerable yew-trees, under
which were little tables spread with fruit and cool
drinks, and cakes. A second flight of steps gave
access to a second terrace some twelve or fourteen
feet higher, planted with flowers, and backed to the
north by a lofty garden wall.</p>
<p>I do not think that, off the stage, I have seen any
effect more beautiful than that of the young girls
in their bright and many-tinted summer dresses,
flitting about; some under the shade of the yews
on terrace number one, some looking at the flowers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span>
a stage higher, on terrace number two, and some
ascending and others descending the broad flight of
steps that led to these terraces, like the angels in
Jacob's vision.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 537px;">
<img src="images/i_b_107.jpg" width="537" height="600" alt="A Garden Front" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">A Town-House Garden Front, Launceston.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span></p>
<p>The walls supporting the terraces served another
purpose than that of sustaining the roots of trees and
flowers on the stages; as rain fell on the terraces, it
exuded between the joints of the stones and nourished
a fairy world of lichen, moss, and ferns. This
was the wall shaded by the yews. The other was
hugged and laughed over by roses, honeysuckle, and
wisteria.</p>
<p>We have got almost no gardens left in England
in their primitive condition, only the wreckage of
their beauty. But, as the old woman said who
sniffed the empty amphora of old Falernian wine,
"If what remains be so good, what must you have
been when full!"</p>
<p>Now let us see what Horace Walpole tells us
of the devastation of these beautiful old gardens.
"No succeeding generation," he says, "in an
opulent and luxurious country contents itself with
the perfection established by its ancestors; more
perfect perfection was still sought, and improvements
had gone on, till London and Wise had stocked all
our gardens with giants, animals, monsters, coats of
arms and mottoes, in yew, box, and holly. Bridgman,
the next fashionable designer of gardens, was far
more chaste—he banished verdant sculpture, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
did not even revert to the square precision of the
foregoing age. He enlarged his plans, disdained to
make every division tally to its opposite, and though
he still adhered much to straight walks with high-clipped
hedges, they were only his great lines; the
rest he diversified by wilderness, and with loose groves
of oak, though still within surrounding hedges. As
his reformation gained footing, he ventured to introduce
cultivated fields and even morsels of forest
appearance, by the sides of those endless and
tiresome walks.</p>
<p>"But the capital stroke, the leading step to all that
has followed,"—I shiver as I write these words,—"<em>was
the destruction of walls for boundaries</em>, and the
invention of fosses—an attempt then deemed so
astonishing, that the common people called them
Ha! Ha's! to express their surprise at finding a
sudden and unperceived check to their walk. No
sooner was this simple enchantment made, than
levelling, mowing, and rolling followed. The contiguous
ground of the park without the sunk fence
was to be harmonized with the lawn within; and the
garden in its turn was to be set free from its prim
regularity, that it might assort with the wilder country
without. At that moment appeared Kent, painter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span>
enough to taste the charms of landscape, bold and
opinionative enough to dare and to dictate, and born
with a genius to strike out a great system from the
twilight of imperfect essays."</p>
<p>The man Kent deserved the gallows much more than
many who have been hung. No one who pretended
to be in fashion dared to maintain a hedge or a wall.
Down went the walls, and the beautiful roses bent their
heads and died; the great yew hedges were stubbed
up, and the delicate children and feeble old gentlemen
who had basked under the lea, also, like the roses,
stooped to earth and died. All the shelter, sweetness,
sun, restfulness went away. These hedges had
taken a century and more to grow, they were
levelled without compunction, never perhaps again to
reappear.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p>
<p>No doubt there was folly in our forefathers in
trimming yews into fantastical shapes; but Kent and
his followers were as extravagant in their way. Kent
actually planted <i>dead</i> trees in lawns and parks, to give
a greater air of reality to the scene. Where he
was allowed he cut down, or mutilated avenues,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
because unnatural; but just as unnatural were his
absurd vistas, dug through woods so that the eye
might reach a pagoda, an obelisk, or a temple at
the end.</p>
<p>A traveller in France in 1788, on the eve of the
Revolution, gives an account of the garden of
Ermenonville, laid out by M. de Girardin on the
English system. "He has succeeded better in closely
imitating the steps of nature than any spot I have
ever seen; nothing seems laboured, nothing artificial.
The ground is irregular, and the ornaments rude,
though the latter approach to too great an excess.
I can see no reason, if ornaments are to be made use
of in such places as these (which in itself is a deviation
from nature), why they should not be handsome.
To see a miserable obelisk built of brick,
and resembling more a chimney than a monument,
is carrying the refinement of wildness to too high a
pitch. If they are designed to be rude and natural,
they may at the same time be grotesque and elegant.
Winding along a lovely walk, through the bosom
of a young wood, a gentle stream meandering by its
side, we reached a charming and retired spot. A
large space here opens, shaded by the thick branches
of the trees, which just leave room for a softened light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
to insinuate itself, and for the zephyrs to breathe
through; over interrupting rocks and heaps of
pebbles, the water dashes along with a noise grateful
and composing. Here an altar is erected, sacred to
Reverie; on a rock that overhangs the stream are
inscribed some pleasing lines. Hence through a
varied and highly pleasing path we continued our
route along the grove, meeting with different inscriptions.
From thence we ascended the forest, and
traversing a path rugged and grotesque, were presented
with many interesting and pleasing views. Arriving
on the plain, in the bosom of a wood, we reached an
extended area, in the midst of which stood a large
oak, and at the end an edifice."<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p>
<p>I had written thus far, when last night there came
to see me an old village singer of nigh on eighty years,
always to me a welcome guest. I seated him by the
fireside on a settle, and we fell to talking about
gardens, when he said, "I reckon, your honour, I
know a rare old-fashioned song about flowers and
gardings, and them like. If your honour 'ud plase
to hear me, I'll zing 'n."</p>
<p>Then he struck up the following quaint ballad, to
an air certainly two hundred years old—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span></p>
<h3>"IN A GARDEN SWEET." <i>Arranged by</i> <span class="smcap">F. W. Bussell</span>, Esq., M.A.</h3>
<p class="center">[<a href="music/in_a_garden.mid">Listen</a>] [<a href="music/in_a_garden.pdf">PDF</a>]
[<a href="music/in_a_garden.xml">MusicXML</a>]</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;">
<img src="images/i_b_113.jpg" width="448" height="600" alt="Score: In a garden Sweet - 1 " />
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 448px;">
<img src="images/i_b_114.jpg" width="448" height="322" alt="Score: In a graden Sweet - 2" />
</div>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Two lovers in a garden sweet</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Were walking side by side,</div>
<div class="verse">I heard how he the maid addressed,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">I heard how she replied.</div>
<div class="verse">The garden it was very great,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">With box trees in a row;</div>
<div class="verse">And up and down the gravell'd walk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span></div>
<div class="verse vi1">These lovers fond did go.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Said he, 'I prithee fix the day</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Whereon we shall be wed.'</div>
<div class="verse">Said she, 'Thou hast a wanton mind,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">I like thee not,' she said.</div>
<div class="verse">'For now you look at brown Nancy,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And dark eyes pleasure you;</div>
<div class="verse">But next declare you like the fair</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Julian with eyes of blue.'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"'O pretty maid, in garden sweet,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Are flowers in each parterre,</div>
<div class="verse">I turn and gaze with fond amaze</div>
<div class="verse vi1">At all—for all are fair.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span>
<div class="verse">But one I find—best to my mind,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Of all I choose but one;</div>
<div class="verse">I stoop and gather that choice flower,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And wear that flower alone.'"</div>
</div></div></div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_115.jpg" width="600" height="592" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br />
<span class="f75">THE COUNTRY PARSON.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch5.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="country church" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_116t.jpg" alt="OF" width="600" height="300" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_116b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">OF</span>
NO class of men can it be more
truly said that the good they do
dies with them, and that the evil lives—in the
memory of men—than the country parson. Of the
thousands of old rectors and vicars of past generations,
how they have all slipped out of the memory
of men, have left no tradition whatever behind them,
if they were good! but the few bad ones did so impress
themselves on their generation, that the stories<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
of their misconduct have been handed on, and are
not forgotten in a century.</p>
<p>In the floor of my own parish church, in the
chancel, is a tombstone to a former incumbent. The
name and the date have been ground away by the
heels of the school-children who sit over it, but thus
much of the inscription remains—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"... The Psalmists man of yeares hee lived a score,</div>
<div class="verse">Tended his flocke allone; theire ofspring did restore</div>
<div class="verse">By Water into life of Grace; at font and grave,</div>
<div class="verse">He served God devout: and strivd men's soules to save.</div>
<div class="verse">He fedd the poore, lov'd all, and did by Pattern showe,</div>
<div class="verse">As pastor to his Flocke, ye way that they shoulde go."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Not less effaced than the name is all tradition of the
man whose monument proclaims his virtues. Now, I
take it, <em>for this very reason</em> the tombstone bears true
testimony. If it had told lies, every one would have
known about it, and related this fact to their children;
would have told anecdotes of the parson who was
so unworthy, but concerning whose virtues his stone
made such boast. That our old country parsons
were not, as a rule, a disreputable, drinking, neglectful
set of men I believe, because so few traditions of their
misconduct remain.</p>
<p>There was a clever, pleasant book published at
the beginning of this century, entitled, <cite>The Velvet</cite><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
<cite>Cushion</cite>. It was written by the Rev. J. W. Cunningham,
Vicar of Harrow. The seventh edition, from
which I quote, appeared in 1815. This book professes
to tell the experiences of a pulpit cushion from pre-Reformation
days to the beginning of the nineteenth
century. Here is what the Cushion says—"Sir, you
will be anxious, I am sure, to hear the history of
some of your predecessors in the living; and it is my
intention to gratify you. I think it right, however, to
observe, that of a large proportion of them no very
interesting records remain. Mankind are much alike,
and a little country village is not likely to call out
their peculiarities. Some few were mere profligates,
whose memory I do not wish to perpetuate."—But
it is precisely these, and only these, that the less
charitable memory of man does perpetuate.—"Many
of them were persons of decent, cold, correct manners,
varying slightly, perhaps, in the measure of their zeal,
their doctrinal exactness, their benevolence, their
industry, their talents—but, in general, of that neutral
class which rarely affords materials for history, or
subjects of instruction. They were men of that
species who are too apt to spring up in the bosom
of old and prosperous establishments, whose highest
praise is, that they do no harm."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p>
<p>No one can accuse this description as being coloured
too high. It is, if I may judge by early recollections,
applicable to those who occupied the parsonages
twenty and thirty years later.</p>
<p>In my own parish in which I was reared, Romaine,
one of the most brilliant luminaries of the evangelical
revival, acted as curate for a while, but not the smallest
trace of any tradition of his goodness, his eloquence,
his zeal did I discover among the villagers. At the
very time that Romaine was in this parish, there was
a curate in an adjoining one who was over-fond of the
bottle, and was picked up out of the ditch on more
than one occasion. Neither his name nor his delinquencies
are forgotten to this day.</p>
<p>I take it that the state in which the parish registers
have been kept are a fair test as to what sort of parsons
there were. Now certainly they were very neglectfully
kept at the Restoration and for a short while afterwards.
That is not to be wondered at. During the Commonwealth
they had been taken from the parsons and
committed to lay-registrars in the several parishes, who
certainly kept them badly, and at the Restoration they
were not at once and always reclaimed, but continued
to be kept by the clerk, who stepped into the place
of the registrar appointed by the Commonwealth. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
in the much-maligned Hanoverian period they were
carefully kept by the clergy, and as a rule neatly
entered. If such an indication be worth anything,
it shows that the country parsons did take pains to
discharge at least one of their duties. He that is
faithful in a small matter, is faithful also, we may conclude,
in that which is great.</p>
<p>I presume that Dr. Syntax may be regarded as
typical of the class, and Combe says of him—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Of Church-preferment he had none;</div>
<div class="verse">Nay, all his hope of that was gone:</div>
<div class="verse">He felt that he content must be</div>
<div class="verse">With drudging in a curacy.</div>
<div class="verse">Indeed, on ev'ry Sabbath-day,</div>
<div class="verse">Through eight long miles he took his way,</div>
<div class="verse">To preach, to grumble, and to pray;</div>
<div class="verse">To cheer the good, to warn the sinner,</div>
<div class="verse">And, if he got it,—eat a dinner:</div>
<div class="verse">To bury these, to christen those,</div>
<div class="verse">And marry such fond folks as chose</div>
<div class="verse">To change the tenor of their life,</div>
<div class="verse">And risk the matrimonial strife.</div>
<div class="verse">Thus were his weekly journeys made,</div>
<div class="verse">'Neath summer suns and wintry shade;</div>
<div class="verse">And all his gains, it did appear,</div>
<div class="verse">Were only thirty pounds a-year."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>And when he dies—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"The village wept, the hamlets round</div>
<div class="verse">Crowded the consecrated ground;</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span>
<div class="verse">And waited there to see the end</div>
<div class="verse">Of Pastor, Teacher, Father, Friend."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>What a charming picture does Fielding draw in
his <cite>Joseph Andrews</cite> of Mr. Abraham Adams, the
parson—gentle, guileless, learned, and very poor.
And Goldsmith's Vicar of Wakefield—was ever a
purer, sweeter type of man delineated? The description
given of his parsonage and mode of life is
valuable, and must be quoted; for it shows what a
change has come over the parsonage and the parson's
manner of intercourse with his parishioners since
Goldsmith's time.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_121.jpg" width="600" height="331" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">An Old Country Parsonage, Bratton-Clovelly.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p>
<p>"Our little habitation was situated at the foot of
a sloping hill, sheltered with a beautiful underwood
behind, and prattling river before; on one side a
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given
an hundred pounds for my predecessor's good-will....
My house consisted of but one story, and
was covered with thatch, which gave it an air of great
snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely whitewashed,
and my daughters undertook to adorn them
with pictures of their own designing. Though the
same room served us for parlour and kitchen, that
only made it warmer. Besides, as it was kept with
the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers
being well scoured, and all disposed in bright rows
on the shelves, the eye was agreeably relieved, and did
not want richer furniture. There were three other
apartments—one for my wife and me, another for
our two daughters, within our own, and the third,
with two beds for the rest of the children."</p>
<p>Our old parsonage houses precisely resembled this
description, but hardly any remain. They have given
way for more pretentious houses; and with the
grander houses the habits and requirements of the
parsons have grown.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span></p>
<p>"Nor were we without guests; sometimes Farmer
Flamborough, and often the blind piper, would pay
us a visit, and taste our gooseberry wine. These
harmless people had several ways of being good
company; for while one played, the other would sing
some soothing ballad—<cite>Johnny Armstrong's Last Good
Night</cite>, or <cite>The Cruelty of Barbara Allen</cite>."</p>
<p>Crabbe, himself a clergyman, does not give the
most favourable sketch of the village parsons; and
yet his country vicar is a man of perfect blamelessness.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Our Priest was cheerful, and in season gay;</div>
<div class="verse">His frequent visits seldom fail'd to please;</div>
<div class="verse">Easy himself, he sought his neighbour's ease.</div>
</div>
<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Simple he was, and loved the simple truth,</div>
<div class="verse">Yet had some useful cunning from his youth;</div>
<div class="verse">A cunning never to dishonour lent,</div>
<div class="verse">And rather for defence than conquest meant;</div>
<div class="verse">'Twas fear of power, with some desire to rise,</div>
<div class="verse">But not enough to make him enemies;</div>
<div class="verse">He ever aim'd to please; and to offend</div>
<div class="verse">Was ever cautious; for he sought a friend.</div>
<div class="verse">Fiddling and fishing were his arts: at times</div>
<div class="verse">He alter'd sermons, and he aim'd at rhymes;</div>
<div class="verse">And his fair friends, not yet intent on cards,</div>
<div class="verse">Oft he amused with riddles and charades.</div>
<div class="verse">Mild were his doctrines, and not one discourse</div>
<div class="verse">But gain'd in softness what it lost in force:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span></div>
<div class="verse">Kind his opinions; he would not receive</div>
<div class="verse">An ill report, nor evil act believe.</div>
</div>
<div class="tb">* <span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">* </span><span class="in2">*</span></div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Though mild benevolence our Priest possess'd,</div>
<div class="verse">'Twas but by wishes or by words expressed.</div>
<div class="verse">Circles in water, as they wider flow,</div>
<div class="verse">The less conspicuous in their progress grow,</div>
<div class="verse">And when, at last, they touch upon the shore,</div>
<div class="verse">Distinction ceases, and they're viewed no more.</div>
<div class="verse">His love, like the last circle, all embraced,</div>
<div class="verse">But with effect that never could be traced.</div>
<div class="verse">Now rests our Vicar.—They who knew him best</div>
<div class="verse">Proclaim his life t' have been entirely—rest.</div>
<div class="verse">The rich approved,—of them in awe he stood;</div>
<div class="verse">The poor admired,—they all believed him good;</div>
<div class="verse">The old and serious of his habits spoke;</div>
<div class="verse">The frank and youthful loved his pleasant joke;</div>
<div class="verse">Mothers approved a safe contented guest,</div>
<div class="verse">And daughters one who backed each small request;</div>
<div class="verse">In him his flock found nothing to condemn;</div>
<div class="verse">Him sectaries liked,—he never troubled them:</div>
<div class="verse">No trifles fail'd his yielding mind to please,</div>
<div class="verse">And all his passions sunk in early ease;</div>
<div class="verse">Nor one so old has left this world of sin,</div>
<div class="verse">More like the being that he entered in."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Clever, true, and cutting. Crabbe knew the class,
its excellences and its weaknesses. We are considering
the excellences now; we will recur to the
weaknesses later.</p>
<p>Fielding does, in his <cite>Joseph Andrews</cite>, give us a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>
study of another type of parson—Trulliber, "whom
Adams found stript into his waistcoat, with an apron
on, and a pail in his hands, just come from serving
his hogs; for Mr. Trulliber was a parson on Sundays,
but all the other six might be more properly called a
farmer. He occupied a small piece of land of his
own, besides which he rented a considerable deal
more. His wife milked his cows, managed his dairy,
and followed the market with butter and eggs. The
hogs fell chiefly to his care, which he carefully waited
on at home, and attended to fairs; on which occasion
he was liable to many jokes, his own size
being with much ale rendered little inferior to that
of the beasts he sold.... His voice was loud and
hoarse, and his accent extremely broad. To complete
the whole, he had a stateliness in his gait when he
walked, not unlike of a goose, only he stalked slower."</p>
<p>But this parson was only a boor, he was not disorderly.</p>
<p>I have an old coachman, near eighty, who has been
in the family since he was a boy, and of whom I get
many stories of how the world went at the beginning
of this century. Said he to me one day, "My old
uncle he lived in Maristowe; he was bedridden
nigh on twenty years, and in all those years Parson<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
Teasdale didn't miss coming to see and read and pray
with him every day, Sunday and week-day alike."</p>
<p>We make much fuss about parochial visiting now,
but is there any visiting like that? In <cite>The Velvet
Cushion</cite>, a dialogue between the Vicar and his wife is
chronicled.</p>
<p>"'I am not sure,' said the Vicar, 'that it is not a
presumptuous reliance upon the goodness of God,—an
abuse of the doctrine of Divine mercy, that has kept
me at home to-day, when I should have gone to visit
old Dame Wilkins. An' so now, my dear, let us go
to Mary Wilkins' directly.' Her bonnet was soon on,
and they hobbled down the village almost as fast as if
their house had been on fire. Mary Wilkins was a
poor good woman, to whom the Vicar's visit three
times a week had become almost one of the necessaries
of life. It was now two hours beyond the time
he usually came; and had she been awake, she would
really have been pained by the delay. But, happily,
she had fallen into a profound sleep, and when he put
his foot on the threshold, and in his old-fashioned
way said, 'Peace be with you,' she was just awaking.
This comforted our good man, and, as he well knew
where all comfort comes from, he thanked God in his
heart even for this."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>
<p>The old parsons lived more on the social level of
the farmers and yeomen than of the squires, but they
were in many cases men of very considerable culture.
It was not, however, those who were the best scholars
who were the best parsons. I will give presently my
reminiscences of one of the last of the old scholar-parsons.
Unfortunately, scholarship is on the decline,
at all events among those who occupy country
parsonages.</p>
<p>It has been often charged against the old parsons,
that they preached mere morality, and above the
heads of their people, interlarding their sermons with
quotations in Greek and Latin. As for preaching
morality—I do not care to apologize for their doing
that. Nothing better can be preached; nothing was
more necessary to be preached in the last century.
Judging by the registers of baptisms in parishes, at
no time was there so much immorality among village
people than at that period when our country parsons
were charged with preaching morality—excepting
always the present. Those who made this a matter
of accusation, meant that the Gospel, as they called
their peculiar view of religion, was not insisted on;
forgetting all the while that the Gospel is pretty well
stuffed with exhortations to morality, and above all,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
that model for all sermons, the one preached on the
Mount. But I do not believe that mere morality,
apart from Christian faith, was preached. There is a
pretty passage in <cite>The Velvet Cushion</cite> descriptive of a
sermon at the beginning of this century, which I
cannot take to be a description of something quite
extraordinary and out of the way.</p>
<p>"'My love,' said the Vicar, 'this fact is worth a
thousand arguments—the common people heard
Christ gladly. Socinianism never fails to drive them
away. A religion without a Saviour is the temple
without the Shechinah, and its worshippers will all
desert it. Few men in the world have less pretensions
as a preacher than myself,—my voice, my look, my
manner, all of a very ordinary nature,—and yet, I
thank God, there is scarcely a corner of our little
church where you might not find a streaming eye or
a beating heart. The reason is—that I speak of
Christ; and if there is not a charm in the word, there
is the train of fears, and hopes, and joys which it
carries along with it. The people feel, and then they
must listen.'"</p>
<p>Evelyn in his <cite>Diary</cite> says, in 1683, "A stranger,
and old man, preached—much after Bishop Andrews'
method, full of logical divisions, in short and broken<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
periods, and Latin sentences, <em>now quite out of fashion</em>
in the pulpit, which is grown into a far more profitable
way of plain and practical discourses, of which
sort this nation, or any other, never had greater plenty
or more profitable, I am confident."</p>
<p>Pepys is hardly to be quoted as a judge, as he went
to church to see pretty faces, not, or not mainly, to
hear sermons, and his criticism is not always to be
trusted.</p>
<p>"1667, 26th May, the Lord's Day. I went by water
to Westminster to the parish church, and there did
entertain myself with my perspective glass up and
down the church, by which I had the great pleasure
of seeing and gazing at a great many very fine
women; and what with that, and sleeping, I passed
away the time till the sermon was done."</p>
<p>"1667, 20th August. Turned into St. Dunstan's
church, where I heard an able sermon of the minister
of the place; and stood by a pretty, modest maid,
whom I did labour to take by the hand; but she
would not, but got further and further from me; and
at last I could perceive her to take pins out of her
pocket to prick me if I should touch her again,—which
seeing, I did forbear, and was glad I did spy
her design. And then I fell to gaze upon another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
pretty maid in a pew close to me, and she on me;
and I did go about to take her by the hand, which
she suffered a little, and then withdrew. So the
sermon ended, and the church broke up, and my
amours ended also."</p>
<p>"1667, 25th August, Lord's Day. Up and to
church, thinking to see Betty Michell, and did stay
an hour in the crowd, thinking, by the end of a nose
that I saw, that it had been her; but at last the head
turned towards me, and it was her mother, which
vexed me. So I back to my boat."</p>
<p>No, Pepys was no judge of a good sermon, his
mind was otherwise engaged.</p>
<p>Sermons now-a-days produce little or no effect, because
there are too many of them. The ears of hearers
have been tickled till they are no longer capable of
sensation. One hears curates boast of having preached
some seven sermons in one week, and miserable stuff
it must have been that flowed so freely; and yet good
enough for the hearers, who, by accustoming their
ears to be always hearing, are unable to appreciate a
really good discourse, or if they appreciate, allow it to
produce no effect whatever upon them. Our audiences
in church are like those who live in railway arches,
who become so accustomed to the rush overhead of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
trains, that none ever rouse them, and they cannot
sleep without the intermittent rush to lull them.</p>
<p>The sermons of the end of last century and the
beginning of this do not please us, because they are
cast in a different mould, they <em>generally</em> appeal to a
different side of us than do those of the present day.
They were addressed to the natural, healthy conscience,
and to plain, everyday common-sense, such as all men
possess. Modern sermons are appeals to the feelings,
amiable, sentimental emotions, and these amiable,
sentimental emotions have become accustomed to be
scratched, like cats, and purr when that is done. It
was an epithet of scorn launched on Pope Damasus,
that he was "ear-scratcher" to the ladies,—such is,
however, the highest glory of a modern preacher.</p>
<p>Crabbe undoubtedly hit the old country parsons on
their weak point when he said of his vicar, that his
main characteristic was timidity. He was infinitely
blameless, but also immeasurably afraid.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Thus he his race began, and to the end</div>
<div class="verse">His constant care was, no man to offend;</div>
<div class="verse">No haughty virtues stirr'd his peaceful mind;</div>
<div class="verse">Nor urged the Priest to leave the Flock behind;</div>
<div class="verse">He was his Master's soldier, but not one</div>
<div class="verse">To lead an army of His martyrs on:</div>
<div class="verse">Fear was his ruling passion."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Courage is born of conviction, and our old English<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
country parsons had no definite convictions, a sort of
vague, nebulous, inchoate notion that Christianity was
all right, and that the Church of England was a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">via
media</i>, and they deprecated anything like giving
precision and outline to faith, and assuming a direct
walk which was not a perpetual dodging between
opposed errors. I ventured in one of my novels,
<cite>Red-Spider</cite>, to sketch this sort of parson, who never in
the pulpit insisted on a doctrine lest he should offend
a Dissenter, nor on a duty lest he should make a
Churchman uneasy. And it was characteristic of the
race. In the Faroes there are sixteen different names
for fogs, and the articles of the Christian faith were
only varieties in fogs to these spiritual pastors. The
nebulous theory prevailed in astronomy, and in divinity
as well. Some old-fashioned people resented the resolution
of the nebulæ into fixed stars; and so also in
that other province do they look on it as next to
sacrilege to give to faith definition.</p>
<p>It is, however, only since parsons have begun to see
definite ends that they have assumed any steadfastness
in their walk and directness in their course. In
Fielding's time the country parsons wore their
cassocks as a usual dress. "Adams stood up," he
relates, "and presented a figure to the gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
which would have moved laughter in many, for his
cassock had just fallen down below his great-coat, that
is to say, it reached his knees, whereas the skirts of
his great-coat descended no lower than half-way down
his thighs."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 484px;">
<img src="images/i_b_133.jpg" width="484" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Parson in cassock.</span></div>
</div>
<p>The bands were always worn, the makeshift for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
old Steenkirk tie of fine white linen edged with more
or less deep lace. Knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a
black cocked hat completed his attire.</p>
<p>Some of the old Derby Uncle Toby jugs represent
the beer-drinking parson of an age a little later. The
cassock has disappeared, and he wears a clerical long
black coat, with bands and white stockings. The
apron of the bishop is the reminiscence of the cassock,
as the hat tied up with strings of the archdeacon is
the last survival of the cocked hat.</p>
<p>The parson and his parishioners were on very good
terms. When the Vicar of Wakefield came to his
new cure, the village turned out to meet him with
pipe and drum. Nevertheless there was occasional
friction, mainly, if not altogether, relative to tithe
gathering. There is a harvest-home song Dryden
wrote for, or introduced into his play, <cite>King Arthur;
or, The British Worthy</cite>, in 1691, which forms part of
the enchantments of Merlin, and is sung by Comus
and a set of peasants—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"We have cheated the parson, we'll cheat him again,</div>
<div class="verse">For why should a blockhead have one in ten?</div>
<div class="verse vi2">One in ten,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">One in ten;</div>
<div class="verse">For why should a blockhead have one in ten,</div>
<div class="verse">For prating so long, like a book-learned sot,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
<div class="verse">Till pudding and dumpling burn to pot?</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Burn to pot."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>There can be little question that the parson did get
cheated over and over again, and bore it without a
murmur.</p>
<p>An amusing ballad is sung to this day in the west
of England relative to the way in which parsons were
treated by their parishioners—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"There wor a man in our town,</div>
<div class="verse">I knowed him well, 'twor Passon Brown,</div>
<div class="verse">A man of credit and renown,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">For—he wor <em>our</em> Passon.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Passon he had got a sheep,</div>
<div class="verse">Merry Christmas he would keep;</div>
<div class="verse">Decent Passon he—and cheap,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Well-spoke—and not a cross 'un.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Us had gotten nort to eat,</div>
<div class="verse">So us stole the Passon's sheep—</div>
<div class="verse">Merry Christmas us would keep;</div>
<div class="verse vi2">We ate 'n for our dinner.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Us enjoyed our Christmas day;</div>
<div class="verse">Passon preached, and said, 'Let's pray,</div>
<div class="verse">But I'm a fasting saint; aye, aye!</div>
<div class="verse vi2">You'm each a wicked sinner.'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Cruel vex'd wor Passon Brown,</div>
<div class="verse">Sick to death he laid him down</div>
<div class="verse">Passonless was soon our town,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">For why?—we'd starved our Passon.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Tell'y—did'y ever hear</div>
<div class="verse">Such a story, true but queer,</div>
<div class="verse">How 'twixt Christmas and New Year</div>
<div class="verse vi2">The flock had ate their Passon?"</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>There was non-residence undoubtedly previous to
the Act against holding more than one living at a time,
unless near together. Men of birth and influence
obtained a good deal of preferment, but never in
post-Reformation times to the extent that this abuse
existed before. To take but one instance. Thomas
Cantilupe, who died in 1282, was Precentor and
Canon of York, Archdeacon of Stafford and Canon
of Lichfield, Canon of London, Canon of Hereford,
and held the livings of Doderholt, Hampton, Aston,
Wintringham, Deighton, Rippel, Sunterfield, and
apparently also Prestbury. Pretty well! It was never
so bad in the maligned Hanoverian period.</p>
<p>I had a living in Essex which was held formerly by
a certain Bramston Staynes, who was a squarson in
Essex, and held simultaneously three other livings;
there was one curate to serve the three churches.
The rector is said to have visited one of his livings
twice only in the twenty years of his incumbency—once
to read himself in, the other time to settle some
dispute relative to the payment of his tithes.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p>
<p>I can recall several instances of the old scholar-parson,
a man chap-ful of quotations. One, a very able
classic, and a great naturalist, was rather fond of the
bottle. "Mr. West," said a neighbour one day, "I
hear you have a wonderfully beautiful spring of water
in your glebe." "Beautiful! surpassing! <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">fons
Blandusiæ, splendidior vitro!</i>— water so good that I
never touch it—afraid of drinking too much of it."</p>
<p>Some twenty-five years ago I knew another, a fine
scholar, an old bachelor, living in a very large rectory.
He was a man of good presence, courteous, old-world
manners, and something of old-world infirmities. His
sense of his religious responsibilities in the parish was
different in quality to that affected now-a-days.</p>
<p>He was very old when I knew him, and was often
laid up with gout. One day, hearing that he was
thus crippled, I paid him a visit, and encountered a
party of women descending the staircase from his
room. When I entered he said to me, "I suppose
you met little Mary So-and-so and Janie What's-her-name
going out? I've been churching them up here
in my bed-room, as I can't go to church."</p>
<p>When a labourer desired to have his child privately
baptized, he provided a bottle of rum, a pack of cards,
a lemon, and a basin of pure water, then sent for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
parson and the farmer for whom he worked. The
religious rite over, the basin was removed, the table
cleared, cards and rum produced, and sat down to.
On such occasions the rector did not return home
till late, and the housekeeper left the library window
unhasped for the master, but locked the house doors.
Under the library window was a violet bed, and it
was commonly reported that the rector had on more
than one occasion slept in that bed after a christening.
Unable to heave up his big body to the sill of the
window, he had fallen back among the violets, and
there slept off the exertion.</p>
<p>I never had the opportunity of hearing the old
fellow preach. His conversation—whether addressing
a gentleman, a lady, or one of the lower classes—was
garnished with quotations from the classic authors,
Greek and Latin, with which his surprising memory was
richly stored; and I cannot think that he could resist
the temptation of introducing them into his discourse
from the pulpit, yet I heard no hint of this in the only
sermon of his which was repeated to me by one of
his congregation. The occasion of its delivery was this.</p>
<p>He was highly incensed at a long engagement being
broken off between some young people in his parish,
so next Sunday he preached on "Let love be without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
dissimulation;" and the sermon, which on this occasion
was extempore, was reported by those who heard it
to consist of little more than this—"You see, my
dearly beloved brethren, what the Apostle says—Let
love be without dissimulation. Now I'll tell y' what
I think dissimulation is. When a young chap goes
out a walking with a girl,—as nice a lass as ever you
saw, with an uncommon fresh pair o' cheeks and
pretty black eyes too, and not a word against her
character, very respectably brought up,—when, I say,
my dearly beloved brethren, a young chap goes out
walking with such a young woman, after church of a
summer evening, seen of every one, and offers her his
arm, and they look friendly like at each other, and at
times he buys her a present at the fair, a ribbon, or a
bit of jewellery—I cannot say I have heard, and I don't
say that I have seen,—when, I say, dearly beloved
brethren, a young chap like this goes on for more
than a year, and lets everybody fancy they are going
to be married,—I don't mean to say that at times a
young chap may see a nice lass and admire her, and
talk to her a bit, and then go away and forget her—there's
no dissimulation in that;—but when it
goes on a long time, and he makes her to think he's
very sweet upon her, and that he can't live without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
her, and he gives her ribbons and jewellery that I can't
particularize, because I haven't seen them—when a
young chap, dearly beloved brethren—" and so on
and so on, becoming more and more involved. The
parties preached about were in the church, and the
young man was just under the pulpit, with the eyes of
the whole congregation turned on him. The sermon
had its effect—he reverted to his love, and without
any dissimulation, we trust, married her.</p>
<p>The Christmas and the Easter decorations in this
old fellow's church were very wonderful. There was
a Christmas text, and that did service also for Easter.
The decorating of the church was intrusted to the
schoolmaster, a lame man, and his wife, and consisted
in a holly or laurel crutch set up on one side of the
chancel, and a "jaws of death" on the other. This
appalling symbol was constructed like a set of teeth in a
dentist's shop-window—the fangs were made of snipped
or indented white drawing paper, and the gums of overlapping
laurel leaves stitched down one on the other.</p>
<p>A very good story was told of this old parson,
which is, I believe, quite true. He was invited to
spend a couple of days with a great squire some miles
off. He went, stayed his allotted time, and disappeared.
Two days later the lady of the house, happening to go<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
into the servants'-hall in the evening, found, to her
amazement, her late guest—there. After he had
finished his visit up-stairs, at the invitation of the
butler he spent the same time below. "Like Persephone,
madam," he said,—"half my time above, half
in the nether world."</p>
<p>In the matter of personal neatness he left much to
be desired. His walled garden was famous for its
jargonelle pears. Lady X—, one day coming over,
said to him, "Will you come back in my carriage
with me, and dine at the Park? You can stay the
night, and be driven home to-morrow."</p>
<p>"Thank you, my lady, delighted. I will bring
with me some jargonelles. I'll go and fetch them."</p>
<p>Presently he returned with a little open basket and
some fine pears in it. Lady X— looked at him, with
a troubled expression in her sweet face. The rector
was hardly in dining suit; moreover, there was
apparent no equipment for the night.</p>
<p>"Dear Mr. M—, will you not <em>really</em> want something
further? You will dine with us, <em>and sleep the night</em>."</p>
<p>A vacant expression stole over his countenance, as
he retired into himself in thought. Presently a flash
of intelligence returned, and he said with briskness,
"Ah! to be sure; I'll go and fetch two or three more
jargonelles."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p>
<p>A kind, good-hearted man the scholar-parson was,
always ready to put his hand into his pocket at a tale
of distress, but quite incapable of understanding that
his parishioners might have spiritual as well as material
requirements. I remember a case of a very similar
man—a fellow of his college, and professor at Cambridge—to
whom a young student ventured to open
some difficulties and doubts that tortured him.
"Difficulties! doubts!" echoed the old gentleman.
"Take a couple of glasses of port. If that don't
dispel them, take two more, and continue the dose
till you have found ease of mind."</p>
<p>But to return to our country parson, who had the
jargonelles. His church was always well attended.
Quite as large a congregation was to be found in it as
in other parish churches, where all the modern appliances
of music, popular preaching, parish visitations,
clubs and bible-classes were in force. Perhaps the
reason was that he was not too spiritually exacting.
Many of our enthusiastic modern parsons attempt
to screw up their people into a condition of spiritual
exaltation which they are quite unable to maintain
permanently, and then they become discouraged at
the inevitable, invariable relapse.</p>
<p>We suppose that one main cause of dissent is the
deadness and dulness of the Church service before the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
revival of late days; and we attribute this deadness
and dulness to the indifference of these <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bêtes noirs</i>, the
clergy of last century. I doubt it.</p>
<p>At the time of the Commonwealth our churches
had been gutted of everything ornamental and
beautiful, and the services reduced to the most dreary
performance of sermon and extempore prayer. At
the Restoration, a very large number indeed of the
Presbyterian ministers conformed, were ordained, and
retained the benefices. Naturally they conducted the
Common Prayer as nearly as they could on the lines
of the service they were accustomed to. They had
no tradition of what the Anglican liturgy was; they
did not understand it, and they served it up cold or
lukewarm, as unpalatable as possible. They did not
like it themselves, and they did not want their congregations
to become partial to it. The old clergy
who were restored were obliged to content themselves
with the merest essentials of Divine worship; their
congregations had grown up without acquaintance
with the liturgy—at all events for some nineteen years
they had not heard it, and they did not want to shock
their weak consciences by too sudden a transformation.</p>
<p>When Pepys went to church on November 4, 1660,
he entered in his <cite>Diary</cite>, "Mr. Mills did begin to nibble
at the Common Prayer, by saying Glory be to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
Father, &c., after he had read the two psalms; but
the people had been so little used to it, that they could
not tell what to answer." The same afternoon he
went to Westminster Abbey, "where the first time
that ever I heard the organs in a cathedral."</p>
<p>Evelyn enters, on March 22, 1678, "now was our
Communion-table placed altar-wise," that is to say, not
till eighteen years after the Restoration! so slowly were
alterations made in the churches to bring them back
to their former conditions of decency and order.
Whatever has been done since has been done
cautiously and with hesitation, lest offence should be
given.</p>
<p>It was not practicable in our village churches to
have the hearty congregational singing that now prevails,
for only a very few could read, and only such
could join in the psalmody.</p>
<p>I have in my possession a diary kept by a kinswoman
in 1813. She makes in that year an entry,
"Walked over this Sunday to South Mimms church
to hear a barrel-organ that has just been there erected.
It made very beautiful and appropriate music, and
admirably sustained the voices of the quire, but I do
not myself admire these innovations in the conduct of
Divine worship." What would she have said to the
innovations that have taken place since then, had she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
lived to see them! And they have been, for the most
part, in a right direction; but we must be thankful,
not only for them, but for the evidence they give that
the clergy are somewhat emerging from that condition
in which they were, as Crabbe describes them, when
"Fear was their ruling passion"—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi10">"All things new</div>
<div class="verse">Were deemed superfluous, useless, or untrue.</div>
<div class="verse">Habit with him was all the test of truth;</div>
<div class="verse">It must be right; I've done it from my youth.</div>
<div class="verse">Questions he answer'd in as brief a way;—</div>
<div class="verse">It must be wrong—it was of yesterday."</div>
</div></div></div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<img src="images/i_b_145.jpg" width="300" height="502" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br />
<span class="f75">THE HUNTING PARSON.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch6.jpg" width="600" height="418" alt="country church" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_146t.jpg" alt="OF" width="600" height="318" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_146b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">W</span>HY not? why should not
the parson mount his cob
and go after the hounds? A more fresh, invigorating
pursuit is not to be found, not one in which
he is brought more in contact with his fellow-men.
There was a breezy goodness about many a hunting
parson of the old times that was in itself a sermon,
and was one on the topic that healthy amusement<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
and Christianity go excellently well together. I
had rather any day see a parson ride along with the
pink, than sport the blue ribbon. The last of our
genuine West Country hunting parsons was Jack
Russell, whose life has already been written, but to
whom I can bear testimony that he was a good
specimen of the race. I was one day on top of a
coach along with two farmers, one from the parish
of Jack Russell, another from that of another
hunting parson, whom we will call Jack Hannaford.
They were discussing their relative parsons. Then
he who was under Hannaford told a scurvy tale of
him, whereat his companion said, "Tell'ee what, all
the world knows what your pa'sson be; but as for
old Jack Russell, up and down his backbone, he's
as good a Christian, as worthy a pastor, and as true
a gentleman as I ever seed."</p>
<p>In a parish on the Cornish side of the estuary
of the Tamar, some little while ago, the newly
appointed rector, turning over the register of baptisms
in the vestry, was much astonished at seeing
entries of the christening of boys only. "Why,
Richard!" said he to the clerk, "however comes
this about—are there only boys born in this place?"</p>
<p>"Please your Reverence, 'tain't that; but as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>
won't take the girls into the dockyard at Devonport,
'tain't no good baptizing 'em." The boys were
christened only for the sake of the register requisite
to present on admission into the Government dockyard.
But if the boys were given baptism only, the
girls devoted their efforts to show that they fell behind
in masculine gifts in no sort, and the women of
the village have approved themselves remarkable
Amazons; they pull a boat, carry loads, speak gruff,
wear moustache, very much as does a man.</p>
<p>Now, the unfortunate thing is, that the English
clergy of the new epoch do seem to have been only
ordained because they are feeble and effeminate youths.
After ordination the curates are thrust into the society
of pious and feeble women, and contract feeble and
womanish ways. Just as in the Cornish parish only
boys were baptized, so does it really seem as though
only girlish youngsters pass under the bishop's hands,
so that ordination becomes a pledge of effeminacy.
Therefore, in my opinion, it would be a wholesome
corrective if they could go after the hounds
occasionally.</p>
<p>It is one thing to make of hunting a pursuit, and
another to take it as a relaxation. The apostles
were sportsmen, that is to say, they fished; and if it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
is lawful to go after fish, I take it there can be no
harm in going after a hare or a fox; but then—only
occasionally, and as a moral and constitutional bracer.</p>
<p>As said of the ordinary country parson, the good
is forgotten and the evil is remembered, so is it with
the hunting parson. The simple worthy rector who
attended his sick, was good to the poor, preached a
wholesome sermon, and was seen occasionally at the
meet, is not remembered,—Jack Russell is the
exception,—but the memory of the bad hunting
parson never dies.</p>
<p>There is a characteristic song about the typical
indifferent hunting parson that was much sung some
fifty years ago. It ran thus<a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>—</p>
<h3>PARSON HOGG. <i>Arranged by the</i> <span class="smcap">Rev. H. Fleetwood Sheppard</span>, M.A.]</h3>
<p class="center">[<a href="music/parson_hogg.mid">Listen</a>] [<a href="music/parson_hogg.pdf">PDF</a>]
[<a href="music/parson_hogg.xml">MusicXML</a>]</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 588px;">
<img src="images/i_b_149.jpg" width="395" height="159" alt="Parson Hogg - 1" />
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 596px;">
<img src="images/i_b_150.jpg" width="395" height="600" alt="Parson Hogg - 2" />
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 587px;">
<img src="images/i_b_151.jpg" width="395" height="325" alt="Parson Hogg - 3" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Mess Parson Hogg shall now maintain</div>
<div class="verse vi1">The burden of my song, sir!</div>
<div class="verse">A single life perforce he led,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Of constitution strong, sir.</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Sing tally ho! sing tally ho!</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span>
<div class="verse vi5">sing tally ho! why zounds, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">He mounts his mare to hunt the hare,</div>
<div class="verse vi5">Sing Tally ho! the hounds, sir.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">And every day he goes to mass</div>
<div class="verse vi1">He first pulls on his boot, sir!</div>
<div class="verse">That, should the beagles chance to pass,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">He may join in the pursuit, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Sing, Tally ho! &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">That Parson little loveth prayer,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And pater night and morn, sir!</div>
<div class="verse">For bell and book hath little care,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">But dearly loves the horn, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Sing, Tally ho! &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">St. Stephen's day that holy man</div>
<div class="verse vi1">He went a pair to wed, sir!</div>
<div class="verse">When as the service was begun,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Puss by the churchyard sped, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Sing, Tally ho! &c.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">He shut his book. "Come on," he said,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">"I'll pray and bless no more, sir!"</div>
<div class="verse">He drew the surplice o'er his head,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And started for the door, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Sing, Tally ho! &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">In pulpit Parson Hogg was strong,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">He preached without a book, sir!</div>
<div class="verse">And to the point, but never long,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And this the text he took, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">O Tally ho! O Tally ho!</div>
<div class="verse vi5">Dearly Beloved—zounds, sir!</div>
<div class="verse vi4">I mount my mare to hunt the hare,</div>
<div class="verse vi5">Singing, Tally ho! the hounds, sir!</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>One of the very worst types of the hunting parson
was that man Chowne, whom Mr. Blackmore has
immortalized in his delightful story of <cite>The Maid
of Sker</cite>. Many of the tales told in that novel
relative to Chowne—the name of course is fictitious—are
quite true. As I happen to know a good many
particulars of the life of this man, I will here give
them.</p>
<p>He was rector of a wild lonely parish situated on
high ground—ground so high that trees did not
flourish about the rectory, nor did flowers thrive in his
garden. Flowers in Chowne's garden! the idea is inconceivable.
The people were wild and rough in those
days, especially so in that storm-beaten, almost Alpine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
spot, accessible still only by abominable roads up hill
and down dale, like riding over the waves of a stormy
sea. They were not, therefore, particularly shocked at
their parson's lack of sweetness and light. Probably, if
they thought anything about this, they considered
that sweetness and light were as ill adapted to Blackamoor
as lilies and roses. His force of character
impressed them, and commanded and obtained respect.
To shock moral feelings, moral feelings must first
exist. The parson was not disliked, he was feared. A
curious man he was in appearance, with eyes hard,
boring, dark, that made a man on whom they were
fixed shiver to his toes. The parishioners believed
he had the evil eye, and "over-looked" or "ill-wished"
those whom he desired to injure, or any one who had
given him offence. There is no breaking such a spell
save by drawing the blood of the "over-looker," and
no one was hardy enough to attempt this of Chowne.
When a woman is thought to have cast a spell through
her malignant eye, the person that suffers scratches
the inflicter of evil.</p>
<p>The story told in <cite>The Maid of Sker</cite>, of Chowne
breaking up the road to prevent the bishop visiting
him, is true. Dr. Phillpotts was then bishop, and he
was eminently dissatisfied with what he heard of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
ecclesiastical and moral condition of Blackamoor and
its parson. He therefore drove there to make a
personal visitation. Chowne, forewarned, employed
men to dig up the road for a space of about twenty
feet, and the hole they made was filled in with bog-water,
then the whole lightly covered over with turf
and strewn with dust. The Bishop's carriage and
horses floundered in and was upset. Henry of
Exeter was, however, not the man to be daunted by
such an accident—that it was not an accident, but
a deliberate attempt to stay his course, he saw at once
by the condition of the road. He went on to Blackamoor,
and reached the parsonage. There he found
Chowne in his dining-room, sullen, with his wicked
black eyes watching him. His head was for the
most part bald, but he had one long wisp of
dark hair that he twisted about his bald pate.
Chowne put a bottle of brandy on the table, and
a couple of tumblers, and bade the Bishop help
himself.</p>
<p>"No, thank you, Mr. Chowne," said the Bishop
briefly.</p>
<p>"Ah! my lord, you may do without it, maybe,
at Exeter, but up at this height we must drink or
perish of dulness."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span></p>
<p>Then he helped himself to a stiff glass, and
relapsed into silence. Presently the Bishop said—</p>
<p>"You keep hounds, I hear."</p>
<p>"No, my lord, the hounds keep me."</p>
<p>"I do not understand."</p>
<p>"Well, then, you must be mighty stupid. They
stock my larder with hares. You don't suppose I
should have hares on my table unless they were
caught for me. There's no butcher for miles and
miles, and I can't get a joint but once in a fortnight
maybe; what should I do without rabbits and hares?
Forced to eat 'em, and they must be caught to be
eaten."</p>
<p>"Mr. Chowne," said Henry of Exeter, "I've been
told that you have men in here with you drinking and
fighting."</p>
<p>"It's a lie. I admit that they drink,—every man
drinks since he was a baby,—but fight in my dining-room!
No, my lord! Directly they begin to fight
I take 'em by the scruff of the neck, and turn them
out into the churchyard, and let 'em fight out their
difference among the tombs."</p>
<p>"I am sorry to say, Mr. Chowne, that I have heard
some very queer and unsatisfactory tales concerning
you."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span></p>
<p>"I dare say you have, my lord;" he fixed his strong
eyes on the Bishop. "So have I of your lordship,
very unpleasant and nasty tales, when I've been to
Torrington or Bideford fairs. But when I do, I say
it's a parcel of —— lies. And when next you hear
any of these tales about me, then you say, 'I know
Tom Chowne very well—drunk out of his bottle of
brandy—I swear that all these tales about him is
also a parcel of lies."</p>
<p>The story is told in <cite>The Maid of Sker</cite> of his
having driven a horse mad by putting a hemp-grain
into its eye. That story is thought to be true. The
horse was one he coveted, but it was bought at a
higher figure than he cared to give for it by Sir
Walter C——. Chowne shortly after was at a fair or
market where Sir Walter was, who had ridden in
on this very horse. He slipped out of the inn and
into the stable, just before the Baronet left, and thus
treated the unfortunate animal, which went almost
mad with the pain, and threw his rider.</p>
<p>He had certain men in the parish, not exactly in
his pay, but so completely under his control, that they
executed his suggestions without demur, whatever
they might be, and never for a moment gave thought
that they themselves were free agents. As Henry II.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
did not order the murder of Becket, but threw out
a hint that it would be an acceptable thing to him
to be rid of the proud prelate, so was it with Chowne.
He never ordered the commission of a crime, but
he suggested the commission. For instance, if a
farmer had offended him, he would say to one of
these men subject to his influence, "As I've been
standing in the church porch, Harry, I thought what
a terrible thing it would be if the rick of Farmer
Greenaway which I can see over against me were to
burn. 'Twould come home to him pretty sharp, I
reckon." Next night the rick would be on fire. Or
he would say to his groom, "Tom, there's Farmer
Moyle going to sup with me at the parsonage to-night.
Shocking thing were his linchpin to be gone, and
as he was going down Blackamoor hill, the wheel were
to come off."</p>
<p>That night he would entertain Moyle with unwonted
cordiality, pass the bottle freely, whilst an
ominous spark burnt in his pebbly eye. As the farmer
that night drove away, his wheel would come
off, and he be thrown, and be found by the next
passer along the road with dislocated thigh or broken
arm and collar-bone.</p>
<p>As already said, he kept a pack of harriers, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
in such a wretched, rattletrap set of kennels that
they occasionally broke loose. This occurred once
on Sunday, and just as Chowne was going to the
pulpit, the pack went by. He halted with his hand
on the banister, turned to the clerk, and said, "That's
Towler giving voice. Run—he's got the lead, and
will tear the hare to bits."</p>
<p>Thereupon forth went the clerk, and succeeded
in securing the hare from the hounds hunting on
their own head. He brought the hare into church,
and threw it under his seat till the sermon was
done, the blessing given, and the congregation
dismissed.</p>
<p>Chowne had a housekeeper named Sally. One day
Chowne came down very smartly dressed.</p>
<p>"Where be you a-going to to-day?" asked
Sally.</p>
<p>"That's no concern of yours," answered the
rector; "but I don't mind telling you either—I'm
going to be married."</p>
<p>"Why! for sure, you're not going to be such a
fool as that!" exclaimed the housekeeper.</p>
<p>"I don't know but what it may be a folly," growled
Chowne; "but, Sally, it's a folly you are bent on
committing too."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span></p>
<p>To this Sally, who for some time had been keeping
company with one Joe, made no reply.</p>
<p>"Now look'ye here," said Chowne. "I don't
want you to marry, Sally. It's no reason because I
make a fool o' myself, that you should go and do
likewise."</p>
<p>"But why not, master?"</p>
<p>"Because I want'y to stay here and see that my
wife don't maltreat me," answered Chowne. "And I'll
tell'y what, Sally—if you'll give up Joe, I'll give thee
the fat pig. Which will'y now prefer, Joe or the
porker?"</p>
<p>Sally considered for a moment, and then said,
"Lauk! sir, I'd rayther have the pig."</p>
<p>And now must be told how it was that Chowne was
brought to the marriage state.</p>
<p>There was in the neighbourhood a yeoman family
named Heathman, and there was a handsome daughter
belonged to the house. Chowne had paid her some
of his insolent attentions, that meant, if they meant
anything, some contemptuous admiration. Her
brothers were angry. It was reported that Chowne
had spoken of their sister, moreover, in a manner they
would not brook; so they invited him to their house,
made him drunk, and when drunk sign a paper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
promising to marry Jane Heathman before three
months were up, or to forfeit £10,000. They
took care to have this document well attested, and
next morning presented it to Chowne, who had
forgotten all about it. He was much put out,
blustered, cajoled, tried to laugh it off—all to no
purpose. The brothers insisted on his either taking
Jane to wife, or paying the stipulated sum. He
asked for delay, and rode off to consult his friend
Hannaford.</p>
<p>"Bless 'y," said Hannaford, "ten thousand
pounds is a terrible big sum to pay. Take the
creature."</p>
<p>Thus it came about that Chowne yielded to the less
disagreeable alternative. Poor Jane Heathman! she
little thought of what was in store for her. Her
brothers had shown her a cruel kindness in forcing
her into the arms of a reluctant suitor.</p>
<p>To return to the wedding day, after the offer made
to and accepted by Sally.</p>
<p>About one o'clock Chowne returned alone, seated
himself composedly in his dining-room, and ordered
dinner.</p>
<p>"But where be the wife?" asked Sally. "Haven't
'ee been married then?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>
<p>"Aye, married I have been, though."</p>
<p>"But where be Mistress Chowne?"</p>
<p>"She's at the public-house good three miles from
here, Sally. She said to me as we were coming along,
'That is a point on which I differ from you.' Some
point on which we were speaking. So I stopped, and
looked her in the face, and I said to her, 'Mrs.
Chowne, I never allow any one outside my house
to differ from me, and not everlastingly repent it
afterwards. And I won't allow any one inside my
house to differ from me. So you can remain at
this tavern and turn the matter over in your mind.
If you intend to have no will of your own, and
no opinion other than mine, then you can walk
on at your leisure to Blackamoor. If not, you
can turn back and go home to where you came
from. Nobody expects you at Blackamoor, and
nobody wants you there. So you are heartily
welcome to keep away. So—serve the dinner, Sally,
for <em>one</em>."</p>
<p>An hour and a half later the bride arrived on foot,
forlorn and humbled, and met with an ungracious
reception from Sally.</p>
<p>Sally had the pig that had been promised her
killed, cut up, and sold. After a while Chowne<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
suspected that she was still keeping company
with Joe. He was very angry, for he felt that
he had been done out of the pig on false pretences;
so he went off with his wife to stay with
Parson Hannaford, and gave out he would not return
for a week. On the second evening, however, he
suddenly returned, and came bounding in at the door;
and sure enough Joe was there, come courting, and
to eat his supper with Sally. The housekeeper,
hearing the tread of her master, bade Joe fly and
get out of his reach. But the back-door was fastened,
and Joe, in his alarm, jumped into the copper. Sally
put the lid on, and dashed into the passage to meet
her master.</p>
<p>"Where's Joe? I'm sure he's here. You've cut
too much of my ham to fry for yourself alone. You've
drawn too much ale. I'm sure Joe is here!" shouted
Chowne, looking about him.</p>
<p>"Deary life, sir!" exclaimed the housekeeper, "I
protest! I don't know where he can be. Why,
master, you know I gave him up for the sake of
the pig."</p>
<p>Chowne's eye wandered about the kitchen, and
noticed—what was unusual—the lid on the copper in
the adjoining back-kitchen, that served also as laundry.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span></p>
<p>"Sally," said he, "put some water into the copper
to boil. I'm going to dip the pups. They've got
the mange."</p>
<p>"Ain't there enough in the kettle, master?"</p>
<p>"No, there is not. Put water into the copper."</p>
<p>Accordingly Sally was forced to fill a can at the
pump, and pour water into the copper over her
lover, removing for the purpose only a corner of the
cover.</p>
<p>"There, master. Do'y let me serve you up some
supper, and I'll get the water heated after."</p>
<p>"No," said Chowne, "I'll stand here till it boils.
Shove in some browse" (light firewood).</p>
<p>Reluctantly the browse was put in under the cauldron,
and was lighted. It flared up.</p>
<p>"Now some hard wood, Sally," said the
parson.</p>
<p>Still more reluctantly were sawn logs inserted. A
moment after up went the copper lid, and out
scrambled Joe, hot and dripping.</p>
<p>"Ah! I reckoned you was there," shouted Chowne,
and went at him with his horse-whip, and lashed the
fellow about the kitchen, down the passage, into the
hall, and out at the front door, where he dismissed
him with a kick.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span></p>
<p>I tell the tale as it was told to me, but I suspect
the conclusion of this story. It reminds me of a
familiar folk-tale. But then—is it not the prerogative
of such tales to attach themselves to the last human
notoriety?</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_164.jpg" width="600" height="577" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Parson Chowne and Sally's young Man.</span></div>
</div>
<p>That this same crop, or hunting-whip, was applied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
to Mrs. Chowne's shoulders and back was commonly
reported in Blackamoor, and indeed is so reported
even unto this day.</p>
<p>The following story is on the authority of Jack
Russell, Vicar of Swimbridge. He had called one day
at Blackamoor parsonage, and found Chowne sitting
over his fire smoking, and Mrs. Chowne sitting in
one corner of the room, against the wall. Her
husband had turned his back on her. Russell was
uneasy, and asked if Mrs. Chowne were unwell.
Chowne turned his head over his shoulder and asked,
"Mrs. Chowne, be you satisfied or be you not?
You know the terms of agreement come to between
us. If you are not satisfied, you can go home to
your friends, and I won't hinder you from going.
I don't care a hang myself whether you stay or
whether you go."</p>
<p>"I am content," said the lady faintly.</p>
<p>"Very well," said Chowne. "Then we'll have a
drop of cider, Jack. Go and fetch us a jug and
tumblers, madam."</p>
<p>In <cite>The Maid of Sker</cite> Chowne is represented as
torn to pieces by his hounds. The real Chowne did
not meet this fate. His death was, however, tragic
in another aspect. He had left his rectory, and lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
in a more sheltered spot in a house of his own.
Before the windows grew a particularly handsome
box-tree. Now Chowne had done some dastardly
mean and cruel act to a young farmer near, tricking
him out of a large sum of money in a way peculiarly
base.</p>
<p>One night the box-tree was taken up and carried
away, no one knew whither, though every one suspected
by whom. Chowne raged over this insult;
and as he was unable to bring the act home to the
culprit, his rage was impotent. But the uprooting of
the box-tree was apparently the death of him. He
felt that the dread he had inspired was gone,
his control over the neighbourhood was lost, the
spell of his personality was broken. This thought,
even more than mortified rage at being unable to
discover and punish the man who had pulled up
his box-tree, broke him down, and he rapidly
sank, intellectually and physically, into a ruin,
and died.</p>
<p>Chowne had a friend, a man, if possible, worse than
himself, him whom we will call Jack Hannaford, who
was Vicar of Wellclose. It was said that Hannaford
was brutal, but Chowne fiendish.</p>
<p>Hannaford was an immensely powerful man. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
said one day to his groom, "Come on, Bill, we'll go
over to Bidlake and take a rise out of Welford"—afterwards
Lord Lundy. So they blackened their
faces, disguised themselves in cast-off clothes, and
went to the lodge at Bidlake. They were denied
admittance, but forced their way in and walked up
the drive. The lodge-keeper ran after them and
attacked the groom, who at once buckled-to for a
fight. Then a couple of keepers burst out from the
shrubbery.</p>
<p>"Leave them alone," said Hannaford. "It's a
pretty sight. Don't interfere to spoil sport."</p>
<p>However, one of the keepers went at the groom, to
the relief of the lodge-keeper.</p>
<p>"Oh, you will, will you," said Hannaford. He
caught him with his huge hand and cast him on the
gravel. The other keeper fared no better. The
groom had in the meantime demolished his man; so
he and his master sauntered along the drive without
further molestation till they reached the house.
Hannaford went to the door to ring, when the Hon.
Mr. Welford appeared, and angrily inquired what was
their business.</p>
<p>"Work, your honour," answered Hannaford, pulling
a forelock.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span></p>
<p>"Work is it you want? But did not my keepers
stop your coming up this way?"</p>
<p>"They tried it, but they couldn't do it," answered
Hannaford. "There they be—skulking
along."</p>
<p>"They could not stop you?"</p>
<p>"We flung three of them in the road," answered
Hannaford. "And now I reckon your honour will
give us something to drink your health."</p>
<p>Mr. Welford gave them a crown and dismissed
them—also, it is said, the keepers. If so, that was
hardly fair, for Hannaford was the strongest man in
England. He was beaten but once, and that was in
Exeter, when drunk. He had gone over to the city
for a spree, and had put up at a low public-house.
There he met with a Welshman, and had a fight with
him, and was horribly mauled about the head and
body. Next day, when sober, Hannaford followed
the man by train to Bristol, and thence tracked him
to some little out-of-the-way place in Wales. He
proceeded to his door, knocked, called the man out,
and fought him there and then—and this time
utterly thrashed him. When the fellow was so
knocked about that he could not speak and hold up,
"There," said the Devonshire parson, "now take care<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>
how you lay a finger on Jack Hannaford again when
he is drunk. If you wish for a return bout, call at
your will at Wellclose Parsonage, and you'll find him
ready."</p>
<p>Some years ago a famous prize-fighter went about
England on exhibition. He came to Taunton, but
was there taken ill, and unable to show himself. The
manager at once wrote or telegraphed to Jack Hannaford,
and he went up with alacrity to supply his place.
He was stripped, showed his muscles, and his mode
of hitting, as the advertised pugilist. The Taunton
people would have been none the wiser, but, as it
happened, Lord Lundy was in the tent. Hannaford
caught his eye, and saw that he was recognized; so
he went over to his lordship and whispered, "Mum,
my lord. The second best man in England was laid
on the shelf, so they had to telegraph for the best
man to take his place."</p>
<p>Hannaford would never give any pocket-money to
his sons till they were strong enough to knock him
down. Then each received a five-pound note, which
he was considered at length to have deserved by
having made proof of his manhood.</p>
<p>It is a fact that on market days, when Hannaford
was seen on the platform with his ticket for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span>
market town, the farmers would bribe the guard to
put him into a carriage by himself and lock him
in, so afraid were they of being in the same compartment
with the parson, who would challenge and
fight a man in a railway carriage as readily as
anywhere else.</p>
<p>Though a hunting parson, of altogether different
character was Jack Russell. He was a sporting
man to the end of his fingers and toes, but a
most worthy, kind-hearted, God-fearing, righteous
man.</p>
<p>One story of Jack Russell that is not, I believe,
told in his <cite>Life</cite>, is worth repeating. When
he was over eighty, he started keeping a pack of
harriers. The then Bishop of Exeter sent for
him.</p>
<p>"Mr. Russell, I hear you have got a pack of
hounds. Is it true?"</p>
<p>"It is. I won't deny it, my lord."</p>
<p>"Well, Mr. Russell, it seems to me rather unsuitable
for a clergyman to keep a pack. I do not ask
you to give up hunting, for I know it would not be
possible for you to exist without <em>that</em>. But will you,
to oblige me, give up the pack?"</p>
<p>"Do'y ask it as a personal favour, my lord?"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span></p>
<p>"Yes, Mr. Russell, as a personal favour."</p>
<p>"Very well, then, my lord, I will."</p>
<p>"Thank you, thank you." The Bishop, moved
by his readiness, held out his hand. "Give me your
hand, Mr. Russell; you are—you really are—a good
fellow."</p>
<p>Jack Russell gave his great fist to the Bishop, who
pressed it warmly. As they thus stood hand in hand,
Jack said,</p>
<p>"I won't deceive you—not for the world, my
lord. I'll give up the pack, sure enough—but Mrs.
Russell will keep it instead of me."</p>
<p>The Bishop dropped his hand.</p>
<p>That men like Chowne and Hannaford were unpopular
in their parishes I have never heard. I do
not believe they were troubled with any aggrieved
parishioners. The unpopular man in his parish is he
who tries to raise the moral and spiritual tone of his
people. They do not like to be made to think that
all is not well with them, and it affords them satisfaction
to think that they are not worse, if no better, than
their pastor.</p>
<p>I know a parish in quite another part of England
where the attendance at church was very thin, till
the incumbent was one day accidentally, I believe,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
overtaken with drink, and was had up before the
magistrates. After that his church filled, he became
a popular man—he had come down to the level of
his people.</p>
<p>But, as already said, it is of the bad parsons, as of
the bad squires, that stories are told, and told from
generation to generation; whereas those of spotless
life—the vast bulk of them are such—drop year by
year out of existence, and at the same time out of
memory.</p>
<p>In the parish in which I live there was a rector,
about seventy years ago, who in his old age went to
the neighbouring town, nine miles off, to live, and
when asked by the Bishop why he was non-resident,
said that there was no barber nearer who could curl
his wig.</p>
<p>That man held the living for a long term of years;
he may have done good,—that he did evil I do not
think, because the only thing remembered against
him is, that he did not live in a place where his wig
could not be curled. But is it not sad!—a long life's
labour spent among the poor, preaching God's word,
ministering to the sick and afflicted and broken-hearted,
and all passing away without leaving the
smallest trace, indeed the only reminiscence of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
man being, that he hurt the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">amour propre</i> of the
parish by telling the Bishop there was no one in it
competent to curl his wig.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 563px;">
<img src="images/i_b_173.jpg" width="563" height="600" alt="Old
Chained
Bibles." />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br />
<span class="f75">COUNTRY DANCES.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch7.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="lined up to dance" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_174t.jpg" alt="C" width="600" height="300" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_174b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
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</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">C</span>LISTHENES, tyrant of Sicyon,
says Herodotus, had a beautiful
daughter whom he resolved to marry to the most
accomplished of the Greeks. Accordingly all the
eligible young men of Greece resorted to the court
of Sicyon to offer for the hand of the lovely Agarista.
Among these, the most distinguished was Hippoclides,
and the king decided to take him as his son-in-law.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_175.jpg" width="600" height="359" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Hippoclides before Clisthenes.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span></p>
<p>Clisthenes had already invited the guests to the
nuptial feast, and had slaughtered one hundred oxen
to the gods to obtain a blessing on the union, when
Hippoclides offered to exhibit the crown and climax of
his many accomplishments.</p>
<p>He ordered a flute-player to play a dance tune, and
when the musician obeyed, he (Hippoclides) began to
dance before the king and court and guests, and
danced to his own supreme satisfaction.</p>
<p>After the first bout, and he had rested awhile and
recovered breath, he ordered a table to be introduced,
and he danced figures on it, and finally set his head
on the table and gesticulated with his legs.</p>
<p>When the applause had ceased, Clisthenes said—as
the young man had reverted to his feet
and stood expectantly before him—"You have
danced very well, but I don't want a dancing son-in-law."</p>
<p>How greatly we should like to know what Herodotus
does not tell us, whether the tyrant of Sicyon
was of a sour and puritanical mind, objecting to
dancing on principle, or whether he objected to the
peculiar kind of dance performed by Hippoclides,
notably that with his head on the table and his legs
kicking in the air.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span></p>
<p>I do not think that such a thing existed at that
period as puritanical objection to dancing, but I
imagine that it was the sort of dance which offended
Clisthenes. Lucian in one of his Dialogues introduces
a philosopher who reproaches a friend for being addicted
to dancing, whereupon the other replies that
dancing was of Divine invention, for the goddess
Rhæa first composed set dances about the infant
Jupiter to hide him from the eyes of his father
Saturn, who wanted to eat him. Moreover, Homer
speaks with high respect of dancing, and declares that
the grace and nimbleness of Merion in the dance
distinguished him above the rest of the heroes in the
contending hosts of Greeks and Trojans. He adds
that in Greece statues were erected to the honour
of the best dancers, so highly was the art held in
repute, and that Hesiod places on one footing valour
and dancing, when he says that "The gods have
bestowed fortitude on some men, and on others a
disposition for dancing!" Lastly, he puts the philosopher
in mind that Socrates not only admired the
saltatory exercise in others, but learned it himself
when he was an old man.</p>
<p>On hearing this defence of dancing, the morose
philosopher in Lucian's Dialogue professes himself a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
convert, and requests his friend to take him to the
next subscription ball.</p>
<p>Steele, in the <cite>Spectator</cite>, declared that "no one ever
was a good dancer that had not a good understanding,"
and that it is an art whereby mechanically, so to
speak, "a sense of good-breeding and virtue are insensibly
implanted in minds not capable of receiving
it so well in any other rules."</p>
<p>I cannot help thinking that the dancing commended
by the <cite>Spectator</cite>, learned in old age by
Socrates, and that in which the Greeks won the
honour of statues, was something far removed from
that which incurred the displeasure of Clisthenes, and
lost Hippoclides the hand of his beautiful mistress.</p>
<p>Here is a letter in the <cite>Spectator</cite>, given in Steele's
article. It purports to be from a father, Philipater:
"I am a widower, with one daughter; she was by
nature much inclined to be a romp, and I had no way
of educating her, but commanding a young woman,
whom I entertained to take care of her, to be very
watchful in her care and attendance about her. I am
a man of business and obliged to be much abroad.
The neighbours have told me, that in my absence our
maid has let in the spruce servants in the neighbourhood
to junketings, while my girl play'd and romped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
even in the street. To tell you the plain truth, I
catched her once, at eleven years old, at chuck-farthing,
among the boys. This put me upon new
thoughts about my child, and I determined to place
her at a boarding-school. I took little notice of my
girl from time to time, but saw her now and then in
good health, out of harm's way, and was satisfied.
But by much importunity, I was lately prevailed with
to go to one of their balls. I cannot express to you
the anxiety my silly heart was in, when I saw my
romp, now fifteen, taken out. I could not have
suffered more, had my whole fortune been at stake.
My girl came on with the most becoming modesty
I had ever seen, and casting a respectful eye, as if
she feared me more than all the audiency, I gave
a nod, which, I think, gave her all the spirit she
assumed upon it, but she rose properly to that dignity
of aspect. My romp, now the most graceful person
of her sex, assumed a majesty which commanded the
highest respect. You, Mr. Spectator, will, better than
I can tell you, imagine all the different beauties and
changes of aspect in an accomplished young woman,
setting forth all her beauties with a design to please
no one so much as her father. My girl's lover can
never know half the satisfaction that I did in her that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
day. I could not possibly have imagined that so
great improvement could have been wrought by an
art that I always held in itself ridiculous and contemptible.
There is, I am convinced, no method like
this, to give young women a sense of their own value
and dignity; and I am sure there can be none so
expeditious to communicate that value to others.
For my part, my child has danced herself into my
esteem, and I have as great an honour of her as ever
I had for her mother, from whom she derived those
latent good qualities which appeared in her countenance
when she was dancing; for my girl showed in
one quarter of an hour the innate principles of a
modest virgin, a tender wife, and generous friend, a
kind mother, and an indulgent mistress."</p>
<p>It is a curious fact that the beautiful and graceful
dance, the dance as a fine art, is extinct among us.
It has been expelled by the intrusive waltz. And if
in the waltz any of that charm of modesty, grace of
action, and dignity of posture can be found, which
delighted our forefathers and made them esteem
dancing, then let it be shown. It was not waltzing
which made Merion to be esteemed among the
heroes of the Trojan war; it was not waltzing certainly
that Socrates acquired in his old age; and it most<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span>
assuredly was not whilst she was waltzing that the
correspondent of the <cite>Spectator</cite> admired in his daughter
the modest virgin. It is possible that it was a sort of
topsy-turvy waltz Hippoclides performed, and which
lost him the daughter of Clisthenes.</p>
<p>The dance is not properly the spinning around of
two persons of opposite sex hugging each other, and
imitating the motion of a teetotum. The dance is an
assemblage of graceful movements and figures performed
by a set number of persons. There is singular
beauty in the dance proper. The eye is pleased by a
display of graceful and changing outline, by bringing
into play the muscles of well-moulded limbs. But
where many performers take part the enchantment is
increased, just as part-singing is more lovely than
solo-singing; for to the satisfaction derived from the
graceful attitude of one performer is added that of
beautiful grouping. A single well-proportioned figure
is a goodly sight; several well-proportioned figures in
shifting groups, now in clusters, now swinging loose
in wreaths, now falling into line or circles; whilst an
individual, or a pair, focus the interest, is very beautiful.
It is the change in a concert from chorus to
solo; and when, whilst the single dance, projected
into prominence, attracts the delighted eye, the rest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
of the dancers keep rhythmic motion, subdued, in
simple change, the effect is exquisite. It is the
accompaniment on a living instrument to a solo.</p>
<p>A correspondent of the <cite>Times</cite> recently gave us an
account of the Japanese ballet, which illustrates what
I insist on. He tells us that the Maikos or Japanese
ballet-dancers are girls of from sixteen to eighteen
years of age; they wear long fine silk dresses, natural
flowers in their hair, and hold fans in their hands.
Their dance is perfectly decorous, exquisitely graceful,
and of marvellous artistic beauty. It partakes of the
nature of the minuet and the gavotte; it makes no
violent demands on lungs and muscles; its object is
to give pleasure to the spectators through the exhibition
of harmony of lines, elegance of posture,
beauty of dress, grace with which the folds of the
long drapery fall, the play of light, and change of
arrangement of colour. It is a dance full of noble
and stately beauty, and has nothing in common with
our European ballet, with its extravagance and indelicacy,
and—it must be added—inelegance. It is a
play without words, and a feast of pure delight to the
artistic eye.</p>
<p>Æsthetically, the dance is, or may be, one of the
most beautiful creations of man, an art, and an art of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
no mean order. In it each man and woman has to
sustain a part, is one of many, a member of a company,
enchained to it by laws which all must obey.
And yet each has in his part a certain scope for
individual expansion, for the exercise of liberty. It is
a figure of the world of men, in which each has a part
to perform in relation to all the rest. If the performer
uses his freedom to excess, the dancers in the
social ball are thrown into disorder, and the beauty
and unity of the performance is lost.</p>
<p>Now all this beauty is taken from us. The waltz
has invaded our ball-rooms, and drives all other
dances out of it. Next to the polka, the waltz is the
rudest and most elementary of step and figure-dances;
it has extirpated before it the lovely and intricate
dances, highly artistic, and of elaborate organization,
which were performed a century ago. How is it now
in a ball? Even the quadrille and lancers, the sole
remnants of an art beautiful to lookers-on, are sat out,
or, after having been entered on the list, are omitted,
and a waltz substituted for it. "<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Valse, valse, toujours
valse!</i>" A book on dances, published in 1821, speaks
of the introduction of the waltz as a new thing, and
of the rarity of finding persons at a ball who could
dance it.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span></p>
<p>"The company at balls having no partners who are
acquainted with waltzing or quadrilles, generally become
spectators of each other in a promenade round
the rooms, so that the waltz or quadrille ball ends in
country dances, sometimes not one of these dances
being performed during the evening." That was a
little over sixty years ago. Waltz and quadrille came
in hand-in-hand, and displaced the old artistic and
picturesque country dances, and then waltz prevailed,
and kicked quadrille out at the door. The country
dance is the old English dance—the dance of our
forefathers—the dance which worked such wonders in
the heart of the old father in Steele's paper in the
<cite>Spectator</cite>.</p>
<p>The English have always been a dancing people,
only during the Commonwealth did they kick their
heels, dancing being unallowed; and at the beginning
of this century dancing was discountenanced among
the upper classes by the Evangelicals, and among
villagers almost completely put down, or driven into
low public-houses, by the Dissenters. In 1598 Hentzner
describes the English as "excelling in dancing, and
in the art of music;" and says that whilst a man might
hope to become Lord Chancellor through dancing,
without being bred to the law, like Sir Christopher<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
Hatton, it was certainly worth while to endeavour
to excel. According to Barnaby Rich, in 1581 the
dances in vogue were measures—a grave and stately
performance, like the minuet, galliards, jigs, braules,
rounds, and hornpipes. In 1602 the Earl of
Worcester writes to the Earl of Shrewsbury, "We
are frolic here in Court, much dancing in the privy
chamber of <em>country dances</em> before the Queen's
Majesty, who is exceedingly pleased therewith."
In the reign of James I., Waldon, sneering at
Buckingham's kindred, observes that it is easier
to put fine clothes on the back than to learn
the French dances, and therefore that "none but
country dances" must be used at Court. At Christmas,
1622-3, the Prince Charles "did lead the
measures with the French ambassador's wife. The
measures—braules, corrantoes, and galliards—being
ended, the masquers with the ladies did dance two
country dances."</p>
<p>In Pepys' <cite>Diary</cite> we read how he went to see the
King dance in Whitehall. "By and by comes the
King and Queen, the Duke (of York) and the
Duchess, and all the great ones; and after seating
themselves, the King takes out the Duchess of York;
and the Duke, the Duchess of Buckingham; the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
Duke of Monmouth, my Lady Castlemaine; and so
other lords other ladies; and they danced the Brantle.
After that the King led a lady a single coranto; and
then the rest of the lords, one after another, other
ladies; very noble it was, and great pleasure to see.
Then to country dances, the King leading the first,
which he called for, which was, says he, '<cite>Cuckolds
all awry</cite>,' the old dance of England. Of the ladies
that danced, the Duke of Monmouth's mistress, and
my Lady Castlemaine, and a daughter of Sir Harry
de Vicke's, were the best. The manner was, when
the King dances, all the ladies in the room, and the
Queen herself, stand up; and indeed, he dances
rarely, and much better than the Duke of York.
Having staid here as long as I thought fit, to my
infinite content, it being the greatest pleasure I could
wish now to see at Court, I went home, leaving them
dancing."</p>
<p>All old ballads are set to dance tunes, and derive
their name from <em>ballet</em>. Where no instruments were
to be had, the dancers sang the ballad, and so gave
the time to their feet. The fact of ballad tunes being
dance tunes has been the occasion of their preservation;
for in <cite>The Compleate Dancing Master</cite>, a
collection of dance tunes, the first edition of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
was published in 1650, and which went through
eighteen editions to 1728, a great number have been
preserved as dance tunes, with the titles of the ballads
sung to them. In the old country dances the
number of performers was unlimited, but could not
consist of less than six.</p>
<p>What is the origin of our title for certain dances—"Country
Dances"? I venture to think it has nothing
to do with the country, though I have Chappell's
weighty opinion against me. The designation was
properly given to all those counter-dances, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">contre-dances</i>,
which were performed by the gentlemen
standing on one side, and the ladies on the other, in
lines, in contra-distinction to all round and square
dances. As a general rule, foreign dances are circular
or square. In Brittany is La Boulangère, and among
the Basques, La Tapageuse, which are set in lines;
but with a few exceptions, most continental dances
were differentiated from the general type of English
dances by being square or round. There were, no
doubt, among our peasantry dances in a ring about
the May-pole, but this was exceptional. A writer
at the beginning of this century says,—"An English
country dance differs from any other known dance in
form and construction, except <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ecossaise</i> and quadrille<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
country dances, as most others composed of a number
of persons are either round, octagon, circular, or
angular. The pastoral dances on the stage approximate
the nearest to English country dances, being
formed longways."</p>
<p>The song and the dance were closely associated;
indeed, as already said, the word <em>ballet</em> is derived from
"ballad," or <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vice-versâ</i>; and all our old dance tunes
had appropriate words set to them.</p>
<p>Dargason, a country dance older than the Reformation,
found its way into Wales, where it was set to
Welsh words; the English ballad to which it was
usually sung was—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"It was a maid of my country,</div>
<div class="verse">As she came by a hawthorn tree,</div>
<div class="verse">As full of flowers as might be seen,</div>
<div class="verse">She marvelled to see the tree so green.</div>
<div class="verse">At last she asked of this tree</div>
<div class="verse">How came this freshness unto thee?</div>
<div class="verse">And every branch so fair and clean?</div>
<div class="verse">I marvel that you grow so green."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Doubtless half the charm of a country dance consisted
in the dancers singing the words of the familiar
ballad as they went through the movements of the
dance, the burden often occurring at a general joining
of hands and united movement.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span></p>
<p>An English country dance was composed of the
putting together of several figures, and it allowed of
almost infinite variation, according to the number
and arrangement of the figures introduced. Sir
Roger de Coverley, which is not quite driven out,
consists of seven figures. Some figures are quite
elementary, as turning the partner, setting, leading
down the middle. Others are more elaborate, as
Turn Corners, and Swing Corners; some are called
Short Figures, as requiring in their performance a
whole strain of short measure, or half a strain of long
measure. Long Figures, on the other hand, occupy
a strain of eight bars in long measure—a strain being
that part of an air which is terminated by a double
bar, and usually consists in country dances of four,
eight, or sixteen single bars. Country dance tunes
usually consist of two strains, though they sometimes
extend to three, four, or five, and of eight bars each.</p>
<p>The names and character of the old country dances
are quite forgotten.</p>
<p>The following is a list of some of the dances given
in <cite>The Complete Country Dancing Master</cite>, published
near the beginning of last century—</p>
<ul class="index">
<li>Whitehall.</li>
<li>Ackroyd's Pad.</li>
<li>The Whirligig.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>Amarillis.</li>
<li>Buttered Pease.</li>
<li>Bravo and Florimel.</li>
<li>Pope Joan.</li>
<li>Have at thy coat, old woman.</li>
<li>The Battle of the Boyne.</li>
<li>The Gossip's Frolic.</li>
<li>The Intrigue.</li>
<li>Prince and Princess.</li>
<li>A Health to Betty.</li>
<li>Bobbing Joan.</li>
<li>Sweet Kate.</li>
<li>Granny's Delight.</li>
<li>Essex Buildings.</li>
<li>Lord Byron's Maggot.</li>
<li>Ballamera.</li>
<li>The Dumps.</li>
<li>Rub her down with straw.</li>
<li>Moll Peatley.</li>
<li>Cheerily and Merrily.</li>
</ul>
<p>In Waylet's <cite>Collection of Country Dances</cite>, published
in 1749, we have these—</p>
<ul class="index">
<li>The Lass of Livingstone.</li>
<li>Highland Laddie.</li>
<li>Down the Burn, Davy.</li>
<li>Eltham Assembly.</li>
<li>Cephalus and Procris.</li>
<li>Joy go with her.</li>
<li>Duke of Monmouth's Jig.</li>
<li>Bonny Lass.</li>
<li>The Grasshopper.</li>
<li>The Pallet.</li>
<li>Jack Lattin.</li>
<li>Fiarnelle's Maggot.</li>
<li>Buttered Pease.</li>
<li>The Star.</li>
</ul>
<p>Some of these dances were simplicity itself, consisting
of only a very few elementary figures. This
is the description of <cite>Sweet Kate</cite>.</p>
<p>"Lead up all a double and back. That again.
Set your right foot to your woman's, then your left,
clasp your woman on her right hand, then on the
left, wind your hands and hold up your finger, wind
your hands again and hold up another finger of the
other hand, then single; and all this again."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p>
<p><cite>Bobbing Joan</cite> is no more than this. First
couple dance between the second, who then take
their places, dance down, hands and all round, first
two men snap fingers and change places, first women
do the same, these two changes to the last, and the
rest follow.</p>
<p>The tune of <cite>The Triumph</cite> is still found in
collections of dance music, but it is only here and
there in country places that it can be performed.
I saw some old villagers of sixty and seventy years
of age dance it last Christmas, but no young people
knew anything about it. It is a slight, easy, but
graceful dance—graceful when not danced by old
gaffers and grannies.</p>
<p>Our English country dances were carried abroad,
and became popular there. "The Italians," writes
Horace Walpole from Florence in 1740, "are fond
to a degree of our country dances: <cite>Cold and raw</cite>
they only know by the tune; <cite>Blouzy-bella</cite> is almost
Italian, and <cite>Buttered Peas</cite> is <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">Pizzelli al buro</i>." Indeed,
as early as 1669, when the Grand Duke of Tuscany
visited England, he was highly taken with the English
dances, and probably on his return to Florence introduced
them there. Count Lorenzo Magalotti,
who attended him on his visit, says that he and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span>
duke attended dancing-schools, "frequented by unmarried
and married ladies, who are instructed by the
master, and practise with much gracefulness and
agility various dances after the English fashion.
Dancing is a very common and favourite amusement
of the ladies in this country; every evening there
are entertainments at different places in the city, at
which many ladies and citizens' wives are present,
they going to them alone, as they do to the rooms of
the dancing-masters, at which there are frequently
upwards of forty or fifty ladies. His Highness had
an opportunity of seeing several dances in the English
style, exceedingly well regulated, and executed in the
smartest and genteelest manner by very young ladies,
whose beauty and gracefulness were shown off to
perfection in this exercise." And again, "he went
out to Highgate to see a children's ball, which, being
conducted according to the English custom, afforded
great pleasure to his Highness, both from the
numbers, the manner, and the gracefulness of the
dancers."</p>
<p>When our English country dances were carried
abroad,—notably to Germany and France,—the tunes
to which they were danced were carried with them,
were there appropriated, and as these dances died out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
in their native home, and with them their proper
melodies, the tunes have in several instances come
back to us from the continent, as German or French
airs.</p>
<p>Very probably one reason of the disapproval which
country dancing has encountered arises from the fact
that it allows no opportunities of conversation, and
consequently of flirtation, as the partners stand
opposite each other, and in the figures take part with
other performers quite as much as with their own
proper <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">vis-à-vis</i>. But then is a dance arranged simply
to enable a young pair to clasp each other and whisper
into each others ears? Are art, beauty, pleasure to
the spectators to be left out of count altogether?
The wall-fruit are deserving of commiseration, for
they now see nothing that can gratify the eye in a
ball-room; the waltz has been like the Norwegian
rat—it has driven the native out altogether, and the
native dance and the native rat were the more
beautiful of the two.</p>
<p>It is not often we get a graceful dance on the stage
either. Country dancing is banished thence also;
distorted antics that are without grace, and of scanty
decency, have supplanted it.</p>
<p>It seems incredible that what was regarded as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
necessary acquisition of every lady and gentleman
sixty or seventy years ago should have gone, and
gone utterly—so utterly that probably dancing-masters
of the present day would not know how to teach the
old country dances. In <cite>The Complete System of
Country Dancing</cite>, by Thomas Wilson, published
about 1821 (there is no date on the title-page), the
author insists on this being the national dance of the
English, of its being in constant practice, of its being
a general favourite "in every city and town throughout
the United Kingdom;" as constituting "the
principal amusement with the greater part of the
inhabitants of this country." Not only so, but the
English country dance was carried to all the foreign
European Courts, where it "was very popular, and
became the most favourite species of dancing;" and
yet it is gone—gone utterly.</p>
<p>The minuet was, no doubt, a tedious and over-formal
dance; it was only tolerable when those
engaged wore hoops and powder and knee-breeches;
but the English country dance is not stiff at all, and
only so far formal as all complications of figures must
be formal. It is at the same time infinitely elastic,
for it allows of expansion or contraction by the
addition or subtraction of figures. There are about<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
a hundred figures in all, and these can be changed
in place like the pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 556px;">
<img src="images/i_b_196.jpg" width="556" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Minuet being Danced.</span></div>
</div>
<p>Why, in this age of revivals, when we fill our
rooms with Chippendale furniture and rococo mirrors
and inlaid Florentine cabinets, and use the subdued
colours of our grandmothers, when our books are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
printed in old type with head and tail pieces of two
centuries ago, when the edges are left in the rough—why
should we allow the waltz, the foreign waltz, to
monopolize our ball-rooms to the exclusion of all
beautiful figure-dancing, and let an old English art
disappear completely without an attempt to recover
it? It will be in these delightful, graceful, old national
dances that our girls will, like the daughter of
Philipater in the <cite>Spectator</cite>, dance themselves into
our esteem, as it is pretty sure that in the approved
fashion of waltzing they will dance themselves out
of it.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_197.jpg" width="600" height="420" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br />
<span class="f75">OLD ROADS.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch8.jpg" width="600" height="436" alt="country road" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_198t.jpg" alt="C" width="600" height="336" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_198b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">P</span>RACTICAL inconvenience
attends living at the junction
of the Is-not and the Is. To make
myself better understood, I must explain.</p>
<p>On October 11th, 1809, Colonel Mudge published
the Ordnance Survey of the county which I grace with
my presence. In that map he entered a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> <cite>Proposed
Road</cite>, running about four miles from N. to S. through
my property, and in front of my house. I was not alive
at the time, so the expression "my house" is inexact,
it was the house of my grandfather. This proposed
road was to be a main artery of traffic, and a county
road,—but it was never carried out. To carry it out
would have been inconvenient, as the walled garden
of the house, with very good jargonelle and Bon-chrétien
pears lies athwart the proposed course, and an
ancient black fig-tree that produces abundantly every
year grows precisely on the site of the proposed road.
I presume that my grandfather raised objections.
Anyhow the road was never made. However, since
the survey of 1809, map-makers—convinced that
what was then proposed has been in effect carried
out—have systematically entered this road as an
accomplished fact.</p>
<p>Now perhaps the reader can understand what it is
to live on the point of junction of the Is and Is-not.
The road indicated on the maps <em>is not</em> in existence,
and yet the public consider, on the authority of the
maps, that it <em>is</em>.</p>
<p>Then, again, I live in another way on the <em>Is</em> and <em>Is-not</em>.
In 1836 a new and excellent road—now a
county road—was carried at right angles to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
proposed road, leading into the old high-road about
a mile and a half from my house, and connecting
that old high-road with the principal market town of
the district, about nine miles off. Before this was
constructed, the old way ran up hill and down dale in
a series of scrambles, straight as an arrow; and one
stretch of this road is now utterly impassable, it is
simply a water-course, and a torrent rushes down it in
a series of cascades over steps of slate-rock in winter,
and after rain. Now—will it be believed?—just as
the maps have accepted the proposed road as if it had
really been made, because it was marked by Col.
Mudge, so they have all ignored this main county
road, because it did not exist in the days of Col.
Mudge, and they persist in giving the old road, and
ignoring the new one, that makes a great sweep
through valleys, and indeed describes two sides of an
obtuse-angled triangle, of which the old road forms
the hypothenuse.</p>
<p>Now the reader will understand even more clearly
how it is that I live on the what is, yet is not. The
road is there—rates are paid to keep it up, and yet—it
is not in any map, though it has been in existence
for more than half a century.</p>
<p>Now for the practical inconvenience. One day<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span>
I saw a party of men with guns walking across
my grounds, in front of my house. I knew they
had been poaching, and so I rushed out after
them.</p>
<p>"What are you about? Why are you trespassing?"
I roared. One of them pulled out a map and
pointed. "We are going along the Queen's highway.
Double black edges mark a main road. We
cannot be trespassing." I was silenced.</p>
<p>One day I found school-boys in my walled garden
eating my Bon-chrétien pears. I ordered them off,
threatening them with vengeance.</p>
<p>"Please, sir, we did not know we were doing
wrong. On the map we saw that this was a highway,
and we thought we were at liberty to take
anything that grows on the road." Bad maps and
over-education had robbed me of my Bon-chrétien
pears.</p>
<p>That is the disadvantage of living on or near the
site of a road that is not, but which the authorities
that enlighten the minds of the ignorant assert to
be. My notion is, that the Press is the great instrument
for the diffusion of false information among the
masses. Nothing will break that conviction in me.
An acquaintance was staying at the market town, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
I invited him over to dinner. He hired a trap and
drove himself. He had the map, he could manage,
he said. He never arrived. Trusting to the map,
he had gone by the old road, and had been precipitated
down the cascade. The horse had fallen,
the trap was smashed, and my friend's hip was
dislocated.</p>
<p>So now every one can see that there really is great
practical inconvenience in living at the junction of the
Is-not yet Is, or the Is and Is-not.</p>
<p>I have a coachman who has been in the family for
seventy-five years, and is one of the last surviving
representatives of the all-but-extinct race of Caleb
Balderstone. This old man remembers the state of
the country before most of the new roads were made,
before Macadam's system was introduced, and very
curious stories he can tell of the old roads, and the
travelling thereon. Formerly the roads were—not
exactly paved, but made by the thrusting of big
stones into holes which they more or less adequately
filled. Then on top of all were put smaller stones,
picked up from the fields, and not broken at all. As
I have got the old road near my gates, for about a
mile, closed to all but foot-passengers—though the
maps persist in attempting to send carriages over it—I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span>
can see exactly what they were. This bit of road is
cut between banks eight and nine feet high, has been
sawn through soil and rock by the traffic of centuries,
assisted by streams of water in winter. The floor is a
series of rocky steps, and I can recall when these steps
were eased to the traveller by the heaping of boulders
on them producing a rude slope. But as with every
heavy rain a rush of water went down this road, it
dislodged the boulders, and woe betide the horse
descending the steep declivity of loosely distributed
rolling stones on an irregular and fragile stair of
slates.</p>
<p>My great-great-grandmother had a famous black
bull. The contemporary Duke of B., who was a
fancier of cattle, wanted to buy it, but madam refused
to sell. Again he sent over, offering double what he
had offered before, but was again refused. Then said
the Duke, "Tell madam, that if she will sell me that
bull, I will gallop my horse down the road without
saddle or bridle." She sent him the bull as a present,
without exacting the ride, which would have in all
likelihood cost him his life.</p>
<p>In old novels the sinking of the wheel of a chaise
in a mud-hole, or the breakage of the carriage, is an
ordinary and oft-recurring incident. The wonder to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
me is, that chaises ever made any progress over these
old roads without being splintered to atoms. How
was it that china, glass, mirrors, ever reached the
country houses intact? I applied to my coachman.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 554px;">
<img src="images/i_b_204.jpg" width="554" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Packman's Way by a River-side.</span></div>
</div>
<p>"Well, sir, you see, nothing was carried in waggons<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
then, but on packhorses, that is to say, no perishable
goods. My grandfather was a packman. Those were
rare times." And he showed me the old packmen's
traces, across the woods where now trees grow of fifty
years' standing. Indeed, alongside of many modernized
roads the old packmen's courses may still be traced.
There was great skill required in packing; the packhorse
had crooks on its back, and the goods were
hung to these crooks. The crooks were formed
of two poles, about ten feet long, bent when green
into the required curve, and when dried in that shape
were connected by horizontal bars. A pair of crooks,
thus completed, was slung over the pack-saddle, one
swinging on each side, to make the balance true. The
short crooks, called <em>crubs</em>, were slung in a similar
manner. These were of stouter fabric, and formed
an angle; these were used for carrying heavy materials.</p>
<p>I shall doubtless be excused if I quote some old
verses written fifty years ago, comparing marriage
to a Devonshire lane, but which will equally apply
to any old road—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"In a Devonshire lane, as I trotted along</div>
<div class="verse">T'other day, much in want of a subject for song,</div>
<div class="verse">Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain,</div>
<div class="verse">Sure Marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">In the first place 'tis long, and when once you are in it,</div>
<div class="verse">It holds you as fast as a cage does a linnet;</div>
<div class="verse">For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found,</div>
<div class="verse">Drive forward you must, there is no turning round.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide,</div>
<div class="verse">For two are the most that together can ride;</div>
<div class="verse">And e'en then, 'tis a chance, but they get in a pother,</div>
<div class="verse">And jostle and cross and run foul of each other.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks,</div>
<div class="verse">And Care pushes by them, o'er-laden with crooks;</div>
<div class="verse">And Strife's grazing wheels try between them to pass,</div>
<div class="verse">And Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Then the banks are so high, to the left hand and right,</div>
<div class="verse">That they shut out the beauties around them from sight;</div>
<div class="verse">And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,</div>
<div class="verse">That Marriage is just like a Devonshire lane!</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">But thinks I too, these banks, within which we are pent,</div>
<div class="verse">With bud, blossom, and berry are richly besprent;</div>
<div class="verse">And the conjugal fence, which forbids us to roam,</div>
<div class="verse">Looks lovely when decked with the comforts of home.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows;</div>
<div class="verse">The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose,</div>
<div class="verse">And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife</div>
<div class="verse">Soothes the roughness of care,—cheers the winter of life.</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Then long be the journey, and narrow the way,</div>
<div class="verse">I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;</div>
<div class="verse">And whate'er others say, be the last to complain,</div>
<div class="verse">Though Marriage be just like a Devonshire lane."</div>
</div></div></div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 440px;">
<img src="images/i_b_207.jpg" width="440" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">By the Road-side.</span></div>
</div>
<p>"Ah, sir!" said my old coachman, "them was jolly
times. The packmen used to travel in a lot together,
and when they put up at an inn for the night, there
was fun;—not but what they was a bit rough-like.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
I mind when one day they found a jackass straying,
and didn't know whose it was, nor didn't ask either.
They cut handfuls of rushes, and with cords they
swaddled the ass up with rushes, and then set alight
to him. Well, sir, that ass ran blazing like a fireball
for four miles before he dropped. Them was
jolly times."</p>
<p>"Not for asses, Caleb?"</p>
<p>"Certainly not for asses."</p>
<p>"But why did the packmen travel together, Caleb?"</p>
<p>"Well, sir, you see, packmen at times carried a lot
o' money about with them; and it did happen now
and then that lonely packmen were robbed and
murdered."</p>
<p>"Then hardly jolly times for packmen?"</p>
<p>"Well, I don't know," answered Balderstone, drawing
his hand and whip across his mouth. "There
was packmen then, and perhaps just here and there
one got murdered; but now they are <em>all</em> put out of
the way, which is worst of all."</p>
<p>After a little consideration Caleb went on—"Now,
I mind a curious circumstance that happened when
I was a young man, just about sixty years ago. At
that time there were no shops about, and once or
twice in the year I was sent with a waggon and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
a team up to the county town (thirty-five miles off)
to bring down groceries and all sorts o' things for
the year. I used to start at four in the morning.
One autumn morning I had started before daybreak,
and I lay in the covered waggon, and the two horses
they knew the road and went on. But all at once
both halted, and though I cracked my whip they
would not stir. I got out with the lantern, and
saw that they were all of a tremble, both with their
heads down looking at something, apparently, in the
road. I moved the lantern about, but could see
nothing in the road, and then I coaxed the horses,
but they would not stir a step; then I whipped them.
All at once both together gave a leap into the air,
just as if they were leaping a gate, and away they
dashed along the road for a mile afore I could stop
them, and then they were sweating as if they had
been raced in a steeplechase, and covered with foam,
and trembling still. Now I was away two days, and
on the third I came back, and the curious thing is—when
I came back I heard that a packer had been
robbed and murdered whilst I was away at that very
spot, and where my horses had leaped it was over
the exact place where the dead man was found lying
twenty-four hours later. If they'd jumped after the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span>
murder I'd have thought nothing of it, but they
jumped before the man was killed."</p>
<p>Road-making was formerly intrusted to the
parochial authorities, and there was no supervision.
It was carried out in slovenly and always in an
unsystematic manner. In adopting a direct or
circuitous line of way, innumerable predilections interfered,
and parishes not infrequently quarrelled about
the roads. The dispute between broad and narrow
gauges raged long before railway lines were laid.
A market town and a seaport would naturally desire
to have ample verge and room enough on their
highways for the transport of grain and other
commodities from the interior, and for carriage of
manufactured goods, or importations to the interior.
On the other hand, isolated parishes would
contend that driftways sufficed for their demands,
and that they could house their crops, or bring their
flour from the mill through the same ruts which
had served their forefathers.</p>
<p>After the Civil Wars an impetus was given to
road-making; an Act was passed authorizing a small
toll to pay for the maintenance of the highways.
The turnpike gate was originally a bar supported on
two posts on the opposite sides of the road, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
collector sat in the open air at his seat of custom.
I remember fifty years ago travelling in Germany,
where at the toll-gate was a little house; one end of
the bar was heavily weighted, the other fastened by
a chain that led into the turnpike man's room. The
toll-man thrust forth a pole with a bag at the end,
into which the coin was put, he drew in the bag at
his window, unhooked the chain, and the weight
sent the bar flying up, the carriage passed under, and
then the bar was pulled down again.</p>
<p>The people did not see the advantage of the toll-bar
when first introduced, and riots broke out. The
road surveyor was mobbed and beaten, the toll-bar
was torn away and burnt. Even with systematic
mending, the old roads were bad, for the true principle
on which roads should be made was not known.
John Loudon MacAdam, born 1756, died 1836, was
the first to draw attention to the proper mode of road-making.
He was an American, of Scottish descent.
In 1819 he published <cite>A Practical Essay on the
Scientific Repair and Preservation of Public Roads</cite>,
and in 1820, <cite>Remarks on the Present State of Road-making</cite>.
How little science was thought to have to
do with the roads may be judged from the fact, that
under the heading of Roads, the old <cite>Encyclopædia</cite><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
<cite>Britannica</cite> of 1797 has not a word to say. "Road-making!"
one may suppose a surveyor of that period
to have said, "any fool can make a road. If one finds
a hole anywhere, clap a stone into it."</p>
<p>I have walked over the St. Gotthard Pass, and
there we have the old road traceable in many places,
and we can compare it with the new road. The old
one was paved here and there rudely. Some of our
old English roads were likewise paved. MacAdam's
principle was this. Make all roads with the highest
point in the middle, then the water runs off it,
instead of—as in the old roads—lodging in the
middle. Next, do not pave the road at all, but lay
in a bottom—metal it—with broken stones, to the
depth of six or eight inches, and then cover these
with another layer, broken smaller, to the depth of
two or three inches. Then all will be welded together
into a compact and smooth mass. MacAdam
originally proposed that the small upper coat of
stones should be laid on in a corduroy fashion across
the road, but this was abandoned for an uniform
covering, as more speedily applied, and more effective.</p>
<p>What a time people took formerly in travelling
over old roads! There is a house just two miles
distant from mine, by the new unmapped road.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>
Before 1837, when that road was made, it was reached
in so circuitous a manner, and by such bad lanes,
and across an unbridged river, that my grandfather
and his family when they dined with our neighbours,
two miles off, always spent the night at their house.</p>
<p>In 1762, a rich gentleman, who had lived in a house
of business in Lisbon, and had made his fortune,
returned to England, and resolved to revisit his
paternal home in Norfolk. His wish was further
stimulated by the circumstance that his sister and
sole surviving relative dwelt beside one of the great
broads, where he thought he might combine some
shooting with the pleasure of renewing his friendships
of childhood. From London to Norwich his way
was tolerably smooth and prosperous, and by the aid
of a mail coach he performed the journey in three
days. But now commenced his difficulties. Between
the capital and his sister's dwelling lay twenty miles
of country roads. He ordered a coach and six, and
set forth on his fraternal quest. The six hired horses,
although of strong Flanders breed, were soon engulfed
in a black miry pool, his coach followed, and the
merchant was dragged out of the window by two
cowherds, and mounted on one of the wheelers; he
was brought back to Norwich, and nothing could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
ever induce him to resume the search for his sister,
and to revisit his ancestral home.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_214.jpg" width="600" height="594" alt="Francis Masey. An Old
Travelling
Carriage" />
</div>
<p>The death of good Queen Bess was not known in
some of the remoter parishes of Devon and in Cornwall
until the court mourning for her had been laid aside;
and in the churches of Orkney prayers were put up for
King James II. three months after he had abdicated.</p>
<p>"However," I asked of Caleb, "could the huge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span>
masses of granite have been moved that form the
pillars in the church, and the gate-posts, and the
fireplace in the hall?"</p>
<p>"Well, sir, on truckamucks."</p>
<p>"Truckamucks!"</p>
<p>"In the old times they didn't have wheels, but
a sort of cart with the ends of the shafts carried out
behind and dragging on the ground. In fact, the
cart was nothing but two young trees, and the roots
dragged, and the tops were fastened to the horse.
When they wanted to move a heavy weight they used
four trees, and lashed the middle ones together."</p>
<p>"No carts or waggons, then?"</p>
<p>"Only one waggon in the parish, and that your
grandfather's, and that could travel only on the high-road.
Not many other conveyances either."</p>
<p>It is a marvel to us how the old china and glass
travelled in those days; but the packer was a man of
infinite care and skill in the management of fragile wares.</p>
<p>Does the reader remember the time when all such
goods were brought by carriers? How often they
got broken if intrusted to the stage-coaches, how
rarely if they came by the carrier. The carrier's
waggon was securely packed, and time was of no
object to the driver, he went very slowly and very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
carefully over bad ground. The carrier's life was a
very jolly one, and few songs were more popular in the
west of England than that of <cite>The Jolly Waggoner</cite>—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"When first I went a-waggoning, a-waggoning did go,</div>
<div class="verse">I filled my parents' hearts with sorrow, trouble, grief, and woe;</div>
<div class="verse">And many are the hardships too, that since I have gone through.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Sing Wo! my lads, sing wo!</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Drive on, my lads, heigh-ho!</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Who would not live the life of the jolly waggoner?</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">It is a cold and stormy night, and I'm wet to the skin,</div>
<div class="verse">I'll bear it with contentment till I get to the inn,</div>
<div class="verse">And then I'll sit a-drinking with the landlord and his kin.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Sing Wo! &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Now summer is a-coming on—what pleasure we shall see!</div>
<div class="verse">The small birds blithely singing, so sweet on every tree,</div>
<div class="verse">The blackbirds and the thrushes, too, are whistling merrily.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Sing Wo! &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Now Michaelmas is coming—what pleasure we shall find!</div>
<div class="verse">'Twill make the gold to fly, my lads, like chaff before the wind,</div>
<div class="verse">And every lad shall kiss his lass, so loving and so kind.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Sing Wo! &c."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Since the introduction of steam two additional
verses have been added to this song—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Along the country roads, alas! but waggons few are seen,</div>
<div class="verse">The world is topsy-turvy turned, and all things go by steam,</div>
<div class="verse">And all the past is passed away, like to a morning dream.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Sing Wo! &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">The landlords cry, What shall we do? our business is no more,</div>
<div class="verse">The railroad it has ruined us, who badly fared before;</div>
<div class="verse">'Tis luck and gold to one or two, but ruined are a score.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Sing Wo! &c."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span></p>
<p>The leathern belt worn by the groom nowadays is
the survival of the strap to which the lady held, as
she sat on a pillion behind her groom. The horses
ridden in those days must have been strong, or the
distances not considerable, and the pace moderate, for
to carry two full-grown persons cannot have been a
trifle for a horse on bad roads.</p>
<p>"It is of some importance," said Sydney Smith,
"at what period a man is born. A young man alive
at this period hardly knows to what improvements
of human life he has been introduced; and I would
bring before his notice the changes that have taken
place in England since I began to breathe the breath
of life—a period of seventy years. I have been nine
hours sailing from Dover to Calais before the invention
of steam. It took me nine hours to go from
Taunton to Bath before the invention of railroads.
In going from Taunton to Bath I suffered between
ten thousand and twelve thousand severe contusions
before stone-breaking MacAdam was born. I paid
fifteen pounds in a single year for repair of carriage-springs
on the pavement of London, and I now glide
without noise or fracture on wooden pavement. I
can walk without molestation from one end of London
to another; or, if tired, get into a cheap and active<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
cab, instead of those cottages on wheels which the
hackney coaches were at the beginning of my life.
I forgot to add, that as the basket of the stage-coaches
in which luggage was then carried had no
springs, your clothes were rubbed all to pieces; and
that even in the best society, one-third of the gentlemen
were always drunk. I am now ashamed that I
was not formerly more discontented, and am utterly
surprised that all these changes and inventions did not
occur two centuries ago."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 572px;">
<img src="images/i_b_218.jpg" width="572" height="600" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br />
<span class="f75">FAMILY PORTRAITS.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch9.jpg" width="600" height="379" alt="portrait gallery" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_219t.jpg" alt="O" width="600" height="303" />
<img class="figleft60" src="images/i_b_219b.jpg" alt="" width="360" height="76" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">O</span>NE day a very grand
and, as she conceived,
original idea came into my grandmothers head. She
was resolved to represent pictorially, on a sheet of
cartridge-paper, all the confluent streams of blood
in her children's veins, of the families to which they
were entitled to draw blood through past alliances.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span></p>
<p>So my grandmother got out her ruler and colour-box,
and a pallet and brushes, and filled a little glass
with water. Presently a pedigree was drawn out by
the aid of compasses and a parallel ruler. Then she
rubbed her paints and set to work colouring. She
dabbed some vermilion on Father A, and gamboge on
Mother B; then on the next in the same generation,
Father C, she put sage-green; and his wife, Mother
D, she indicated with Prussian blue. The son of
vermilion A and gamboge B was R. That was
simple enough; in his arteries flowed a vivid tide
of combined vermilion and gamboge. He married
S, who was the offspring of sage-green C and
Prussian blue D; consequently her arteries were flowing
with rather a dingy mixture of sage-green and
Prussian blue. Now R and S had a child, P, and
his veins were charged with a combination of vermilion
and gamboge and sage-green and Prussian
blue.</p>
<p>When my grandmother had got so far, she bit
the end of her paint-brush; for P, who was her
husband's father, of course married, and her mother-in-law
must be also represented by a combination of
four colours. She took the end of the brush out of
her mouth and rubbed emerald green and carmine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
E and F should symbolize her husband's mother's
grandparents. E brought into the family a stream
of carmine blood, and F one of vivid emerald. Then
the veins of her step-mother represented a mixed tide
of carmine and emerald and of two other families, as
yet unindicated. To these she promptly appropriated
violet and orange. Now at last was she able to
tabulate the constituents of her husband's blood; it
was composed of minute rills of vermilion, gamboge,
sage-green, Prussian blue, carmine, emerald green,
violet, and orange. Already she had trenched on the
composite colours. Now a great dismay fell on my
grandmother; for she had to complete the same
process for the exemplification of her own blood;
and for her ancestry not only were no primary colours
left, but even no secondary. She had to represent
them with brown, lavender, slate,—yes, oh joy! there
was another blue, cobalt!—verdegris, lemon yellow,
black, and white. She hesitated some while before
employing the verdegris. She never completed that
table; for she was aghast at the rivers of mud, literal
mud, which, according to her scheme, flowed through
the arteries of her offspring. Now look at this table.
Consider, it is only one of a pedigree through five
generations.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_222.jpg" width="600" height="153" alt="Family Tree" />
</div>
<p class="p2"><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span></p>
<p>Every one of my readers, every human being, nay,
every beast, and bird, and fish, and reptile, represents
the 16 ancestors of four generations, that means 32
independent streams of blood in the fifth generation,
and 1004 currents in the tenth generation, and 32,128
rivulets of distinct blood in the fifteenth generation,
and 1,028,096, if we go back to the twentieth generation.
Take thirty years as a generation, then, in
the reign of Henry III., there were over a million
independent individuals, walking, talking, eating,
marrying, whose united blood was to be, in 1889,
blended in your veins. Why, that ogre of a sailor
in the Bab Ballads, who represented a whole ship's
crew, because, when shipwrecked, he had eaten them,
is nothing to you. The whole population of London,
of Middlesex, was not a million, then. You represent
a large county—Yorkshire, for instance.</p>
<p>Our arteries are very sluices, through which an
incredible amount of confluent rills unite to rush,
the drainage of the whole social country-side.</p>
<p>Such being the case, does it not seem a farce to
talk about family types, and family likenesses, and
family peculiarities beyond one or two generations at
most? And yet it is not a farce; for what comes out
abundantly clear is, that certain streams are stronger<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
than others, and colour and affect for several generations
the quality of the blood with which they mingle.
Not so only, but earlier types reappear after the lapse
of time as distinct as though there had been no intermediate
blood mixture, as though there had been
filiation by gemmation, as is the case with sponges.</p>
<p>One day I was visiting a friend, when I was struck
by the excellence of a portrait in his hall of a very
refined and beautiful old lady; there was nothing
characteristic in the dress. Being a fancier in
portraiture, and being mightily ill-contented with
modern portrait-painting, this picture pleased me
especially; it was a picture as well as a portrait,
harmonious in colour and tone, and artistically
focussed. Moreover, it was a perfectly life-like "presentiment"
of my friend's wife. He and she were
both old people. Said I to my friend, "What an
admirable likeness! The artist has not only made a
good picture, but he has caught your wife's expression
as well as features and peculiar colouring. Who
is the painter? I did not know we had the man nowadays
who could have painted such a portrait."</p>
<p>"Oh," he answered, "that is not my wife—it is her
great-grandmother."</p>
<p>Thus the wife represented <em>four</em> united streams of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
two generations back, but she represented in face, and
represented exactly, only one of them.</p>
<p>Now for another instance. In a certain family that
I know intimately, a son and a female cousin are as
much alike as though they were twin brother and
sister; what is the more remarkable is, that they
deviate altogether from the type of their brothers and
sisters, parents, uncles, and aunts. <em>But</em>, and here is
the curious fact, they resemble, even ludicrously, an
ancestor whose miniature and portrait in oils are in
the possession of the family. I draw out the pedigree.
I must premise that the portrait is of a
gentleman in forget-me-not blue velvet, and he goes
in the family by the name of the Blue Man.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<img src="images/i_b_225.jpg" width="300" height="281" alt="Tree for Blue Man" />
</div>
<p>M and N are the cousins, male and female, who
are as alike as twins, and they are exact reproductions
of the Blue Man, notwithstanding that through C, D,
G, and I come in fresh streams of blood, that two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
entirely independent rivers flush the veins of M and
N respectively, coming in from G and I. They
have the blood of C and D in common, but alike
disregard their qualities; so also do they reject the
blood of their respective mothers, and go back to
a common ancestor in the reign of Queen Anne.</p>
<p>But I can give a still more remarkable instance of
atavism, which also must be illustrated by a table.
Here the likeness goes back even further, and, like
that above, also through the maternal line.</p>
<p>There is in the same old manor-house as that in
which hangs the Blue Man another picture, painted
by Carlo Maratti, in or about 1672, of a certain Sir
Edward, a dandy, in long flowing curls, a beautiful
Steenkirk, a cherry ribbon round his neck, and also
about his wrists. The face is fine, haughty, somewhat
dreamy. It was painted of him when he was a
young man of about five-and-twenty. Hanging near
him is his elder brother, also with flowing hair, a bluff,
good-natured man in appearance, quite different in
character from the knight, one may judge, and certainly
not like him in feature. Now the knight, Sir
Edward, died without issue, and left all his property
to his great-nephew, the grandson of his elder brother
James. That nephew bought estates in Nottinghamshire,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
and for two hundred years the family he
founded has been apart from the elder branch, which
lives in the west of England, and which owns the
picture.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_227.jpg" width="600" height="412" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Sir Edward, A.D. 1668.</span><br />
<i>From a painting by</i> <span class="smcap">Carlo Maratti</span>.<br /><br />
N. <span class="smcap">A.D. 1888.</span><br />
<i>From a Photograph.</i>
</div>
</div>
<p>One day recently there came into the neighbourhood
a descendant of James, and calling at the house
of his kinsman, unconsciously seated himself beneath
the picture of Sir Edward. He was a young man of
about four-and-twenty. He was at once greeted
with an exclamation of astonishment and amusement.
He was extraordinarily like the portrait; had he but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
been dressed in stamped black velvet, worn curls, a
Steenkirk, and cherry ribbons, he might have been
the same man. Now look at this pedigree, and note
the remarkable fact. He did not hail from the
knight, whom he resembled, but from his brother
James, whom he did not resemble. The knight, Sir
Edward, must therefore have inherited the features of
an earlier ancestor, who was also, of course, the ancestor
of his brother; so that this young man in 1888 bore
the face and features of a still earlier member of the
family, whose likeness has not been preserved, if it
were ever taken. Here is a family likeness going
back six or seven generations. We cannot be
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>certain that the characteristic features of Sir Edward
were derived from his father or his mother. Nor is
this likeness found only in N. It exists also in his
father L, though not in so strong a degree, or, at all
events, it is less apparent in an old man of sixty than in
a young man of four-and-twenty. Curiously enough,
the portrait of Elizabeth, the ancestress through
whom these two, L and N, derive their likeness to Sir
Edward, shows none of these characteristics. They
remained latent in her, but reappeared in her grandson
and great-grandson. Unfortunately the pictures of
D and F, who intervened, have not been preserved, or
their whereabouts have not been discovered, so that
it is not possible to track the likeness through two
generations that intervene between Elizabeth in 1780
and James in 1680.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;">
<img src="images/i_b_228.jpg" width="400" height="454" alt="Family tree" />
</div>
<p>It has been conjectured that a child sitting daily in
the presence of a certain portrait insensibly assumes a
likeness to it; but such a conjecture will not satisfy
the case just mentioned, for L and N till recently
had never seen the picture which they so closely
resembled.</p>
<p>There is another point connected with family portraits
that has given me occasion of thought and
speculation; and that is, the way in which those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span>
children who are named after an ancestor or ancestress
sometimes, I do not say often or always, but certainly
sometimes, do in a very remarkable manner receive
the stamp of the features of that ancestor after whom
named. This has nothing to do with the naming of
the child at baptism because of a supposed resemblance,
for in very young infants none such can be traced,
but the likeness grows in the child to the person whose
name it bears.</p>
<p>Now here is a bit of pedigree, with the likenesses
that exist curiously agreeing with the Christian names.
In this relation of a new generation to an old there is
a point to be remarked. E<sup>2</sup> is in character, in manner,
and in tastes and pursuits exactly what E was, but
does <em>not</em> resemble him in face. W D<sup>2</sup> is just like
W D, his great-great-great-grandfather, whose double
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>Christian name he bears. M B<sup>2</sup> and M B<sup>3</sup> are like
M B in face, and M B<sup>2</sup> resembles her great-great-grandmother
in face and in character. D A<sup>2</sup> is
absurdly like her great-grandmother, whose double
name she bears, but is as yet too young for the
mental characteristics to show themselves, or at all
events to have become sufficiently emphasized to
enable one to say whether, in mind as in face, she
resembles her great-grandmother.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 300px;">
<img src="images/p230.jpg" width="300" height="273" alt="Pedigree" />
</div>
<p>Now this may be accidental, but if so, it is a
very curious and remarkable accident. Noticing it
in other cases, I have sometimes wondered whether
there may be in it more than accident. The old
Norsemen believed that by calling a child after a
certain great man, some of that great man's luck
and spiritual force passed with his name to the child.
The idea among Roman Catholic parents of giving
their offspring the names of saints is, that they put the
children under the special patronage, influence, and
tutelage of the saint after whom they are called.
Now—is there in these ideas anything more than a
fancy, a delusion, a superstition? Is it possible that
a mysterious effluence should pass from the spirit of
the departed to the child that reproduces his or her
name, and that this effluence should affect, modify,
and impress the features and character of the child?</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span></p>
<p>It is remarkable the way in which tricks perpetuate
themselves. I know some one who, when a boy, had
to be broken of the absurd habit of slapping the sole
of his right boot with his right hand every now and
then behind his back, as he walked. An old aunt
saw him do this one day, and she said, "How odd!
we had a world of trouble with his father when he
was a child—about this very thing."</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_232.jpg" width="600" height="478" alt="" />
<div class="caption">
<span class="smcap bleft">Lady Northcote (Jacquetta Baring).</span>
<span class="smcap bright">Lady Young (Emily Baring).</span>
</div>
</div>
<p>I may, in connection with this, mention a personal
matter. My paternal grandfather's sister, Jacquetta
Baring, married Sir Stafford Northcote, in 1791; she
was the grandmother of the late Lord Iddesleigh, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>
was, accordingly, my cousin, but whom I never met.
One day I was with one of his sons, who, whilst in
conversation with me, laughed, and then said,
"Excuse me, but there are many little ways you
have, both of turn of the head and movements of the
hand, that bring my father continually before my
mind whilst you are speaking with me."</p>
<p>These little tricks of manner are therefore not
personal, are not the result of association and imitation,
but travel through the blood.</p>
<p>But to return to family portraits. That, in spite of
the influx of fresh blood from all quarters, a certain
family type remains, one can hardly doubt in looking
through a genuine series of family pictures. I
knew a case of an artist who had been employed in
a certain house, where he had become familiar with
the family portraits, which he had cleaned, relined
and restored. Some of the early pictures of the
family had been lost, in fact sold, by a spendthrift—another
Charles Surface—who did not shrink from
disposing of his mother's picture by Sir Joshua
Reynolds. The head of the family knew where some
two or three of these pictures had gone; they had
been bought by a family akin to his, and the representative
of that family very kindly acceded to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
request that he might have them copied. The artist
was sent to that gentleman's house to do what was
desired. He was introduced into the dining-room,
where hung over a score of portraits, but he went
directly to the two which belonged to the family
whose paintings he had cleaned, singled them out
from the rest, and said, "These I am sure belong to
the X—s. I know the type of face." He was right;
he had spotted the only two which were not pictures
of the A family, but were of the family X.</p>
<p>The delight of watching the re-emergence of a
disappeared family likeness, as generations pass, is, no
doubt, the chief delight of having a good series of
family pictures. But there is an advantage in such a
series which is not perhaps much considered, and that
is the linking of the present generation in thought with
the past. Since, with the Reformation, prayer for the
dead ceased, our association with the world of the
departed has fallen into total disregard, and we neither
think of holding any communion of thought and
good-will with our forebears, nor suppose that they
can entertain any kindly thought of and wishes for us
and our welfare. And yet, how much we owe them!
Our beautiful estates, our dear old houses, the laying
out of the parks and grounds, the cutting of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
terraces, the digging of the ponds, the planting of the
stately trees, the gathering together of our plate, our
books, our pictures, our old furniture. Nay, more,
if we have not inherited these, we have from them
some twists in our mind, some terms in our speech,
some physical or psychical characteristics, some
virtues and some faults.</p>
<p>We owe to those old people more than we suppose.
To their self-restraint, their guileless walk, their frugal
ways, we owe our own hale bodies and strict consciences.
Consider what misery a strain of tainted
blood brings into a family—a strain of blood that
carries vicious propensities with it. Well, if we have
good in us, if we are scrupulous, honest, truthful,
self-controlled, it comes to us in a large measure
along with our pure blood from honest ancestry.</p>
<p>How can we sit in the beautiful halls and panelled
boudoirs of the old people, and not be thankful to
them for having made them so charming? How can
we walk in the avenues they planted, pick the flowering
shrubs they grouped and bedded, and not be
grateful to them?</p>
<p>To plant a tree is a most unselfish work, for very
few men live to see the trees they have planted reach
such a size as to give pleasure to themselves. Men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>
plant for their sons and grandsons; and their sons
and grandsons who enjoy these trees should think for
a moment of those to whose forethought they owe
them. I confess I like, when I have enjoyed the
beauty of some avenue, or clump of stately trees, to
look at the picture of the planter of them, and say,
"Thank you, dear old man, for the pleasure you have
given to me, and will give to my children after me."</p>
<p>We have something yet to learn from the Chinese.
The only religion of the Celestials is the worship of
their ancestors. Every race probably inherits some
truth that it can and is destined to impart to the
world. The Chinese lack the deeper vision which can
look up to the great Father of spirits above, but
yet from them we may acquire thought of and love
for our forebears.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"They are all gone into a world of light,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And I alone sit lingering here!</div>
<div class="verse">Their very memory is fair and bright,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And my sad thoughts does clear.</div>
<div class="verse">It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Like stars upon some gloomy grove;</div>
<div class="verse">Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed</div>
<div class="verse vi1">After the sun's remove."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>So sang Vaughan, a poet of the Restoration; and if
one attempts it one can feel with him, that it is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
pleasure and a rest to think of, and cultivate affection
for, those of our family who belong to the past.</p>
<p>In many an old mansion the story goes that
an ancestor or ancestress <em>walks</em> there, is to be seen
occasionally between the glimpses of the moon visiting
the old house, and generally as foretoken of some
event intimately concerning the family. Such a story
is common enough. We think that possibly these
ancient ghosts may reappear to acquaint themselves
how we are getting on, but it never occurs to us to
visit them, and walk in spirit their desolate region,
and cheer them with a kindly expression, and a word
of good-will. Well, I think that a set of family
portraits does help one to that, does link us somehow
to these dead forefathers, and serves as a vehicle of
mental communication between us.</p>
<p>Then, again, the family scamp is of use. We had
one in our family. I am thankful to say we do not
inherit his wild blood, as he died unmarried. He sold
the bulk of the ancestral estates, and got rid of everything
he could get rid of. But then—since his death
he has stood as a warning to each successive generation.
The children go before his picture and hear
the story of his misdeeds, and it sinks into their
hearts, and they learn frugality. They go over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
acres that would have been theirs, <em>but for the scamp</em>;
they see the old mansion, a quadrangle, which they
would have had a dance about, <em>had it not been for
the scamp</em>; they know that there are gaps in the series
of family portraiture, because <em>the pictures were sold
by the scamp</em>; and so they grow up with great fear
in their minds lest they also should by any chance
be even as he; and so the scamp is of good after all.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 502px;">
<img src="images/i_b_238.jpg" width="502" height="600" alt="" />
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<hr class="chap" />
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<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br />
<span class="f75">THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch10.jpg" width="600" height="407" alt="musical instrumants" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_239t.jpg" alt="T" width="600" height="307" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_239b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
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<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">T</span>HE press and the railway are
sweeping away all the old
individualities and peculiarities that marked the
country. It has been said, and said truly, that
the railway has abolished everywhere in Europe a
local <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cuisine</i>, so that the traveller, whether in England,
France, in Italy, Russia, at Constantinople, and even<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
at Cairo, has the same <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">menu</i> at <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">table-d'hôte</i>. There
was a time when, by travelling, you could pick up
culinary ideas. That time is now past. You find
exactly the same dishes, served in the same order,
everywhere; and when fowl and salad come on, you
know everywhere that the meat courses have arrived
at their full stop. Costumes also are disappearing
everywhere, no men now wear them, hardly any
women, except a few artists' models on the steps
of the Trinità at Rome, and a few German tourists
who dress up like mountaineers when excursioning
among the Tyrolean Alps.</p>
<p>It is said that the Chinese all dress alike, think
alike, talk alike, act alike, eat the same food, take
the same amusements, and look alike. Civilization
is making us all Chinese, we are losing our individuality
and our independence, and, it must be
admitted, casting away behind us what constituted
the picturesqueness and variety of life.</p>
<p>In the old times in country places, away from
towns, there was much that was of interest; men
and women had then quaint ways, stood out as
characters, and impressed themselves on those who
were around them. Now, all are afraid of being
peculiar, of not being like every one else, of using<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
a word, doing an act, thinking a thought which has
not the sanction of—vulgarity, in the true acceptation
of the term, according to its derivation—of being
<em>common</em>.</p>
<p>One looks back, with a little compunction, on
those old times. There was a freshness and charm
about them which can never be recovered. Every
one in a village knew every one else, and all his
belongings; every one was related, and a stranger
from a few miles off passed as a foreigner. To
"go foreign" was to leave the parish. This was,
of course, carried to extraordinary lengths in some
places, and neighbouring villages regarded each other
with traditional jealousy. This was not commendable.
There is a story told of two villages, one called Mary
Tavy, the adjoining called Peter Tavy, that is to
say, St. Mary on the Tavy and St. Peter on the
Tavy, on the borders of Dartmoor, that regarded
each other for ages with animosity. One day after
a storm of rain the river Tavy rolled down volumes
of water, and a poor wretch was caught by the flood
on a rock in mid-stream; he was unable to reach
the bank. He screamed for assistance. Presently
a man came along the side and halted, and called
to the fellow in danger, "I say, be you a Peter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span>
Tavy or a Mary Tavy man?" "Peter Tavy,"
answered the wretch in danger. "Throw me a
rope, or I shall be drownded." "No, no," answered
he on the land, "I be a Mary Tavy man; so go
on hollering till a Peter Tavy chap comes by;"
and he left the fellow in distress to his fate.</p>
<p>This exclusiveness had its bad side, but it had
its redeeming side also. There can be no question
that the force of popular feeling, the sense of relationship,
the feeling of belonging to a certain village, or
class, did act as a strong moral support to many
a young man and woman. They felt that they
dared not bring disgrace on their whole class, or
village, by misconduct. The sense of belonging to,
being one member of a community, in which, if
one member were honoured, all the members rejoiced
with it, and if one were disgraced, the humiliation
fell on all, was very strong and tough. That is to
an immense extent gone, and can never be restored.
We are all cosmopolitan now, and live and die to
ourselves.</p>
<p>But let us come to some of the peculiar features
of old village life, before there were railways, and
when the post did not come every day.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 528px;">
<img src="images/i_b_243.jpg" width="528" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Old Church Orchestra.</span></div>
</div>
<p>At that time most villages had their feasts, revels,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
harvest homes, ringers' suppers, shearing feasts, and
other entertainments. Some of us can remember
when in the village churches the gallery was occupied
by the village band, fiddles and viol, ophicleide, flute
&c. They were done away with, and the hand-organ<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
took its place in some churches, a real organ or
a harmonium in others. It was a sad mistake of
the clergy to try to abolish the old orchestra;—no
doubt the playing was not very good, and the instruments
were out of tune; no doubt also there
was much quarrelling and little harmony among
the performers, but an institution should be improved,
not abolished. That gave the death-blow to instrumental
music in our villages. Previously the smallest
village had its half-dozen men who could play on
some instruments. Now you find that there are
half a dozen boys who can manage the concertina—that
is all.</p>
<p>These instrumentalists attended all the festivities in
a village, wakes, harvest homes, revels, and weddings,
and were well received and well treated. They played
old country dances, old ballads, old concerted pieces
of no ordinary merit. In some parish chests may
be found volumes of rudely written music, which
belonged to these performers, mostly sacred, but
not always so.</p>
<p>When in 1617 James I. was making a progress
through Lancashire, he found that the Puritan
magistrates had prohibited and unlawfully punished
the people for using their "lawful recreations and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
honest exercises" on holidays; and next year he
issued a declaration concerning sports and merry-makings,
such as May-games, morris-dances, Whitsun-ales,
the setting up of maypoles; and James
very wisely said, "If these be taken away from
the meaner sort, who labour hard all the week, they
will have no recreations at all to refresh their spirits;
and in place thereof it will set up filthy tipplings
and drunkenness, and breed a number of idle and
discontented speeches in their ale-houses." Also it
would "hinder the conversion of many, whom their
priests will take occasion hereby to vex, persuading
them that no honest mirth or recreation is lawfully
tolerable in our religion."</p>
<p>At the present day we hardly realize the extent
to which music was cultivated in old times, so that
England—not Italy, Germany, or France—was the
great musical nation of Europe. What astonished
foreigners, when they visited England in the reign
of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth, was the perfection
to which music was brought here, and the widespread
knowledge of music that prevailed. France
had its music school created by Sully, a Florentine
by birth, who was placed at the head of a band of
violins by Louis XIV. At that time "not half the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span>
musicians of France were able to play at sight."
Even that band, got together with difficulty, could
play nothing at sight. Nor did Sully effect any
great reform in this respect, for when the Regent,
Duke of Orleans, wished to hear Corelli's sonatas,
which were newly brought from Rome, no three
persons were to be found in Paris who could play
them, and he was obliged to content himself with
having them sung to him by three voices. On the
other hand, in England at that time every gentleman
was expected to be able either to sing a part at sight,
or play a part on some instrument or other. As a
regular thing after supper, the party in a country
house adjourned to the music-room, and there spent
the rest of the evening in singing or in instrumental
music. Nor was this knowledge of music confined
to the upper classes. A curious instance of this we
find in Pepys' diary. That diary extends between
the years 1660-1669. In the course of his diary,
four maids are mentioned as being in his household,
to attend on his wife, and a boy who waited on
himself. All of these seem to have possessed, as
an ordinary qualification, some musical skill and
knowledge. Of the first of the serving-maids he
says (November 17, 1662), "After dinner, talking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span>
with my wife, and making Mrs. Gosnell (the maid)
sing—I am mightily pleased with her humour and
singing." And again, on December 5, "She sings
exceedingly well." Within a few months Gosnell
was succeeded by Mary Ashwell; and he tells us in
March, "I heard Ashwell play first upon the harpsicon,
and I find she do play pretty well. Then
home by coach, buying at the Temple the printed
virginal book for her." The harpsicon and the
virginal were the pianofortes of the period, something
like square pianos; in the virginal the strings
were struck by quills. Of the third maid Mrs.
Pepys had, Mary Mercer, he says on September 9,
1664, that she was "a pretty, modest, quiet maid.
After dinner my wife and Mercer, Tom (the boy)
and I, sat till eleven at night, singing and fiddling,
and a great joy it is to see me master of so much
pleasure in my house. The girle (Mercer) plays
pretty well upon the harpsicon, but only ordinary
tunes, but hath a good hand; sings a little, but hath
a good voyce and eare. My boy, a brave boy, sings
finely, and is the most pleasant boy at present, while
his ignorant boy's tricks last, that ever I see." After
some time Mercer went to see her mother, and Mrs.
Pepys, finding her absent without leave, went after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
her, found her in her mother's house, and there <em>beat
her</em>. The mother having urged that Mary was "not
a common prentice girl," and therefore ought not
to have been thus chastized, Mrs. Pepys construed
it into a question of her right to inflict corporal
chastisement, and dismissed Mary.</p>
<p>In October, 1666, says Pepys, "my wife brought
a new girle. She is wretched poor, and but ordinary
favoured, and we fain to lay out seven or eight pounds
worth of clothes upon her back: and I do not think
I can esteem her as I could have done another, that
had come fine and handsome; and, which is more,
her voice, through want of use, is so furred that
it do not at present please me; but her manner of
singing is such that I shall, I think, take great
pleasure in it."</p>
<p>After a while Mary Mercer was taken back, and
then we hear of singing on the water, especially after
a trip to Greenwich when returning by moonlight.
The boy Tom was usually of the party. Of him
Pepys says (Oct. 25, 1664), "My boy could not sleep,
but wakes about four in the morning, and in bed
laying playing on his lute till daylight, and it seems
did the like last night, till twelve o'clock." And again,
Dec. 26, 1668, "After supper I made the boy play<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span>
upon his lute, and so, my mind is mighty content,—to
bed."</p>
<p>We do not in the least suppose that Pepys' household
was singular in the respect of having a succession
of musical servants. All people in those times were
musical—men, boys, women, and girls, of all classes
and degrees. At the fire of London in 1666, Pepys,
who was an eye-witness, tells us that the Thames was
full of lighters and boats taking in goods, and that
he "observed that hardly one lighter or boat in three,
that had the goods of a house, but there was a pair
of virginals in it."</p>
<p>How those old fellows loved and cared for their
instruments! Mace, a writer of 1676, tells how a
lute should be treated. "You shall do well," he
writes, "even when you lay it by in the day-time,
to put it into a bed that is constantly used, between
the rug and the blanket, but never between the sheets,
because they may be moist. There are great commodities
(advantages) in so doing; it will save the
strings from breaking; it will keep your lute in good
order." He enumerates six conveniences of so doing.
At that time a lute, a good one, cost about £100.</p>
<p>So completely was it a matter of course to have
music after supper, that Cromwell, a lover of music,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
only altered the character of the performance.
When the ambassadors of Holland came to him, as
Lord Protector, on the occasion of peace between the
two Commonwealths, after having entertained them
at a repast, he and the "Lady Protectrice" led them
into the music-hall, where they had a psalm sung.
This was in 1654. The dissolution of the cathedral
choirs, the abolition of sacred music in the churches,
scattered professional musicians over the country.
There is a very curious traditional song relative to
this change, sung in Devonshire, and called <cite>Brixham
Town</cite>.</p>
<p>It relates how—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"In Brixham town so rare</div>
<div class="verse">For singing sweet and fair,</div>
<div class="verse">With none that may compair."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>The instrumentalists and singers considered that they
were the best anywhere. But—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"There came a man to our town,</div>
<div class="verse">A man of office and in gown,</div>
<div class="verse">Strove to put music down,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Which most men do adore."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Then the story goes on to exhort him and all others
who love not music—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Go search out Holy Writ,</div>
<div class="verse">And you will find in it,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
<div class="verse">That it is right and fit</div>
<div class="verse vi1">To praise the Lord.</div>
<div class="verse">On cymbal and with lute,</div>
<div class="verse">On organ and with flute,</div>
<div class="verse">And voices sweet that suit</div>
<div class="verse vi1">All in accord."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Very pointedly the song goes on to mention how an
evil spirit haunted Saul, and how it proved that
this devil also hated music, and how that when David
played on his harp the evil spirit fled. The song
ends—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"So now, my friends, adieu;</div>
<div class="verse">I hope that all of you</div>
<div class="verse">Will pull most just and true</div>
<div class="verse vi1">In serving the Lord.</div>
<div class="verse">God grant that all of we,</div>
<div class="verse">Like angels may agree,</div>
<div class="verse">Singing in harmony,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And sweet concord."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>There was a great effort made at the time of the
Commonwealth to put down all kinds of music. In
1648 the Provost-marshal was given power to arrest
all ballad-singers. Organs were everywhere destroyed,
and probably a great many viols, lutes, and other instruments.
One gentleman, when he adopted Puritanism,
had a deep hole dug in his garden, and buried in it
"£200 worth of music-books, six feet underground,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span>
being, as he said, love-songs and vanity." This was
a considerable sum indeed for an amateur to have
spent in books of vocal music only; and as he continued
to play "psalms and religious hymns on the
theorbo," it may be presumed that what was interred
formed but a portion of his musical collection.</p>
<p>The singers and instrumentalists dispersed by the
orders of Parliament were reduced to the greatest
poverty, and went round the country taking up their
abode in gentlemen's houses, where they were gladly
given quarters, when these gentlemen could afford
it; but as many were utterly impoverished, often the
musicians frequented the ale-houses, and picked up
a precarious subsistence from the tavern frequenters.
This had one advantage, for it no doubt helped
to educate the village people generally in music.
But even thus they got into trouble, for Oliver
Cromwell's third Parliament passed an Act ordering
the arrest and punishment of all minstrels and
musicians who performed in taverns. Hitherto in
country places the only instruments used had been
rude, and the only music known was the ballad
air, which also served as a dance-tune. Hence most
of our old dances are known by the names of the
ballads to which they were sung. But the dispersion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
of the orchestras from cathedrals and theatres and
large town churches throughout the country places
not only brought in a new notion of music, the playing
of concerted pieces, but also in a great many cases
placed the costly instruments at the disposal of village
musicians. The old instrumentalists were obliged to
part with their lutes and theorbos, their viol de gambas
and violins, at a low price; or dying in the villages
where they had settled, they left their loved instruments
to such men in the place as seemed likely to
make good use of them. These old musicians in
country places gathered men about them in their
lodgings in the village ale-houses, and taught them
a more artistic method of playing, and a higher class
of music, and they really gave that impetus to
orchestral church music which only died out—shall we
not rather say was killed?—within the memory of man.</p>
<p>The old village musician was a man remarkable
in his way. One, David Turton, of Horbury, in
Yorkshire, was perhaps typical of the better class.
A man of intense enthusiasm for his art, and
passionate love of his viol; one may be quite sure
that his viol shared his bed, taking it by day when
Turton was out of it, like Box and Cox. The story
was told of him, that he was returning one night from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
a concert at Wakefield, where he had been performing,
when he passed through a field in which was a savage
bull. The bull seeing him began to bellow, and run
at him with lowered horns. "Now then," said old
David, "that note must be double B." He whipped
the bass viol out of the green bag, set it down, and
drew his bow over the strings, to try to hit the note
bellowed. The bull, staggered at the response, stopped,
threw up his head, and—turned tail.</p>
<p>But there were musicians of a less dignified character,
jolly, reckless, drinking dogs, who fiddled at
every festive gathering till they could fiddle no more.
They were invariably present at a wedding.</p>
<p>In a popular song called <cite>Chummie's Wedding</cite>, it
is said of the merry-makers—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"The fiddler did stop, and he struck up a hop,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Whilst seated on top of a trunk,</div>
<div class="verse">But not one of the batch could come up to the scratch,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">They were all so outrageously drunk."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Very quaint old tunes were played; as the space
for dancing in cottages was extremely limited, the
performance was often confined to one couple, sometimes
to a single performer—a man, who took off
his shoes and went through really marvellous steps.
The step-dance is now gone, or all but gone, but was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
at one time much cultivated among the peasantry
of the west of England. Much depended on the
fiddler, who played fast or slow, and changed his air,
the dancer altering his pace and step, and the whole
character of his dance, to suit the music.</p>
<p>The village clerk was generally the great musical
authority in the parish; he led the orchestra in the
church, and not unusually also played at merry-makings.
It may be remembered that in <cite>Doctor
Syntax</cite> is a plate representing the parson in his
black cocked hat and bushy wig performing on his
violin to the rustics as they dance about the May-pole;
and again, fiddling, he leads the harvest-home
procession. Such conduct would be regarded as
highly indecorous now; but was there harm in it?
Was it not well that the parson should be associated
with the merry-makings of his flock? that he should
lead and direct their music?</p>
<p>Those old orchestras were, I fear, subject to outbreaks
of discord, and that was one reason why they
were displaced first by the barrel organ, then by the
harmonium. Well, but the solar envelope is always
torn by tempests, and yet it diffuses a light in which
we live and enjoy ourselves, regardless of these storms.
The very necessity for living together in some sort<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
of agreement, in order that they might be able to
perform concerted pieces, was of educative advantage
to the old musicians. It taught them to subdue
their individuality to the common welfare. And so,
not only because it gave more persons an interest in
the conduct of Divine worship than at present is
the case, but also because the orchestra was a great
educative school of self-control, its disappearance from
every village is to be regretted.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 495px;">
<img src="images/i_b_256.jpg" width="495" height="600" alt="" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257"></a></span></p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 442px;">
<img src="images/i_b_258.jpg" width="442" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">James Olver.</span><br />
<i>From a Photograph by</i> <span class="smcap">Hayman, Launceston</span>.</div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br />
<span class="f75">THE VILLAGE BARD.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch11.jpg" width="600" height="396" alt="the village bard" />
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<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">I</span>N the <cite>Vicar of Wakefield</cite>, the
parsonage is visited periodically
by a poor man of the name of Burchell. "He
was fondest of the company of children, whom he
used to call harmless little men. He was famous,
I found, for singing them ballads and telling them
stories.... He generally came for a few days into
our neighbourhood once a year, and lived upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
neighbours' hospitality. He sat down to supper
among us, and my wife was not sparing of her gooseberry
wine. The tale went round; he sung us old
songs, and gave the children the story of the Buck
of Beverland, with the history of Patient Grizzel, the
Adventures of Catskin, and then Fair Rosamund's
Bower."</p>
<p>How completely the itinerant singer of ballads and
teller of folk-tales has disappeared—driven from the
houses of the gentle, because the young people have
books now, and amuse themselves with them, and he
lingers on only in the ale-houses; such men are few
and far between, feeble old men, who can now hardly
obtain a hearing for their quaint stories, and whose
minor melodies are voted intolerable by young ears,
disciplined only to appreciate music-hall inanities.</p>
<p>There are still a few of these men about, and as
I have taken a good deal of pains to get into their
confidence, and collect from them the remains—there
exist only remains—of their stories, musical and
poetical, I am able to give an account of them which
ought to interest, for the old village bard or song-man
is rapidly becoming as extinct as the dodo and
the great auk.</p>
<p>The village bard or song-man is the descendant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
of the minstrel. Now the minstrels were put down
by Act of Parliament in 1597, and were to be dealt
with by the magistrates with severity as rogues and
vagabonds. That sealed the doom of the old ballad.
All such as were produced later are tame and flat in
comparison with the genuine songs of the old times,
and can at best be regarded only as modern imitations.
The press has preserved in Broadsides a good number
of ballads, and <cite>The Complete Dancing Master</cite> and
other collections have saved a good number of the
old tunes from being irrevocably lost. But by no
means all were thus preserved; a great many more
continued to be sung by our peasantry, and I quite
believe the old men when they say, that at one time
they knew some one hundred and fifty to two hundred
distinct songs and melodies; their memories were really
extraordinary. But then they could neither read nor
write, and the faculty of remembering was developed
in them to a remarkable extent. I have heard of
two of these men meeting to sing against each other
for a wager. They began at sunset; one started a
ballad, sang it through, then his opponent sang one,
and so on. The object was to ascertain which knew
most. The sun rose on them, and neither had come
to an end of his store, so the stakes were drawn.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p>
<p>These old minstrels all are in the same tale, when
asked to sing, "Lord, your honour, I haven't a sung
these thirty year. Volks now don't care to hear my
songs. Most on 'em be gone right out o' my head."
Yet a good many come back; and I find that when
I read over the first verse or two of a series of ballads
in any collection, that the majority are either known
to them, or suggest to them another, or a variant.</p>
<p>It is not ballads only that are stored in their
memories—many ballads that go back for their origin
to before the reign of Henry VII., but also songs
that breathe the atmosphere of the time of Elizabeth.
Mr. R. Bell, in his introduction to his <cite>Songs from the
Dramatists</cite>, says, "The superiority in all qualities of
sweetness, thoughtfulness, and purity of the writers of
the sixteenth century over their successors is strikingly
exhibited in these productions.</p>
<p>"The songs of the age of Elizabeth and James
I. are distinguished as much by their delicacy and
chastity of feeling, as by their vigour and beauty.
The change that took place under Charles II. was
sudden and complete. With the Restoration love
disappears, and sensuousness takes its place. Voluptuous
without taste or sentiment, the songs of that
period may be said to dissect in broad daylight the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>
life of the town, laying bare with revolting shamelessness
the tissues of its most secret vices. But as
this morbid anatomy required some variation to
relieve its sameness, the song sometimes transported
the libertinism into the country, and through the
medium of a sort of Covent Garden pastoral exhibited
the fashionable delinquencies in a masquerade of
Strephons and Chlorises, no better than the Courtalls
and Loveits of the comedies. The costume of innocence
gave increased zest to the dissolute wit, and
the audiences seem to have been delighted with the
representation of their own licentiousness in the transparent
disguise of verdant images, and the affectation
of rural simplicity."</p>
<p>Very few of the songs of the Restoration have
lingered on in the memory of our minstrels, if ever
they were taken into their store. Many of the songs
of that period were set to tunes that have passed on
from generation to generation, up to the present age,
when they are all being neglected for wretched, vulgar
songs, without fun and without melody. The ballad
especially is death-smitten. Folks nowadays lack
patience, and will not endure a song that is not finished
in three minutes. The old ballad was a folk-tale run
into jingling rhyme, and sung to a traditional air;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
it is often very long. One I have recovered, <cite>The
Gipsy Countess</cite>, runs through over twenty verses.
The very popular <cite>Saddle to Rags</cite> runs through
some twenty-two, <cite>Lord Bateman</cite> has about fifty, and
<cite>Arthur of Bradley</cite> has hardly any end to it. A
ballad cannot be pared down greatly, as that destroys
the story, which is set to verse to be told leisurely,
with great variety of expression.</p>
<p>In 1846 the Percy Society issued to its members
a volume entitled <cite>Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs
of the Peasantry of England</cite>, edited by Mr. J. H.
Dixon, who gives in his preface the following account
of the sources whence he collected them:—"He who,
in travelling through the rural districts of England,
has made the roadside inn his resting-place, who has
visited the lowly dwellings of the villagers and
yeomanry, and been present at their feasts and festivals,
must have observed that there are certain old poems,
ballads, and songs which are favourites with the
masses, and have been said and sung from generation
to generation." When I was a boy I was
wont to ride about my native county, putting up at
little village inns for the night, and there I often came
in for gatherings where the local song-man entertained
the company. Unfortunately I did not make any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
collection at the time, though snatches of the songs
and wafts of the strains lingered in my head. I dare
say that there are still singers of ballads in other parts
of England, but my researches have been confined
to the west. Somerset had its own type of songs
with peculiar cadences, and Devon and Cornwall were
rich to overflow in melodies. Wherever I go in
quest of a song-man, I hear the same story, "Ah!
there was old So-and-so, eighty years of age, died last
winter of bronchitis, <em>he</em> was a singer and no mistake."
They have been struck down, those old men, and
therefore we must prize the more those that are left.</p>
<p>Anciently—well, not so very anciently either, for
it was within my memory—almost every parish had
its bard, a man generally the descendant of a still
more famous father, who was himself but the legatee
of a race of song-men. This village bard had his
memory stored with traditional melodies and songs
and ballads, committed to him as a valuable deposit
by his father, wedded to well-known ancient airs, and
the country singer not only turned from the affectation
of the new melodies, but with jealous tenacity
clung to the familiar words. Words became so
wedded to airs that the minstrels, and their hearers and
imitators, could not endure to have them dissociated.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span></p>
<p>I had an instance of this three winters ago, when,
at a village concert, I sang an old ballad, <cite>The Sun was
Set behind the Hill</cite>, set by a friend to a melody he had
composed for it.</p>
<p>A very old labourer who was present began to
grumble. "He's gotten the words right, but he's
not got the right tune. He should zing 'un right or
not at all," and he got up and left the room in disdain.</p>
<p>The village minstrel did certainly compose some
of the melodies he sang, generally to a new ballad,
or song that was acquired from a broadside, or to
one he had himself made. This the old men have
distinctly assured me of. They did not all, or a large
number of them did not, pretend to the faculty of
musical composition, but they have named to me
men so gifted, and have told me of melodies they
composed. There was, and is, a blacksmith in a
remote village in Devon, who is reported to be able
to play any musical instrument put into his hands, at
all events after a little trial of its peculiarities. He
is said to be able to set any copy of verses offered
him to original melodies.</p>
<p>Davey, the writer of <cite>Will Watch</cite>, and other pleasant
songs of the Dibdin period and character, was a
Devonshire blacksmith. But, as already hinted,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
these men also composed verses. There was such an
one, a village poet in the parish where I lived as
a child. His story was curious. He had bought
his wife in Okehampton market for half-a-crown.
Her husband, weary of her temper and tongue,
brought her to the "Gigglet" fair with a rope
round her neck, and the minstrel had the hardihood
to buy her. I know that it has often been
charged by foreigners on English people that they
sell their wives thus, but this was a fact. The woman
was so sold, and so bought; the buyer and seller
quite believed that the transaction was legal. She lived
with the purchaser till her death, and a very clean,
decent, hard-working woman she was. She had,
indeed, a tongue; but when she began to let it wag,
then the minstrel clapped his hands to his ears, ran
out of the house, and betook himself to the ale-house,
where he was always welcome, and from which he
did not himself return, but was conveyed home—in a
wheel-barrow. This man regarded himself as the
poet of the place, and nothing of importance took
place in my grandfather's family without his coming
to the house to sing a copy of verses he had composed
on the occasion. Many a good laugh was had over
his verses, which, like those of Orlando, "had in them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
more feet than the verses would bear; and the feet
were lame, and could not bear themselves without the
verse."</p>
<p>There was one, made on the occasion of some new
arrangement with the farmers relative to the game
entered into by my father, and which gave general satisfaction,
of which each stanza ended with the refrain—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"For he had, he had, he had, he had,</div>
<div class="verse">O he had a most expansive mind."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>The reader will conclude that the world has not
lost much in that Jim's poems have not been
preserved.</p>
<p>One very odd feature, by the way, of these singers
is the manner in which they manufacture syllables
where the verse halts. Thus when "gold-en" comes
in place of two trochees, they convert it into "guddle-old-en";
even, when the line is still more halting,
into "gud-dle-udd-le-old-en." In like manner "soul"
or "tree" is turned into "suddle-ole" or "tur-rur-ree."</p>
<p>There was another village poet who flourished in
the same epoch as the Jim cited above. His name
was Rab Downe. He had a remarkable facility for
running off impromptu verses. On one occasion at
a wrestling match, he began swinging himself from
foot to foot, and to a chant—these fellows always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
sing their verses—described the match as it went
on before him, versifying all the turns and incidents
of the struggle, throwing in words relative
to the onlookers, their names and complementary
expletives.</p>
<p>No doubt that much of the compositions of these
men was mere doggerel, but it was not always so.
In their songs gleam out here and there a poetic,
or, at all events, a fresh and quaint thought. What
is always difficult to ascertain is what is original
and what traditional, for when they do pretend to
originality they often import into their verses whole
passages from ancient ballads. But in this they are
not peculiar. Hindley in his <cite>Life of James Catnach</cite>,
the Broadside publisher, gives some verses on the
death of the Princess Charlotte, which Catnach
claimed as his own composition. The first verse
runs—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"She is gone! sweet Charlotte's gone,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Gone to the silent bourne;</div>
<div class="verse">She is gone, she's gone for ever more,—</div>
<div class="verse vi2">She never can return."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>But this was a mere adaptation of a song of <cite>The
Drowned Lover</cite>, which is a favourite with the old
singers—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"He is gone! my love is drowned!</div>
<div class="verse vi2">My love whom I deplore.</div>
<div class="verse">He is gone! he's gone! I never,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">No I never shall see him more."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>Catnach corruscated into brilliant originality in the
next stanza—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"She is gone with her joy—her darling boy,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">The son of Leopold, blythe and keen;</div>
<div class="verse">She Died the sixth of November,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Eighteen hundred and seventeen."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>There is nothing like this in the original <cite>Drowned
Lover</cite> that influenced the opening of his elegy.
"Catnach," says Mr. Hindley—the italics are his
own—"<em>made</em> the following lines <em>out of his own head</em>!"
Our village bards never reached a lower bathos.
The reader may perhaps like to hear the story of
the lives of some of these old fellows.</p>
<p>One, James Parsons, a very infirm man, over
seventy, asthmatic and failing, has been a labourer
all his life, and for the greater part of it on one farm.
His father was famed through the whole country side
as "The Singing Machine," he was considered to be
inexhaustible. Alas! he is no more, and his old son
shakes his head and professes to have but half the
ability, memory, and musical faculty that were
possessed by his father. He can neither read nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>
write. From him I have obtained some of the
earliest melodies and most archaic forms of ballads.
Indeed the majority of his airs are in the old church
modes, and generally end on the dominant. At one
time his master sent him to Lydford on the edge of
Dartmoor, to look after a farm he had bought.
Whilst there, Parsons went every pay-day to a little
moorland tavern, where the miners met to drink, and
there he invariably got his "entertainment" for his
singing. "I'd been zinging there," said he, "one
evening till I got a bit fresh, and I thought 'twere
time for me to be off. So I stood up to go, and then
one chap, he said to me, 'Got to the end o' your
zongs, old man?' 'Not I,' said I, 'not by a long
ways; but I reckon it be time for me to be going.'
'Looky here, Jim,' said he. 'I'll give you a quart
of ale for every fresh song you sing us to-night.'
Well, your honour, I sat down again, and I zinged
on—I zinged sixteen fresh songs, and that chap had
to pay for sixteen quarts."</p>
<p>"Pints, surely," I said.</p>
<p>"No, zur!" bridling up. "No, zur—not pints,
good English quarts. And then—I hadn't come to
the end o' my zongs, only I were that fuddled, I
couldn't remember no more."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span></p>
<p>"Sixteen quarts between feeling fresh and getting
fuddled!"</p>
<p>"Sixteen. Ask Voysey; he paid for'n."</p>
<p>Now this Voysey is a man working for me, so I
did ask him. He laughed and said, "Sure enough, I
had to pay for sixteen quarts that evening."</p>
<p>Another of my old singers is James Olver, a fine,
hale old man, with a face fresh as a rose, and silver
hair, a grand old patriarchal man, who has been all
his life a tanner. He is a Cornishman, a native of St.
Kewe. His father was musical, but a Methodist,
and so strict that he would never allow his children to
sing a ballad or any profane song in his hearing, and
fondly fancied that they grew up in ignorance of such
things. But the very fact that they were tabooed
gave young Olver and his sister a great thirst to learn,
digest, and sing them. He acquired them from
itinerant ballad-singers, from miners, and from the
village song-men.</p>
<p>Olver was apprenticed to a tanner at Liskeard.
"Tell'y," said he, "at Liskeard, sixty years ago, all
the youngsters on summer evenings used to meet in
a field outside the town called <cite>Gurt Lane</cite>, and the
ground were strewed wi' tan, and there every evening
us had wrastling (wrestling), and single-stick, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
boxing. Look'y here,"—he put his white head near
me and raised the hair,—"do'y see now how my head
be a cut about? and look to my forehead and cheek
as was cut open wi' single-stick. I wor a famous
player in them days; and the gentlefolks and ladies
'ud come out and see us at our sports, just as they
goes now to cricket-matches."</p>
<p>Whilst the games went on, or between the intervals,
songs were sung. "I'll sing'y one," said Olver,
"was a favourite, and were sung to encourage the
youngsters."</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi0">1.<span class="in1">"I sing of champions bold,</span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">That wrestled—not for gold;</div>
<div class="verse vi3">And all the cry</div>
<div class="verse vi3">Was 'Will Trefry,'</div>
<div class="verse vi2">That he would win the day.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">So Will Trefry, huzzah!</div>
<div class="verse vi1">The ladies clap their hands and cry,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">'Trefry! Trefry! huzzah!'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi0">2. <span class="in1">Then up sprang little Jan,</span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">A lad scarce grown a man.</div>
<div class="verse vi3">He said, 'Trefry,</div>
<div class="verse vi3">I wot I'll try</div>
<div class="verse vi2">A hitch with you this day.'</div>
<div class="verse vi2">So little Jan, huzzah!</div>
<div class="verse vi1">The ladies clap their hands and cry,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">'O little Jan, huzzah!'</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">3. <span class="in1">He stript him to the waist,</span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">He boldly Trefry faced;</div>
<div class="verse vi3">'I'll let him know</div>
<div class="verse vi3">That I can throw</div>
<div class="verse vi2">As well as he to-day.'</div>
<div class="verse vi2">So little Jan, huzzah!</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And some said so; but others,'No,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Trefry! Trefry! huzzah!'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">4. <span class="in1">They wrestled on the ground,</span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">His match Trefry had found;</div>
<div class="verse vi3">And back he bore</div>
<div class="verse vi3">In struggle sore,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">And felt his force give way.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">So little Jan, huzzah!</div>
<div class="verse vi1">So some did say; but others, 'Nay,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Trefry! Trefry! huzzah!'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">5. <span class="in1">Then with a desperate toss,</span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">Will showed the flying hoss,<a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a></div>
<div class="verse vi3">And little Jan</div>
<div class="verse vi3">Fell on the tan,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">And never more he spake.</div>
<div class="verse vi2">O! little Jan, alack!</div>
<div class="verse vi1">The ladies say, 'Oh, woe's the day!</div>
<div class="verse vi2">O! little Jan, alack!'</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">6. <span class="in1">Now little Jan, I ween,</span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">That day had married been;</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
<div class="verse vi3">Had he not died,</div>
<div class="verse vi3">A gentle bride</div>
<div class="verse vi2">That day he home had led.</div>
<div class="verse vi1">The ladies sigh—the ladies cry,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">'O! little Jan is dead.'"</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>At Halwell, in North Devon, lives a fine old man
named Roger Luxton, aged seventy-six, a great-grandfather,
with bright eyes and an intelligent face.
He stays about among his grandchildren, but is
usually found at the picturesque farm-house of a
daughter at Halwell, called Croft. This old man was
once very famous as a song-man, but his memory
fails him as to a good number of the ballads he was
wont to sing. "Ah, your honour," said he, "in
old times us used to be welcome in every farm-house,
at all shearing and haysel and harvest feasts; but,
bless'y! now the farmers' da'ters all learn the pianny,
and zing nort but twittery sort of pieces that have
nother music nor sense in them; and they don't care
to hear us, and any decent sort of music. And there
be now no more shearing and haysel and harvest
feasts. All them things be given up. 'Tain't the
same world as used to be—'taint so cheerful. Folks
don't zing over their work, and laugh after it.
There be no dances for the youngsters as there used
to was. The farmers be too grand to care to talk<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
to us old chaps, and for certain don't care to hear us
zing. Why for nigh on forty years us old zinging-fellows
have been drove to the public-houses to zing,
and to a different quality of hearers too. And now
I reckon the labouring folk be so tree-mendious
edicated that they don't care to hear our old songs
nother. 'Tis all <cite>Pop goes the Weasel</cite> and <cite>Ehren on
the Rhine</cite> now. I reckon folks now have got different
ears from what they used to have, and different
hearts too. More's the pity."</p>
<p>In the very heart of Dartmoor lives a very aged
blind man, by name Jonas Coaker, himself a poet,
after an illiterate fashion. He is only able to leave
his bed for a few hours in the day. He has a
retentive memory, and recalls many very old ballads.
From being blind he is thrown in on himself, and
works on his memory till he digs out some of the
old treasures buried there long ago. Unhappily his
voice is completely gone, so that melodies cannot be
recovered through him.</p>
<p>There is a Cornishman whose name I will give as
Elias Keate—a pseudonym—a thatcher, a very fine,
big-built, florid man, with big, sturdy sons. This
man goes round to all sheep-shearings, harvest homes,
fairs, etc., and sings. He has a round, rich voice, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
splendid pair of bellows; but he has an infirmity, he
is liable to become the worse for the liquor he freely
imbibes, and to be quarrelsome over his cups. He
belongs to a family of hereditary singers and drinkers.
In his possession is a pewter spirit-bottle—a pint
bottle—that belonged to his great-grandfather in the
latter part of the last century. That old fellow used
to drink his pint of raw spirit every day; so did the
grandfather of Elias; so did the father of Elias; so
would Elias—if he had it; but so do not his sons, for
they are teetotalers.</p>
<p>Another minstrel is a little blacksmith; he is a
younger man than the others, but he is, to me, a
valuable man. He was one of fourteen children,
and so his mother sent him, when he was four years
old, to his grandmother, and he remained with his
grandmother till he was ten. From his grandmother
he acquired a considerable number of old dames'
songs and ballads. His father was a singer; he had
inherited both the hereditary faculty and the stock-in-trade.
Thus my little blacksmith learned a whole
series which were different from those acquired from
the grandmother. At the age of sixteen he left home,
finding he was a burden, and since that age has
shifted for himself. This man tells me that he can<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span>
generally pick up a melody and retain it, if he has
heard it sung once; that of a song twice sung,
he knows words and music, and rarely, if ever,
requires to have it sung a third time to perfect him.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 438px;">
<img src="images/i_b_278.jpg" width="438" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">John Helmore.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 457px;">
<img src="images/i_b_279.jpg" width="457" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Richard Hard.</span></div>
</div>
<p>On the south of Dartmoor live two men also remarkable
in their way—Richard Hard and John
Helmore. The latter is an old miller, with a fine
intelligent face and a retentive memory. He can
read, and his songs have to be accepted with caution.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
Some are very old, others have been picked up from
song-books. Hard is a poor cripple, walking only
with the aid of two sticks, with sharply-chiselled
features,—he must have been a handsome man in
his youth,—bright eyes, a gentle, courteous manner,
and a marvellous store of old words and tunes in
his head. He is now past stone-breaking on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
roadside, and lives on £4 per annum. He has a
charming old wife; and he and the old woman sing
together in parts their quaint ancient ballads. That
man has yielded up something like eighty distinct
melodies. His memory, however, is failing; for
when the first lines of a ballad in some published
collection is read to him, he will sometimes say, "I
did know that some forty years ago, but I can't sing
it through now." However, he can very generally
"put the tune to it."</p>
<p>The days of these old singers is over. What festive
gatherings there are now are altered in character. The
harvest home is no more. We have instead harvest
festivals, tea and cake at sixpence a head in the
school-room, and a choral service and a sermon in the
church. Village weddings are now quiet enough, no
feasting, no dancing. There are no more shearing
feasts; what remain are shorn of all their festive
character. Instead, we have cottage garden produce
shows. The old village "revels" linger on in the
most emaciated and expiring semblance of the old
feast. The old ballad-seller no more appears in the
fair. I wrote to a famous broadside house in the
west the other day, to ask if they still produced
sheet-ballads, and the answer was, "We abandoned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
that line thirty years ago;" and no one else took
it up.</p>
<p>"I love a ballad but even too well," says the
Clown in <cite>Winter's Tale</cite>, and "I love a ballad in
print, a'-life!" sighs Mopsa; but there are no Clowns
and Mopsas now. Clever Board School scholars
and misses who despise ballads, and love dear as life
your coarse, vulgar, music-hall buffoonery.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vim1"><a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>
"I reckon the days is departed</div>
<div class="verse vi2">When folks 'ud 'a listened to me;</div>
<div class="verse vi1">I feels like as one broken-hearted,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">A thinking of what used to be.</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And I dun' know as much is amended</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Than was in them merry old times,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">When, wi' pipes and good ale, folks attended</div>
<div class="verse vi2">To me and my purty old rhymes.</div>
<div class="verse vi3">To me and my purty old rhymes.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi1">'Tes true, I be cruel asthmatic,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">I've lost ivry tooth i' my head,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And my limbs be crim'd up wi' rheumatic—</div>
<div class="verse vi2">D'rsay I were better in bed.</div>
<div class="verse vi1">But Lor'! wi' that dratted blue ribbon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">Tay-totals and chapels—the lot!</div>
<div class="verse vi1">A leckturing, canting and fibbin',</div>
<div class="verse vi2">The old zinging man is forgot.</div>
<div class="verse vi3">The old zinging man is forgot.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi1">I reckon, that wi' my brown fiddle,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">I'd go from this cottage to that,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">All the youngsters 'ud dance in the middle,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Their pulses and feet pit-a-pat.</div>
<div class="verse vi1">I cu'd zing—if you'd stand me the liquor,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">All night, and 'ud never give o'er;</div>
<div class="verse vi1">My voice—I don't deny't getting thicker,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">But never exhausting my store.</div>
<div class="verse vi3">But never exhausting my store.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi1">'Tes politics now is the fashion,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">As sets folks about by the ear,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And slops makes the poorest o' lushing,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">No zinging for <em>me</em> wi'out beer.</div>
<div class="verse vi1">I reckon the days be departed</div>
<div class="verse vi2">For such jolly gaffers as I;</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Folks will never again be light-hearted,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">As they was in the days that's gone by.</div>
<div class="verse vi3">As they was in the days that's gone by.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse vi1">O Lor! what wi' their edi'cation,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">And me—neither cipher nor write;</div>
<div class="verse vi1">But in zinging the best in the nation,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">And give the whole parish delight.</div>
<div class="verse vi1">I be going, I reckon, full mellow,
<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></div>
<div class="verse vi2">To lay in the churchyard my head;</div>
<div class="verse vi1">So say—God be wi' you, old fellow!</div>
<div class="verse vi2">The last o' the singers is dead.</div>
<div class="verse vi3">The last o' the singers is dead."</div>
</div></div></div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 538px;">
<img src="images/i_b_283.jpg" width="538" height="600" alt="" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br />
<span class="f75">OLD SERVANTS.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch12.jpg" width="600" height="406" alt="country road" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_284t.jpg" alt="W" width="600" height="306" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_284b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">W</span>HEN <cite>Doomsday Book</cite> was
drawn up, there was but
one female domestic servant in the county of Devon,
that covers one million six hundred and fifty-five
thousand acres. When I mentioned that fact to a
lady of my acquaintance, she heaved a deep-drawn
sigh, and said, "I wish I had lived in the times of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
<cite>Doomsday</cite>, and had not been the mistress of that
one servant-maid."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 337px;">
<img src="images/i_b_285.jpg" width="337" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Old Butler.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287"></a></span></p>
<p>I believe that, were we lords of creation to have
earlet holes communicating with our lady's bowers,
as in the middle ages the ladies of creation had
openings into their lords' halls, we would hear that
much of their conversation turned on the restlessness
and misdemeanours of their female servants.
I do not mean for a moment to deny or excuse these
defects, but to explain the cause of the restlessness
complained of. Polly is out of a situation, she can
neither boil a potato properly nor cook a mutton-chop.
She advertises in the local paper for a
situation as cook, from her parents' cottage, where
the whole family pig in one room. The post arrives
next morning with forty or fifty answers from ladies
asking, pleading for her services. Half an hour later
up drives a squire's carriage with coach and footman
on the box, then the humble pony carriage of the
rector, next the jingle of a maiden lady who lives
two miles off. All day long carriages of every
description are staying at the door, and ladies are
visiting, entreating for the services of Polly. Polly
spreads the forty or fifty letters she has received on
the table.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p>
<p>1. "Is there a kitchen-maid kept?" "No." "Then
I won't go to you."</p>
<p>2. "What wages?" "Twenty pounds." "I take
nothing under twenty-eight, and all found."</p>
<p>3. "Any men-servants?" "A butler." "Married
or single?" "Married—wife lives out." "I can go
nowhere where there are not one or two unmarried
and agreeable footmen."</p>
<p>4. "You want a character, ma'am? Very sorry—if
you doubts my respectability we shan't
agree."</p>
<p>5. "How many in family?" "Thirteen." "No
good. I go nowhere but to a single gentleman who
waits on himself, and cooks his own dinner."</p>
<p>6. "Church or chapel, ma'am, did you ask? I
keeps my religious opinions to myself, and won't be
dictated to. No female Jesuits for me."</p>
<p>7. "Early riser? No, ma'am, I am not an early
riser, and don't intend to demean myself by being
such. I expecks a cup o' tea and a slice of bread
and butter brought me in bed by the kitchen-maid
afore I gets up."</p>
<p>8. "Do I know how to cook <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entrées</i>? There's
nothink I can't do; I can do better than a thousand
perfessionals."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p>
<p>9. "Don't allow but alternate Sunday evenings out?
I expecks to have wot evenings out I likes."</p>
<p>10. "Object to waste, do you, ma'am. Very sorry,
you must go elsewhere. I wastes on principle. I
wouldn't be so unladylike as to save what belongs
to others. Chuck away what I can't use is my
scripture, praises be."</p>
<p>Now is it to be wondered at that with such a
crowd of applicants Polly's head should be turned,
and that she should think herself the greatest
person in the world, so that she will not stay in
any place where she has not everything her own
way?</p>
<p>Anciently but few people kept servants, and the
servants they kept were to a large extent drawn from
their own class, were often their own relatives. Pepys
took his own sister to be servant in his house. 1660,
Nov. 12. "My father and I discoursed seriously
about my sister coming to live with me, and yet I
am much afraid of her ill-nature. I told her plainly
my mind was to have her come, not as a sister but
as a servant, which she promised me she could, and
with many thanks did weep for joy." 1660-1, Jan.
2. "Home to dinner, where I found Pal (my sister)
was come; but I do not let her sit down at the table<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
with me, which I do at first that she may not expect
it hereafter from me."</p>
<p>Sister Paulina's temper proved unendurable. On
November 12, 1662, Pepys writes—"By my wife's
appointment came two young ladies, sisters, acquaintances
of my wife's brothers, who are desirous to wait
upon some ladies, and who proffer their services to
my wife. The youngest hath a good voice, and sings
very well, besides other good qualitys, but I fear hath
been bred up with too great libertys for my family,
and I fear greater inconveniences of expenses—though
I confess the gentlewoman being pretty handsome
and singing, makes me have a good mind to her."
This girl, the younger Gosnell, was engaged. On the
22nd he writes, "This day I bought the book of
country dances against my wife's woman Gosnell
comes, who dances finely."</p>
<p>On November 29. "My wife and I in discourse
do pleasantly call Gosnell over Marmotte."</p>
<p>On January 4, 1662-3. "My wife did propound
my having of my sister Pal again to be her woman,
since one we must have."—Gosnell had been required
to attend on her uncle, a justice.—"It being a great
trouble to me that I should have a sister of so ill a
nature, that I must be forced to spend money upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
a stranger, when it might better be upon her if she
were good for anything."</p>
<p>Here are a couple of entries that came close together
in the register of Ottery St. Mary concerning
marriages—</p>
<p>"1657, September 7. George Trobridge, Gentleman,
servant unto John Vaughan, Esq., married
Elizabeth, daughter of Nicolas Hancock."</p>
<p>"1658, April 8. Jonathan Browne, of Bridport,
Gent, and Margaret Harris, servant to Richard
Arundell, gent."</p>
<p>That Margaret Harris was a gentlewoman admits
of little doubt. In the register of Woolbrough
I remember seeing that the Yarde family of Bradley
had a cousin or two of the same name in service in
their house.</p>
<p>The usual term for a valet to a man of estate was—his
gentleman, and a lady's maid-servant was—her
gentlewoman. The apostle commands, "By love serve
one another," and our forefathers do not seem at one
time to have thought that domestic service was derogatory
to gentility; and I do not myself see how
that any one who considers that his supreme Master
and Lord humbled Himself, and took upon Him the
form of a servant, and stooped to wash His disciples<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
feet, can sneer at <em>menial</em> service. Nothing is menial
but what is done in a base, cantankerous, unloving
spirit. It is usually found that such domestics as
come out of the lowest slums are they who are most
particular not to do anything that is not precisely
their work, who are most choice and most exacting.
When the relatives of the family ceased to be servants
in the house, then came in the daughters of farmers,
the cleanest, most thrifty, obliging, sensible, and altogether
admirable domestics that ever were. Who that
is over fifty does not remember them? They were
conscientious, they took an interest in the family, their
mistresses liked—even loved them.</p>
<p>Then the farmers became too grand in their ideas
to send out their girls into service, and consequently
one class alone was drained of its young women, the
labourer class, the uneducated, undisciplined, the class
that had no idea of thrift; and is it to be wondered
at that the girls' heads should be turned when they
find in what demand they were? I do not mean to
say that, taken as a whole, a more respectable, nice,
honest, cleanly set of girls is anywhere to be found
than our English serving lasses; but we live in an
age of transition—they who were formerly only required
as drudges in farm-houses, suddenly discover<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
themselves in huge request, and that has upset
them.</p>
<p>The trouble there is in households now about
domestic servants is said by some to be due to the
mistresses—they do not make friends of their slavies,
as did the ancient mistresses of theirs. But how can
they, when the girl does not stay in the house over
three months or half a year, and when she belongs to
a class intellectually, socially, educationally removed
from her mistress by a great cultural gulf as wide as
that which separated Lazarus from Dives?</p>
<p>There are few more charming figures in fiction
and in retrospect than the "old blue-coated serving-man,"
devoted to his master's interests, and living and
dying in his service; but I doubt whether he deserved
the halo with which he has been invested. He was
a bit of an imposture. Devoted he was to his master's
interests, because he lived on his master, and just on
the same principle as any parasite desires the welfare,
the fatness, and full-bloodedness of the mammal on
which it is itself battening. A French cynic in his
will bequeathed to his valet "all that of which he
has robbed me." There have been old and faithful
servants, but that there were many of them unselfseeking
I do not believe; and I remember a very<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span>
considerable number of them who became intolerable
nuisances—exacting, despotic, believing that the family
on which they depended could not get on without
them, as the fly said of itself when it sat on the coach,
"How I am getting the carriage along!" I also know
that a good many have carried on gross depredations
on their masters for many years unsuspected and
undetected, all the while believed to have but one
object of love and care in the world—the master and
his house.</p>
<p>If we were to make a graduated scale of servants,
according to their merits and demerits, I should put
the butler at one end and the coachman at the other;
in the former the imposition reaches its maximum, and
the minimum is in the coachman, or, to put it the
other way, I think that the dear old coachman is the
most genuine, true-hearted, and deepest imbued with
love of his master and the family, and that there is
the least of this unselfish love in the butler. Very ungrateful
and unjust would I be were I not to acknowledge
the excellence in the old coachman, for have
I not one of my own, now indeed for his age dethroned
from his box but not from my service, who carried
me in his arms to the hayfield when I was a little
fellow, hardly able to toddle, and who now loves<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span>
above everything to take my youngest into the stables,
and perch the little fellow on the back of one of the
carriage horses. A worthy old servant, who had been
with my grandfather, then my father, then with me,
and—who knows? for he is green still—may serve
my son.</p>
<p>The old notion was, that a servant was engaged
for a year, and that a servant could not leave, nor a
master discharge a servant, under a quarter's notice.
The servants within a house were recognized by law
as <em>menials</em>, from the Latin <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">intra menia</i>, within walls.
As late as last century, all single men between twelve
years old and sixty, and married ones under thirty
years of age, and all single women between twelve
and forty, not having any visible livelihood, were
compellable by two justices to go into service of
some sort. The <em>apprentice</em>, from the French <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">apprendre</i>,
to learn, was usually bound for a term of years, by
indenture, to serve the master, and be maintained and
instructed by him. Landowners and farmers had their
apprentices as well as their menials. Orphan children
were apprenticed by the parish, and an almost filial
relation and affection grew up between master and
mistress and their apprentices. This was specially
noticeable among farm-servants. I knew an old man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
who had been apprenticed to my great-great-grandmother,
that died at the end of last century, and he
always spoke of her with the tenderest respect, and
was proud to the last hour of his life that he had
been apprenticed to the old madame.</p>
<p>The farm-servants and the inferior servants to the
gentry were hired at certain fairs, generally at Martinmas;
in the west of England these are called <em>giglet</em>
fairs, but they exist in Yorkshire, and indeed in many
other parts of England. The word giglet means a
girl. The girls and young men were wont to stand
in rows in the market-place, to be looked at and
selected. They wore ribands according to the sort
of service they desired to enter upon. A carter
carried in his hat a tuft of white ribands, a cook wore
a red riband, and a housemaid a bunch of blue.
The giglet fairs continue, and are attended by all the
labouring population of the country side, especially by
the young of both sexes, but there is very little hiring
now done at them.</p>
<p>One of the most perplexing facts to the student
of genealogy, in making out the pedigree of an important
family from registers of births, deaths, and
marriages in a parish, is that wherever a great family
was seated, there are found also a shoal of individuals,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>
distinctly of an inferior social class, bearing the same
patronymic. That these were no blood relatives is
almost certain, for they are not mentioned in the wills
of those belonging to the aristocratic family; and we
find no evidence in registers or elsewhere of any family
relation. It has often been conjectured, that these
individuals and families did really derive from the
main aristocratic stem, perhaps not legitimately but
left-handedly. But the evidence for this is wanting—it
may be forthcoming here and there in individual
cases, but there is no proof that this was generally so.
To this day we find among the labourers names of
historical and great landed families, and we are disposed
to think that these are actual lineal offshoots
from such families, and sometimes fancy we trace a
certain dignity of bearing and aristocratic cast in their
features. But I believe that these humble Courtenays,
Cliffords, Veres, Devereux, &c., have not a
drop of the blood in their veins belonging to these
great families, that, in fact, they are descendants of
menial servants, who were once in the castle or manor-house
of these barons and knights and squires, and
that they ate their beef and drank their ale, but drew
no blood from their veins. In the fifteenth century
surnames were by no means general, and even in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
sixteenth were not of general adoption. To this day
in the western hills of Yorkshire, separating that
county from Lancashire, persons are known by their
pedigrees, and very often their surnames are generally
unknown. Tom is not Tom Greenwood, but Tom o'
Jakes, that is, Tom the son of Jack; and if there be
two Toms in a parish both sons of Jack, then one is
distinguished from the other by carrying the pedigree
further back a stage. One is Tom o' Jakes o' Will's,
and the other is Tom o' Jakes o' Harry's. In early
parish registers such an entry as this may occur—</p>
<blockquote>
<p>"1596, 3 July. Buried, William, servant to Arthur Carew, Esq.,
commonly called William Carew."</p></blockquote>
<p>Later than that—in 1660-1—Pepys enters on Feb.
14, "My boy Wareman (his servant lad) hath all
this day been called young Pepys, as Sir W. Pen's
boy (servant) is young Pen."</p>
<p>At the end of last century and the beginning of
this it was a common custom for servant men to
assume the titles of their masters, and to address each
other under their master's names. This was not an
affectation, it was a survival of the old custom of every
servant taking his master's surname, as he wore his
livery.</p>
<p>In <cite>High Life Below Stairs</cite> we have this scene—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span></p>
<blockquote>
<p class="center">"<span class="smcap">The Park.</span></p>
<p><i>Duke's servant.</i> What wretches are ordinary servants, that go
on in the same vulgar track every day! eating, working, and sleeping!—But
we, who have the honour to serve the nobility, are of
another species. We are above the common forms, have servants
to wait upon us, and are as lazy and luxurious as our masters.
Ha!—my dear Sir Harry—</p>
<p class="center">(<i>Enter</i> Sir Harry's Servant.)</p>
<p>How have you done these thousand years?</p>
<p><i>Sir H.'s serv.</i> My Lord Duke!—your grace's most obedient
servant!</p>
<p><i>Duke's serv.</i> Well, Baronet, and where have you been?</p>
<p><i>Sir H.'s serv.</i> At Newmarket, my Lord.—We have had dev'lish
fine sport.</p>
<p class="center"><i>After a while they retire, then enter</i> Lady Bab's Maid <em>and</em> Lady
Charlotte's Maid.</p>
<p><i>Lady B.'s maid.</i> O fie, Lady Charlotte! you are quite
indelicate. I am sorry for your taste.</p>
<p><i>Lady C.'s maid.</i> Well, I say it again, I love Vauxhall."</p></blockquote>
<p>The <cite>Spectator</cite> (June 11th, 1711) says, "Falling in
the other Day at a Victualling-House near the House
of Peers, I heard the Maid come down and tell the
Landlady at the Bar, That my Lord Bishop swore he
would throw her out at Window, if she did not bring
up more Mild Beer, and that my Lord Duke would
have a double Mug of Purle. My Surprize was
encreased, in hearing loud and rustick Voices speak
and answer to each other upon the publick Affairs, by
the Names of the most Illustrious of our Nobility; till<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
of a sudden one came running in, and cry'd the House
was rising. Down came all the Company together,
and away! The Alehouse was immediately filled
with Clamour, and scoring one Mug to the Marquis
of such a Place, Oyl and Vinegar to such an Earl,
three Quarts to my new Lord for wetting his Title,
and so forth.... It is a common Humour among
the Retinue of People of Quality, when they are in
their Revels, ... to assume in a humorous Way the
Names and Titles of those whose Liveries they wear."</p>
<p>What was done in a "humorous Way" in the days
of Addison, was a relic of what was actually done in
sober seriousness a couple of centuries earlier, when
surnames were possessed by the few only, and these
men of consequence.</p>
<p>Does the reader remember the charming account
of the servants in the household of Sir Roger de
Coverly? "There is one Particular which I have
seldom seen but at Sir Roger's; it is usual in all other
Places, that Servants fly from the Parts of the House
through which their Master is passing; on the
contrary, here they industriously place themselves in
his way; and it is on both Sides, as it were, understood
as a Visit, when the Servants appear without
calling.... Thus Respect and Love go together;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
and a certain Chearfulness in Performance of their
Duty is the particular Distinction of the lower Part
of his Family. When a Servant is called before his
Master, he does not come with an Expectation to hear
himself rated for some trivial Fault, threatned to be
stripped, or used with any other unbecoming Language,
which mean Masters often give to worthy
Servants; but it is often to know, what Road he took
that he came so readily back according to Order;
whether he passed by such a Ground; if the old Man
who rents it is in good health: or whether he gave
Sir Roger's Love to him, or the like.</p>
<p>"A Man who preserves a Respect, founded on his
Benevolence to his Dependants, lives rather like a
Prince than a Master in his Family; his Orders are
received as Favours, rather than Duties; and the Distinction
of approaching him is Part of the Reward for
executing what is commanded by him."</p>
<p>It is singular to see how small the wages paid were
formerly for domestics, and what a leap up they have
made of late, synchronous with deterioration of quality
and character. For a farmer's daughter £7 was a high
wage, and now £17 is sniffed at by a ploughman's
wench. Pepys took a cook from the house of his
Grace the Duke of Albemarle, and paid her £4 per<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
annum, and complains at the wage. He says he never
before did spend so big a sum on a wage. She must
have been an energetic and active woman, for here is
the <em>menu</em> of a dinner she cooked. "We had a fricasee
of rabbits and chickens, a leg of mutton boiled, three
carps in a dish, a great dish of a side of lamb, a dish
of roasted pigeons, a dish of four lobsters, three tarts,
a lamprey pie, a most rare pie, a dish of anchovies,
good wine of several sorts—most neatly dressed by
our own only mayde." How did she manage it without
a kitchen range with hot plates?</p>
<p>The account-book of Mrs. Joyce Jefferies, a lady
resident in Herefordshire and Worcestershire during
the Civil War, comprises the receipt and expenditure
of nine years. She lived a single person in her house
in Hereford, and by no means on a contracted scale.
Many female servants are mentioned, two having
wages from £3 to £3 4<i>s.</i> per annum, with gowns
of dark stuff at midsummer. Her coachman, receiving
40<i>s.</i> per annum, had at Whitsuntide, 1639, a new
cloth suit and cloak; and when he was dressed in his
best, wore fine blue silk ribbon at the knees of his
hose. The liveries of this and another man-servant
were, in 1641, of green Spanish cloth, and cost upwards
of nine pounds. Her steward received a salary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
of £5 16<i>s.</i>, and she kept for him a horse, which he
rode to collect her rents and dues, and to see to the
management of her estate.</p>
<p>I have myself a book of accounts, a little later,
where the "mayde of my wyfe" gets £3, and the
footman £4 and his livery.</p>
<p>In some houses a whole series of account-books
has been preserved, showing, among other things, the
rise in wages paid for servants, and very instructive
they are.</p>
<p>Here is from an account-book of 1777, in a country
squire's house. Wages were paid on Lady Day for the
whole year, and not quarterly.</p>
<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="Servant's wages 1777 and 1811">
<tr><td class="tdl">1777.</td><td class="tdl">£ <i>s.</i> <i>d.</i></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Sarah's wages</td><td class="tdl">4 19 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Old Becky's</td><td class="tdl">3 0 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Anne, half-year</td><td class="tdl">1 0 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Nanny</td><td class="tdl">5 5 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Cook</td><td class="tdl">7 7 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Gardener</td><td class="tdl">2 7 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Bray the waggoner</td><td class="tdl">9 0 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">A certain Betty had for<br /> wages and bill</td><td class="tdl">6 0 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl" colspan="2">In an account-book for 1811 the wages are a little
higher—<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2"> </td><td class="tdr">£ <i>s.</i> <i>d.</i></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Footman</td><td class="tdr">10 0 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Coachman</td><td class="tdr">14 0 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Cook</td><td class="tdr"> 8 8 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Housemaid</td><td class="tdr"> 6 6 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">Scullery-maid</td><td class="tdr"> 2 5 0</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tdl in2">The Boy</td><td class="tdr"> 3 0 0</td></tr>
</table></div>
<p>There died only a year ago an old woman who had
been a servant since she was eighteen in two of the
greatest houses in the neighbourhood. When she
first went into service, she told me, it was at K—.
She received £4 as her wage, and managed to save
money on that. She was, however, given a washing-dress
by her mistress at Lady Day. After some years
she went to L— Park, where she received £6. This
was after a while raised to £7, and she invariably put
away some of her wage. When after tried service her
wage was raised to £10, the climax of her ambition
was reached, she regarded herself as passing rich, and
never hoped to obtain more.</p>
<p>"For certain, sir," she said, "my work wasn't worth
more."</p>
<p>In my own parish churchyard, one of the best
of the monuments is that raised by my grandfather
to the memory of an old servant of his grandmother's.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span></p>
<p class="center"> MR. THOMAS HILSDEN,</p>
<p class="center f75"> WHO DIED FEB. 21, 1806,<br />
AGED 70,<br />
HAVING LIVED IN THE FAMILY OF</p>
<p class="center f120"> <span class="smcap">Mrs. Margaret Gould, of Lew House</span>,</p>
<p class="center f75"> 44 YEARS.<br />
THIS STONE WAS ERECTED<br />
IN CONSIDERATION OF HIS FAITHFUL SERVICE.
</p>
<p>There is an ancient family I know of historic
dignity. It has lost its ancestral estates, lost almost
all of its family portraits; but one great picture
remains to it, so poorly painted, that at the sale of the
Manor-house and its contents no one would buy it,—it
is the portrait of an old servant, a giant, a tall and
powerful ranger, who, partly for his size, chiefly for his
fidelity, was painted and hung up in the hall along
with the knights and squires and ladies of the family
which he had served so well.</p>
<p>The mention of this picture leads me to say a few
words about a worthy man who died some twenty
years ago. Rawle was hind to the late Sir Thomas
Acland of Killerton. Sir Thomas introduced Arab
blood among the Exmoor ponies, and greatly improved
the breed. About 1810 he appointed Rawle in charge
of these ponies. He was a fine man, fully six feet
high, and big in proportion. His power of breaking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
in the ponies was extraordinary. He was quite indifferent
to falls, often pony and man rolling over and
over each other. The sale of the ponies generally took
place at Bampton and at Taunton fairs. The system
was this—a herd of the wild little creatures was driven
into the fair. Buyers attended from all parts of the
country, and when a dealer took a fancy to a pony, he
pointed him out to the moor-man in attendance, who
went into the herd, seized upon the selected one, and
brought him out by sheer strength. This is no easy
matter, for the Exmoor pony fights with his fore-feet
in desperate fashion. It usually took, and takes, two
men to do this, but Rawle did not require assistance,
such was his strength. Indeed so strong was Rawle,
that he would put a hand under the feet of a maid-servant
on each side of him, and raise himself and at
the same time both of them, till he was upright, and
he held each woman on the palm of his hand, one on
each side of him, level with his waist. Sir Thomas
Acland was wont, when he had friends with him, to
get the man to make this exhibition of his strength
before them.</p>
<p>Sir Thomas had a hunting box at Higher Combe
(called in the district Yarcombe); he occupied one
portion of the house when there, a farmer occupied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
the rest. It was a curious scene—a remnant of
feudal times—when Sir Thomas came there. His
tenants, summoned for the purpose, had accompanied
him in a cavalcade from Winsford, or Hornicott.
John Rawle could never be persuaded to eat a bite
or take a draught when his master was in a house;
he planted himself as a sentry upright before the door
when Sir Thomas went in to refresh himself anywhere,
and nothing could withdraw him from his post.</p>
<p>In connexion with these expeditions to Higher
Combe, it may be added that the cavalcade of tenants
would attend Sir Thomas to the wood where a stag
had been harboured. Among them was a band, each
member of the band played <em>one</em> note only; but it
was so arranged that a hunting tune was formed by
these notes being played in succession. When the
stag was unharboured, and started across the moor,
the band commenced this tune, and until it was
played out the hounds were kept in leash. The time
occupied by this tune was the "law" given to the
stag, and when it was ended the hounds were laid on.</p>
<p>A famous china bowl was made in China, and
presented to Sir Thomas by the Hunt. This bowl
used to be kept at Higher Combe; it represented
a stag-hunt. And twelve glasses were presented to Sir<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span>
Thomas along with it, each engraved with a stag, and
the words, "Success to the hunting."</p>
<p>One day Sir Thomas said to Rawle, "Rawle, I
want to send a gelding and a mare in foal to Duke
Ludwig of Baden, at Baden Baden. Can you take
them?"</p>
<p>"Certainly, Sir Thomas."</p>
<p>The man could neither read nor write, and of
course knew no other language than the broadest
Exmoor dialect—and this was at the beginning of
the century, when there were not the facilities for
travelling that there are now. He started for Baden
Baden, and took his charges there in safety, and
delivered them over to the Grand Duke. He had,
however, an added difficulty, in that the mare foaled
<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en route</i>, and he had a pass for two ponies only.</p>
<p>Is the old "good and faithful servant" a thing of
the past? Not perhaps the good servant, but the
servant who continues in a family through the greatest
portion of his or her life, who becomes a part of the
family, is probably gone for ever; the change in the
signification of words tells us of social changes. A
man's family, even in Addison's time, comprised his
servants. "Of what does your family consist?" A
hundred and fifty years ago this would have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
answered by an enumeration of those comprising the
household, from the children to the scullion. Now
who would even think of a servant when such a
question is asked? The family is shrunk to the blood-relatives,
and the servants are outside the family circle.</p>
<p>We are in a condition of transformation in our
relations to our servants; we no longer dream of
making them our friends, and consequently they
no longer regard us with devotion. But I am not
sure that the fault lies with the master. The spirit of
unrest is in the land; the uneducated and the partially
educated crave for excitement, and find it in change;
they can no longer content themselves with remaining
in one situation, and when the servants shift quarters
every year or two, how can master and mistress feel
affection for them, or take interest in them?</p>
<p>Does the reader know Swift's <cite>Rules and Directions
for Servants</cite>? They occupy one hundred and
eighteen pages of volume twelve of his works, in the
edition of 1768, and comprise instructions to butler,
cook, footman, coachman, groom, steward, chambermaid,
housemaid, nurse, etc. They show us that
human nature among servants was much the same
in the middle of last century as in this. Only a
scanty extract must be given.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p>
<p>"When your master or lady calls a servant by
name, if that servant be not in the way, none of you
are to answer, for then there will be no end of your
drudgery.</p>
<p>"When you have done a fault be always pert and
insolent, and behave yourself as if you were the
injured person.</p>
<p>"The cook, the butler, the groom, and every other
servant should act as if his master's whole estate ought
to be applied to that particular servant's business.</p>
<p>"Take all tradesmen's parts against your master.
You are to consider if your master hath paid too
much, he can better afford the loss than a poor
tradesman.</p>
<p>"Never submit to stir a finger in any business but
that for which you were particularly hired. For
example, if the groom be drunk or absent, and the
butler be ordered to shut the stable-door, the answer
is ready, 'An' please, your honour, I don't understand
horses.'</p>
<p>"If you find yourself to grow into favour with your
master or lady, take some opportunity to give them
warning, and when they ask the reason, and seem
loath to part with you, answer that a poor servant is
not to be blamed if he strives to better himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
Upon which, if your master hath any generosity, he
will add five or ten shillings a quarter rather than let
you go.</p>
<p>"Write your own name and your sweetheart's with
the smoke of a candle on the roof of the kitchen, to
show your learning. If you are a young sightly
fellow, whenever you whisper your mistress at the
table, run your nose full into her cheek, or breathe
full in her face.</p>
<p>"Never come till you have been called three or
four times, for none but dogs will come at the first
whistle.</p>
<p>"When you have broken all your earthen vessels
below stairs—which is usually done in a week—the
copper-pot will do as well; it can boil milk, heat
porridge, hold small beer—apply it indifferently to all
these uses, but never wash or scour it.</p>
<p>"Although you are allowed knives for the servants'
hall at meals, yet you ought to spare them, and make
use of your master's.</p>
<p>"Let it be a constant rule, that no chair or table
in the servants' hall have above three legs.</p>
<p>"Quarrel with each other as much as you please,
only always bear in mind that you have a common
enemy, which is your master and lady.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span></p>
<p>"When your master and lady go abroad together
to dine, you need leave only one servant in the house
to answer the door and attend the children. Who
is to stay at home is to be determined by short and
long cuts, and the stayer at home may be comforted
by a visit from a sweetheart.</p>
<p>"When your master or lady comes home, and
wants a servant who happens to be abroad, your
answer must be, that he had but just that minute
stepped out, being sent for by a cousin who was dying.
When you are chidden for a fault, as you go out
of the room mutter loud enough to be plainly heard.</p>
<p>"When your lady sends for you to her chamber
to give you orders, be sure to stand at the door and
keep it open, fiddling with the lock all the while she
is talking to you.</p>
<p>"When you want proper instruments for any work
you are about, use all expedients you can invent.
For instance, if the poker be out of the way, stir the
fire with the tongs; if the tongs be not at hand, use
the muzzle of the bellows, the wrong end of the
shovel, or the handle of the fire-brush. If you want
paper to singe a fowl, tear the first book you see
about the house. Wipe your shoes, for want of a
clout, on the bottom of a curtain or a damask napkin.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span></p>
<p>"There are several ways of putting out a candle,
and you ought to be instructed in them all: you may
run the candle-end against the wainscot, which puts
the snuff out immediately; you may lay it on the
ground and tread the snuff out with your foot; you
may hold it upside down until it is choked in its own
grease, or cram it into the socket of the candlestick;
you may whirl it round in your hand till it goes out.</p>
<p>"Clean your plate, wipe your knives, and rub the
dirty tables with the napkins and tablecloths used that
day, for it is but one washing.</p>
<p>"When a butler cleans the plate, leave the whiting
plainly to be seen in all the chinks, for fear your lady
should not believe you had cleaned it.</p>
<p>"You need not wipe your knife to cut bread for
the table, because in cutting a slice or two it will wipe
itself.</p>
<p>"A butler must always put his finger into every
bottle to feel whether it be full.</p>
<p>"Whet the backs of your knives until they are as
sharp as the edge, that when gentlemen find them
blunt on one side they may try the other.</p>
<p>"Cooks should scrape the bottom of pots and
kettles with a silver spoon, for fear of giving them
a taste of copper.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p>
<p>"Get three or four charwomen to attend you
constantly in the kitchen, whom you pay with the
broken meat, a few coals, and all the cinders.</p>
<p>"Never make use of a spoon in anything that you
can do with your hands, for fear of wearing out your
master's plate.</p>
<p>"In roasting and boiling use none but the large
coals, and save the small ones for the fires above
stairs." And so on.</p>
<p>If the old servants had their merits, they had also
their demerits. Have they not bequeathed the latter
to their successors, and carried away their merits with
them into a better world?</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_314.jpg" width="600" height="410" alt="A
VIRGINAL" />
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br />
<span class="f75">THE HUNT.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch13.jpg" width="600" height="400" alt="the hunt" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_315t.jpg" alt="T" width="600" height="300" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_315b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">T</span>HE genuine Englishman loves
a hunt, loves sport, above
everything else; I do not mean only those who
can afford to ride and shoot, but every Englishman
born and bred in the country.</p>
<p>One day the masons were engaged on my house,
on the top of a scaffold, the carpenters were occupied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>
within laying a floor, some painters were employed on
doors and windows, the gardener was putting into a
bed some roses; in the back-yard a youth was chopping
up wood; in the stable-yard the coachman was
washing the body of the carriage, and in the stable
itself the groom was currycombing a horse. Suddenly
from the hillside opposite, mantled with oak, came the
sound of the hounds in cry, and then the call of the
horn. Down from the scaffold came the masons,
head over heels, at the risk of their necks; out through
the windows shot the carpenters and painters, throwing
aside hammers, nails, paint-pot and brushes; down
went the roses in the garden; from behind the house
leaped the wood-chopper; the coach was left half-washed,
and the horse half-currycombed; and over the
lawn and through the grounds, regardless of everything,
went a wild excited throng of masons, carpenters,
woodcutter, coachman, stable-boy, gardener, my own
sons, then my own self, having dropped pen, and, forgotten
on the terrace was left only the baby—a male,
erect in its perambulator, with arms extended, screaming
to follow the rout and go after the hounds. Let
agitators come and storm and denounce in the midst
of our people; they cannot rouse them to fury
against the gentry, because they and the gentry run<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
after the hounds together, enjoy a hunt together, and
are the best of friends in the field. No, the great
socialistic revolution will not take place till the hunt
is abolished. That is the great solvent of all prejudices,
that the great festival that binds all in one common
bond of sympathy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 503px;">
<img src="images/i_b_317.jpg" width="503" height="600" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">The Hunt Passing.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319"></a></span></p>
<p>This season there has appeared at our meets an old
man of seventy-five, who was for many years a butler
to a rector, a quiet, studious man, who died a few years
ago. After the death of his master the butler retired
on his savings, and built himself a house. Then—this
winter he appeared on a cob at the meet of the foxhounds.
"Sir," said he to the Master, "now the
ambition of my life is satisfied. Since I was a boy
I have wished, and all my days have worked, that I
might have a cob on which I could hunt."</p>
<p>Alas! the old fellow found himself so stiff after
the first hunt, that at the next meet of the harriers he
appeared on foot. He had walked four miles to it;
and <em>he ran with the hounds</em>, and was in at the death.
After the hunt he walked home hot and happy, and
elastic in step.</p>
<p>The farmers naturally like a hunt, as it affords them,
apart from the sport, an occasion of showing off
and selling their horses. The workmen like a hunt,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
especially after the hare, for it forms a break in their
work. They have their half day's sport, and their
masters pay wage just the same as if they had been
at work.</p>
<p>The hare hunt naturally lends itself to footers, as
the hare runs in a circle, and not straight with the wind
in his tail like reynard. Here and there is to be found
a cantankerous farmer who objects to having his
hedges broken down and his land trampled by the
hunters, but he is looked on with distrust and dislike
by all in every class, and spoken of as a curmudgeon.
Of course, also, there are to be found men who trap
and kill foxes, but I verily believe those men's
consciences sting them far more on this account
than if they had committed a fraud or become
drunk. And—by the way, that reminds me of a
story.</p>
<p>There came a Hungarian nobleman, whom we will
call the Baron Hounymhum, to England. His Christian
name was Arpad. He came to England, having
a title, but having nothing else; he came, in fact, to
seek there his fortune. Belonging to a good family,
he was well supplied with letters of introduction, and
he was received into society. On more than one
occasion he donned his uniform, and had reason to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
believe that the uniform as well as his handsome face
was much admired by the ladies, and envied by the
men. Among the acquaintances he made was the
Hon. Cecil Blank, through whom he was introduced
to one of the first clubs in Piccadilly. He also got
acquainted with Lord Ashwater. This nobleman was
fond of collecting around him notabilities of all kinds,
literary, scientific, and political. He himself was in
his politics an advanced Liberal.</p>
<p>The Baron Arpad found, to his astonishment, soon
after his arrival in town, that a rumour had got about
that he had been implicated in an attempt to assassinate
his most gracious sovereign Franz Joseph, King
of Hungary and Bohemia, and Emperor of Austria.
The idea was absolutely baseless. The fact that he
was received at the embassy ought to have shut men's
mouths, but no—he was credited with having contrived
an infernal machine for the destruction of his
beloved sovereign.</p>
<p>He found, to his amazement, that this rumour did
him good. He became an <em>interesting</em> foreigner;
hitherto he had been <em>only</em> a foreigner. Quite an
eager feeling manifested itself among persons of rank
and position for having him at their parties; not
only so, but he was solicited by magazine editors to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span>
write for them articles on the Anarchist party in
Hungary and Austria.</p>
<p>Scarce had this odious rumour died away, before
he became the victim of another, equally false and
equally detestable. A distant cousin, the Baron
Adorian Hounymhum, ran away with the Princess
Nornenstein, the mother of three sweet little children.
The elopement caused a great sensation at Vienna, as
the princess was much esteemed by her Majesty the
Empress. Prince Nornenstein pursued the fugitives,
overtook them in Belgium, fought a duel with the
baron, and was shot through the heart.</p>
<p>Well, the report got about that it was Baron Arpad
who had run away with the princess, ruined her home,
deprived her sweet children of father and mother, and
shot the aggrieved husband. It was in vain for him
to protest, he was credited with these infamies—and
rose in popular estimation. The Duchess of Belgravia
at once invited him to her dances. The ladies now
courted his society, as before the gentlemen had
courted it, when they held him to be a would-be
regicide. These two rumours, crediting him with
crimes of which he was incapable, did a great deal
towards pushing him in society.</p>
<p>Among the many acquaintances the Baron made in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
town was Mr. Wildbrough, a country squire, M.F.H.,
a man of wealth, and an M.P. for his county. He had
but one daughter, who would be his heiress, and who
did not seem insensible to the good looks of the Baron.
Now, thought the Hungarian, his opportunity had
arrived. The position of landed proprietor in England
was in prospect. Moreover, Mr. Wildbrough had
invited the Baron to come to Wildbrough Hall in
October to see the first meet of the foxhounds.</p>
<p>At the time appointed the Baron arrived, and was
cordially received by the squire; Mrs. Wildbrough
was gracious, but not gushing; Mary Wildbrough
was manifestly pleased to see him—the tell-tale blood
assured him of that.</p>
<p>A large party was assembled at the hall for the first
meet of the season. The masters of other packs in the
county were present. The meet was picturesque, the
run excellent. The Baron was in at the death, and
received the brush, which he at once presented to
Mary Wildbrough. He had ridden beside her, and
he felt that his prospects were brightening. He proposed
to make the offer that evening at the dance after
dinner, when, at Mary's particular request, he was to
appear in his Magyar Hussar uniform, in which, as he
well knew, he would be irresistible. The Baron took<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>
in Mary to dinner, and had an agreeable chat with
her, which was only interrupted by Sir Harry Treadwin,
a sporting baronet, who said across the table to
him, "Baron, I suppose that you have foxes in
Hungary?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," answered he, "<em>I have shot as many as five
or six in a day</em>."</p>
<p>The Baron spoke loud, so as to be heard by all.
He was quite unprepared for the consequences. Sir
Harry stared at him as at a ghost, with eyes and
nostrils and mouth distended. A dead silence fell on
the whole company. The host's red face changed
colour, and became as collared brawn. The master of
another pack became purple as a plum. Mrs. Wildbrough
fanned herself vigorously. Mary became
white as a lily and trembled, whilst tears welled up in
her beautiful eyes. The lady of the house bowed to
the lady whom the squire had taken in, and in silence
all rose, and the ladies without a word left the room.</p>
<p>The gentlemen remained; conversation slowly unthawed.
The Baron turned to the gentleman nearest
him, and spoke about matters of general interest.
He answered shortly, almost rudely, and turned to
converse with his neighbour on the other side. Then
the Baron addressed Sir Harry, but he seemed deaf,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span>
he stared icily, but made no reply. It was a relief
to an intolerable restraint when the gentlemen joined
the ladies.</p>
<p>The Baron knew that with his handsome face and
gorgeous uniform he could command as many
partners in the dance as he desired; but what was
his chagrin to find that his anticipations were disappointed.
One young lady was engaged, another
did not dance the mazurka, a third had forgotten
the lancers, a fourth was tired, and a fifth indisposed.
After a while he seized his chance, and caught Mary
Wildbrough in the conservatory,—she was crying.</p>
<p>"Miss Wildbrough," said he, "are you ill? What
ails you?"</p>
<p>"Oh, Baron!" Then she burst into an uncontrollable
flood of tears. "I am so—so unhappy! Five
or six foxes! Oh, Baron Hounymhum!"</p>
<p>Next day he left. His host would not shake
hands with him when he departed. On reaching
town he felt dull, and sauntered to the club, but no
one would speak to him there. Next day he received
this letter from the secretary—</p>
<p>"The secretary of the —— Club regrets to be
obliged to inform the Baron Hounymhum that he
can no longer be considered the guest of the Club."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></p>
<p>After that London society was sealed to him. It
was nothing that he had been thought guilty of an
attempt to assassinate his sovereign, nothing that he
was thought to have eloped with a married woman,
wrecked her home and shot her husband, but that
he should have shot foxes was The Unpardonable
Sin.</p>
<p>We have a peculiar institution in the county of
Devon—a week of hare-hunting on Dartmoor after
hare-hunting has ceased everywhere else. Dartmoor
is a high elevated region totally treeless, with peaks
covered with granite, having brawling streams that foam
down the valleys between. One main road crosses
this vast desolate region, as far as Two Bridges,
where is an inn, The Saracen's Head, and there it
divides, and runs for many miles more over moor
to Moreton Hampstead on one side, and to Ashburton
on the other. In the fork of this Y stands an
eminently picturesque rugged tor, crested by and
strewn with granite, called Bellever. About Easter—anyhow,
after hare-hunting has ceased elsewhere—the
country-side gathers at Bellever for a week, and
nothing can be conceived more changed than the
scene at this time from the usual solitude and stillness.
The tor is covered with horses, traps, carriages,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>
footers; and if the spring sun be shining, nothing can
well be more picturesque.</p>
<p>Whatever may be said or sung to the contrary,
hunting on Dartmoor is dangerous work. There are
no hedges there, only walls, and these walls are set
up round what are locally termed "takes," or enclosures,
and are made of the granite stones found
lying about in the take; they are not put together
with mortar, but are loosely built up one stone on
another, and the wind blows through the interstices.
More nasty accidents would happen over these
walls, were it not that the moor turf is spongy
and boggy, so that when a man is thrown he is
lightly received.</p>
<p>Concerning this Bellever week there exists a
song—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"Bellever week is the bravest week</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Of fifty-two in the year.</div>
<div class="verse">'Tis one to tweak a teetotaller's beak,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And to make a Methody swear.</div>
<div class="verse">We leave our troubles and toils behind,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Forget if we've got gray hair—</div>
<div class="verse">A parcel of boys, all frolic and noise,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Bidding begone dull care.</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Bellever week is the bravest, &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">There's never a run so brimming with fun,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Nor a pastime that may compare,</div><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span>
<div class="verse">For master or horse, o'er heather and gorse,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">As hunting a Dartmoor hare.</div>
<div class="verse">Though sure of a stogg to the girths in a bog,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Or a turn up of heels at a wall,</div>
<div class="verse">Yet never a jot of damage was got</div>
<div class="verse vi1">By a flounder there, or a fall.</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Bellever week, &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">There's nowhere a puss deserving a cuss</div>
<div class="verse vi1">For running as on the moor.</div>
<div class="verse">In Bellever week the harriers speak</div>
<div class="verse vi1">As they never spoke before.</div>
<div class="verse">The Saracen's Head is full as an egg,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">And every farm and cot.</div>
<div class="verse">The jolliest set together are met</div>
<div class="verse vi1">In the out and out jolliest spot.</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Bellever week, &c.</div>
</div><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">Nowhere else does a joke such laughter provoke,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">Or a tale so hearty a roar,</div>
<div class="verse">Or a song that is sung with stentorian lung,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">More certain of an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">encore</i>!</div>
<div class="verse">When Bellever week returns again,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">My wife—let her storm and sneer;</div>
<div class="verse">If not tucked into bed with a stone at my head,</div>
<div class="verse vi1">By Ginger!—I <em>will</em> be there.</div>
<div class="verse vi4">Bellever week, &c."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>How full life is of coincidences! We are always
encountering and wondering at them. To some the
coincidences that we know to be true seem incredible.
Here is one.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p>
<p>The master of a very notable pack of foxhounds
died. He had been master for something like thirty
years; his father was master before him, and his son
is master after him. A man of intense love of the
sport. In the dining-room hang the portraits of
three generations, all in pink. He died and was
buried amidst universal sorrow. Of course the pack
did not go out that week. The first meet after
the funeral was at a distance of very many miles.
The fox was started, and ran, straight as an arrow,
towards the residence of the late master, ran through
the park, pursued by the hounds, ran across the
garden to the churchyard, ran to the vault, and took
refuge against the iron door that closed it, and concealed
the coffin of the dead M.F.H. And there,
against his vault door, the fox was killed, and the
yelping, bounding, barking pack careered within a
few feet of his coffin.</p>
<p>This story I believe to be perfectly true. It was
a coincidence, and a singular one.</p>
<p>Till the end of the seventeenth century fox-hunting
can scarcely be said to have existed as a sport in
England, the stag, the buck, and the hare taking the
precedence with our forefathers as objects of the
chase, which in a still earlier period had included<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
the wolf and the boar. And yet I have over my
hall fireplace, in the carved oak chimney-piece, a
representation of a fox-hunt that certainly belongs
to the reign of Elizabeth. The hunters are armed
with pitchforks, or something much like them; one
is holding back a greyhound by a leash; another
is winding a horn. There are ten dogs in the pack,
long-eared beagles or dachshunds, it is hard to say
what. The fox has eaten one goose all but the head
and wings, and has killed a second, and is taking
refuge in a pinery among the pine-apples.</p>
<p>Our deer-parks about the great mansions are the
remnants of deer-parks or chases that were originally
found about the manor-houses in most places. They
were not always very extensive, very often were only
small paddocks where the deer were kept; and one
was let run occasionally for a grand chase. These
old paddocks with the ruined walls about them, or
without, when they were surrounded by palings, that
have long ago rotted away, still go by the name
of the Chase, and so remind us of the sports of our
forefathers.</p>
<p>James I. was an enthusiastic sportsman. Although
in his various kennels he had little short of two
hundred couple of hounds, and the cost of their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>
maintenance was a serious draught upon his privy
purse, yet he never seemed satisfied that he had
enough, so long as he heard of any good hound
in the possession of a subject. Among the State
Papers is an amusing letter relative to a piece of
ill-luck that befell a favourite dog. "The king is
at Tibbalds, and the queen gone or going to him.
At this last meeting, being at Tibbalds, which was
about a fortnight since, the queen, shooting at a
deer with her crossbow, mistook her mark, and killed
Jewell, the king's most special and principal hound,
at which he stormed exceeding awhile, swearing many
and great oaths. None would undertake to break
unto him the news, so they were fain to send Archie
the fool on the errand. But after he knew who did
it, he was soon pacified, and with much kindness
wished her not to be troubled with it, for he should
love her never the worse, and the next day sent her
a <em>jewell</em> worth £2000, 'as a legacy from his dead
dog.' Love and kindness increase daily between
them, and it is thought they were never on better
terms."</p>
<p>Our early hunting songs all concern the stag. One
of the very "ancientest ditties" we have is, <cite>The Hunt
is upp</cite>—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"The hunt is up, the hunt is up,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">And it is well-nigh day;</div>
<div class="verse">And Harry our king is gone hunting,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">To bring his deer to bay."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>A very pretty song it is of the reign of bluff Hal,
but the earliest song relating to a fox that I know is
that of <cite>To-morrow the Fox will come to Town</cite>, of the
same period, and in that there is no mention of
reynard as an object of sport. His thievish qualities
are recorded, that is all.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"To-morrow the fox will come to town,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Keep, keep, keep, keep!</div>
<div class="verse">To-morrow the fox will come to town,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">O keep you all well there.</div>
<div class="verse">I must desire you neighbours all,</div>
<div class="verse">To hallo the fox out of the hall,</div>
<div class="verse">And cry as loud as you can call,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop!</div>
<div class="verse">And cry as loud as you can call,</div>
<div class="verse vi2">O keep you all well there."</div>
</div></div></div>
<p>In the porch of Lewanick church, in Cornwall, the
piece of freestone that supports the seat on which
the gaffers sat before and after church is sculptured
with a hare-hunt. The date is about the fifteenth
century. In the popular mind the hare-hunt, for the
reason already given, that it allows of better sport for
the footers, is a favourite subject of song rather than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span>
the fox-hunt, the delights of which are sung by
huntsmen more than by the peasants. It is curious
how the reminiscence of famous runs lingers on among
the people. There is a great song that used to be sung
at all hunting dinners in Devon relative to the achievements
of one Arscott of Tetcott, who is supposed
still to hunt the country in spirit with a ghostly
pack—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry"><div class="stanza">
<div class="verse">"When the tempest is howling his horn you may hear,</div>
<div class="verse">And the bay of his hounds in their headlong career;</div>
<div class="verse">For Arscott of Tetcott loves hunting so well,</div>
<div class="verse">That he breaks for the pastime from heaven—or hell."</div>
</div></div></div>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_333.jpg" width="600" height="84" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Fox-hunt, from Hall Chimney-piece, Lew Trenchard.</span></div>
</div>
<hr class="chap" />
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span></p>
<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br />
<span class="f75">THE COUNTY TOWN.</span></h2>
<div class="epubonly">
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/ch14.jpg" width="600" height="405" alt="county town" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="htmlonly">
<div>
<img class="figleft" src="images/i_b_334t.jpg" alt="D" width="600" height="305" />
<img class="figleft50" src="images/i_b_334b.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="100" />
</div>
</div>
<p class="dropcapstory"><span class="bgcolor">D</span>OES the reader know one of
the most fascinating books
of a most fascinating of our old writers, <cite>Belford
Regis</cite>, by Miss Mary Russell Mitford? If not, and
he or she desires to be carried back on the broad,
sweeping, somewhat sad-coloured wings of fancy to the
past, to a time before railways, then let <cite>Belford Regis</cite>
be procured, and read, and smiled, and perhaps a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span>
little sighed over. As in <cite>Our Village</cite> the authoress
sketched the country, so in <cite>Belford Regis</cite> did she
sketch the little county town at the beginning of the
present century.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 600px;">
<img src="images/i_b_335.jpg" width="600" height="498" alt="South Gate
Launceston" />
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336"></a></span></p>
<p>"About three miles to the north of our village
stands the good town of Belford Regis. The
approach to it, straight as a dart, runs along a wide
and populous turnpike road, all alive with carts and
coaches, waggons and phaetons, horse-people and
foot-people, sweeping rapidly or creeping lazily up
and down the gentle undulations with which the
surface of the country is varied; and the borders,
checkered by patches of common, rich with hedgerow
timber, and sprinkled with cottages, and, I grieve
to say, with that cottage pest, the beer-house,—and
here and there enlivened by dwellings of more pretension
and gentility,—become more thickly inhabited
as we draw nearer the metropolis of the county, to
say nothing of the three cottages all in a row, with
two small houses attached, which a board affixed to
one of them informs the passer-by is Two-mile Cross;
or of these opposite neighbours, the wheelwrights and
the blacksmiths, about half a mile further; or the
little farm close by the pound; or the series of
buildings called the Long Row, terminating at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span>
end next the road with an old-fashioned and most
picturesque public-house, with painted roofs, and
benches at the door and round the large elm before
it—benches which are generally filled by thirsty
wayfarers and waggoners watering their horses, and
partaking of a more generous liquor themselves.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 463px;">
<img src="images/i_b_339.jpg" width="463" height="600" alt="Cottages at Woking" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Cottages at the entrance to a Town.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340"></a></span></p>
<p>"Leaving these objects undescribed, no sooner do
we get within a mile of the town, than our approach
is indicated by successive market-gardens on either
side, crowned, as we ascend the long hill on which
the turnpike-gate stands, by an extensive nursery-ground,
gay with long beds of flowers, with trellised
walks covered with creepers, with whole acres of
flowering shrubs, and ranges of green-houses, the
glass glittering in the southern sun. Then the
turnpike gate, with its civil keeper, then another
public-house, then the clear bright pond on the top
of the hill, and then the rows of small tenements,
with here and there a more ambitious single cottage
standing in its own pretty garden, which forms the
usual gradation from the country to the town.</p>
<p>"About this point, where one road, skirting the great
pond and edged by small houses, diverges from the
great southern entrance, and where two streets, meeting
or parting, lead by separate ways down the steep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span>
hill to the centre of the town, stands a handsome
mansion, surrounded by orchards and pleasure-grounds,
across which is perhaps to be seen the very
best view of Belford, with its long ranges of modern
buildings in the outskirts, mingled with picturesque
old streets, the venerable towers of St. Stephen's and
St. Nicholas', the light and tapering spire of St. John's,
the huge monastic ruins of the abbey, the massive
walls of the county gaol, the great river winding along
like a thread of silver, trees and gardens mingling
amongst all, and the whole landscape environed and
lightened by the drooping elms of the foreground,
adding an illusive beauty to the picture by breaking
the too formal outline, and veiling just exactly those
parts which most require concealment.</p>
<p>"Nobody can look at Belford from this point without
feeling that it is a very English and very charming
scene, and the impression does not diminish on
farther acquaintance. We see at once the history
of the place, that it is an antique borough town,
which has recently been extended to nearly double its
former size; so that it unites in no common degree
the old romantic, irregular structures in which our
ancestors delighted, with the handsome and uniform
buildings which are the fashion now-a-days. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>
suppose that people are right in their taste, and that
the modern houses are pleasantest to live in, but,
beyond all question, those antique streets are the
prettiest to look at. The occasional blending too
is good. Witness the striking piece of street scenery
which was once accidentally forced upon my attention
as I took shelter from a shower of rain in a shop
about ten doors up the right-hand side of Friar
Street—the old vicarage-house of St. Nicholas embowered
in greens, the lofty town-hall, and the handsome
modern house of my friend Mr. Beauchamp,
the fine church tower of St. Nicholas, the picturesque
piazza underneath, the jutting corner of Friar Street,
the old irregular shops in the market-place, and the
trees of the Forbury just peeping between, with all
their varieties of light and shadow. I went to the
door to see if the shower was over, was caught by
its beauty, and stood looking at it in the sunshine
long after the rain had ceased."</p>
<p>I make no apology for this long extract. Miss
Mitford is not much read now, and those who read
her are always glad to re-read a passage from her
fresh and graphic pen.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 495px;">
<img src="images/i_b_343.jpg" width="495" height="600" alt="London Inn
Launceston" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Street in Launceston.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344"></a></span></p>
<p>That there may be more picturesqueness in an old
German, Italian, and French town may be admitted,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
but it is of a more salient, obtrusive character than
that which exists in our old county towns. The
continental architects aimed at bold effects. I do
not say that they were wrong. They achieved great
success. Our architects built what was wanted, in
a quiet, undemonstrative manner, and left effect to
chance, and chance gave what they did not seek.
The charms of an old English county town do not
force themselves on our notice, are missed altogether
by the hasty visitor; they have to be found out,
they come by surprises, they depend on certain lights
and plays of shadow, on the bursting into leaf of
certain trees, on the setting up of certain hucksters'
stalls. That a great deal of their picturesqueness is
passing away is, alas! only too true. The tradesmen
want huge window spaces for the display of their
goods, so away is knocked the quaint old frontage of
the house, and is replaced by something that can
be sustained on iron supports between wide sheets of
plate-glass. The suburbs are being made hideous
with rows of model cottages, all precisely alike,
roofed with blue slate. Nevertheless a great deal
remains, and it is fortunately now something like a
fashion to give us Queen Anne (so-called) gables in
the streets, which at all events afford a pretty broken<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span>
sky-line, and a play of light and shade on the
frontage.</p>
<p>Then how different are the outskirts of a foreign
town to an English country town. In Italy there
are miles of lanes between high stone walls, over
which indeed lemons show their glorious fruit and
blaze in the sun; nevertheless, the sorry fact
remains, that for as far as one cares to walk there
is no prospect save by favour through a gate.</p>
<p>At Florence, for instance, it is wall, wall, on the
right hand and on the left, all the way to Fiesole;
and to the south, beyond S. Miniato, up and down
the hills, wall, wall, on the right hand and on the
left. At Genoa the city is engirded with hills, indeed
the town lies in a crater, broken down to the west to
the sea. Climb near two thousand feet to the encircling
fortresses, and you go between wall, wall, all
the way. Escape along the sea to Sampierdarema
on one side, on the other to St. Fruttuoso, and it
is a way between wall and house, house and wall.
And a French town, or a German town, or a Belgian
town, starts up suddenly out of bare fields, without
trees, without hedges, with a suburb of tall, hideous,
stuccoed, badly-built houses, all precisely alike and
equally ugly. There are no cottages. Come back to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>
England, and at once you discover that the cottage is
that which gives charm to the approach of a town, it
is the moss, the lichen that adheres to the wall, a
softening, beautiful feature in itself. Then there are
our hedges and hedgerow trees, and how different
from the stiff avenues of poplar, and the boulevards
of set planes, exactly ten paces apart.</p>
<p>Every foreign city was fortified, and outside the
fortifications the glacis had to be kept clear of trees
and buildings, so as not to give cover to the enemy.
This fact has influenced the approach to all continental
towns, they are not led up to as in England; and the
poor are lodged differently—they occupy big houses,
which they delight in making untidy, and exposing
the dishevelled condition of their dwellings to every
passer-by. The very lanes between walls are untidy—every
possible scrap of refuse collects in them, the
stray feathers of fowls that have been plucked throughout
the year eddy there, old rags—discarded only
when dropping off—rot there, scraps of tin canister
are kicked about there, old boots get sodden there.
But there is always an effort after tidiness about
English cottages; and somehow the approaches to our
towns are not offensive to eye and nose, but quite
the reverse; the pretty cottages, their well-cared-for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>
gardens, the villas with bosquets of seringa and lilac,
combine in making the approach full of studies for
the painter—reposeful pictures of general comfort and
happiness.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 882px;">
<img src="images/i_b_349.jpg" width="600" height="408" alt="Dockacre:
Launceston" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Old Town House, Launceston.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350"></a></span></p>
<p>In a foreign town the palace jostles with the
gaunt house in which the poor herd. In England
there are no palaces in our country towns, but there
are excellent middle-class mansions, the Queen Anne
red brick tall house, with stone quoins, where lives
the substantial solicitor, who makes the wills and
draws up the leases for all the squires of the neighbourhood,
who is clerk of the Petty Sessions, and is
consulted by every one more as a confidential friend
than as a professional man. There is the prim house,
with exactly as many windows on one side of the
door as on the other, and a round-headed window
over it, where three old ladies keep a school for girls.
There is the many-gabled house inhabited by the late
rector's widow. There is the quaint slated house
with its bow-windows, within rich with beautiful
plaster work and carved wood, supposed to be by
Grinling Gibbons. It has a garden in terraces
descending to the river, with vases on the balustrade
of the terraces full of scarlet geraniums. Then there
comes the modern county bank of cut stone, and of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>
inconceivable incongruity and ugliness; then an old
inn frequented by the Tory squires in past days.
There is the old grammar school with its pedimented
door and ivy creeping over the red-brick walls, fought
with every year, and forced back from overrunning
the windows, as it has overrun the walls. There is
the doctor's house, with a portico supported by slim
Corinthian pillars, and with a lead above, on which
the doctor's wife sets out her flowers, that make a
blaze of colour up and down the street. There is the
stuccoed wine merchant's house—always painted drab
every third year—that has red blinds, through which
the lamps at night diffuse a ruby glow into the street.
There is that long wall with an elaborately wrought
iron gate, with link extinguishers to the side posts, and
a small but overgrown garden of shrubs, behind which
lurks a thatched cottage where lives a widow—Lady
This or That, the mother of the present baronet who
resides three miles off at the park. There is the
rectory, with its back to the street, and windows so
low that the passers-by can see in—or could till they
were furnished with twisted cane screens. But then
the other side of the parsonage looks into the most
charming of gardens, on what was the city wall, whence
a glorious view is obtained. But the space would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>
fail me were I to describe, or merely indicate, the
various houses of people, some professional, some
retired gentry, some retired tradespeople, in a country
town, all speaking of comfort, ease, and peace.</p>
<p>Thus wrote Horace Walpole in 1741, on his return
to England from Italy—"The country-town (and
you will believe me, who you know am not prejudiced)
delights me; the populousness, the ease, the gaiety,
the well-dressed everybody amaze me. Canterbury—which
on my setting out I thought deplorable—is
a paradise to Modena, Reggio, Parma, etc. I had
before discovered that there was nowhere but in
England the distinction of <em>middling people</em>; I perceive
now that there is peculiar to us <em>middling houses</em>;—how
snug they are!"</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353"></a></span></p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 497px;">
<img src="images/i_b_353.jpg" width="497" height="600" alt="House at Launceston" />
<div class="caption"><span class="smcap">Queen Anne Town House.</span></div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354"></a></span></p>
<p>How sleepy the dear old country town is on all days
of the week save market-day. The shopkeepers do
not think it necessary to remain behind their counters,
but run across the street or the square to have a
chat with each other, and should a purchaser appear,
it interrupts a gossip where two or three tradesmen
are together; or if the purchaser goes into a deserted
shop, he has to wait whilst the owner is fetched from
some neighbour's, whither he has gone to discuss the
new scheme for water supply, or the bad quality of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span>
gas. Every squire's carriage, every parson's trap of
the neighbourhood is known to every one in the town;
and should one come in on a day that is not market-day,
the reason of its appearance is a subject of much
conjecture and discussion.</p>
<p>But how the town wakes up on market-day; how
all the tradesmen recover from somnolence, and are
nimble on their feet, and full of promises to get this
bit of ironmongery attended to at once, such lamp-chimneys
fitted, to write to London to order such a
lace or such a silk matched—out of stock only yesterday,
and to get this watch cleaned, or to reset a
stone in that ring, or to alter the stuffing of such a
lady's saddle that galls, or to provide so many pounds
of cake for a school-treat; and the milliner is hard
at work all day fitting gowns, or trying on hats; and
the hairdresser's fingers are never resting from snip,
snip, snip, and the boy from working the treadmill
that sets the rotary-brush in motion; and the ostler
is engaged in taking his shillings; and the fishmonger
in serving up his baskets of soles and
mackerel; and the nursery-gardener in making up
bouquets; and the oil-man in filling cans with benzoline,
which have to go back under the coachman's
feet, as has also a crate with plates from the crockery-shop—that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span>
tiresome kitchen-maid does bang the
plates about so that she has not left one unsnipped;
and the photographer is occupied the whole day
setting heads into an apparatus for holding them
steady, and pulling down or drawing up blinds; and
the dentist is also engaged in relieving persons with
swollen cheeks; and in the workhouse congregate the
Board of Guardians, and talk over the merits of such
and such a case, and the allowance to be made per
week.</p>
<p>There are notices about on all the walls that
amateur theatricals will be given in the new Town
Hall in behalf of the local Hunt; and the neighbours
are bringing in their fox's brushes and masks wherewith
to decorate the proscenium and the walls of the
hall. The poor old Assembly Room, something like
a Grecian temple, but copied—and badly copied—in
stucco, is now given up to a dealer in antiquities,
second-hand furniture, and old china. That Assembly
Room in which our grandmothers danced is now
piled up with beds, large oil-paintings, chiffoniers,
fire-irons and fenders, staircase clocks, and an endless
amount of rubbish for which no one, one would
suppose, could be found to be purchaser. The
assembly balls, the hunt balls, the bachelors' balls,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span>
the concerts, and, as we have seen, the dramatical
entertainments, now take place in the new Town Hall.</p>
<p>The old county town is thriving. It is a place
to which all the neighbourhood gravitates. There
is now a setting of the tide into towns, and ebb
in the country places. Servants will not go to the
country. Meat, dairy produce, fowls, are as dear in
the country as in the towns. In the towns it is not
necessary to keep a pony carriage; in the towns there
is escape from those village parasites who fall on and
eat up those who settle in the country; and in the
towns there is more going on. In the towns educational
advantages are to be had which are lacking in
the country. So, not only do old ladies go to towns,
but also families fairly well off; and the country is
becoming deserted. Small, pretty houses do not let
well there; great houses not at all. So the country
towns are eating up the country.</p>
<p>"Clean, airy, and affluent; well paved, well lighted,
well watched; abounding in wide and spacious streets,
filled with excellent shops and handsome houses;—such
is the outward appearance, the bodily form, of
our market town," says Miss Mitford concerning
Belford; and the description applies to every other
county town in England. As for the vital-spark, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span>
life-blood that glows and circulates through the dead
mass of mortar and masonry, that I have neither
space to describe, nor would one description apply to
every other.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 589px;">
<img src="images/i_b_358.jpg" width="589" height="600" alt="" />
</div>
</div>
<div class="chapter">
<p class="right">
<i>December, 1889.</i>
</p>
<p class="center f150">MESSRS. METHUEN'S LIST.</p>
<hr class="r25" />
<p class="center"><span class="smcap">By the Author of "MEHALAH," "JOHN HERRING," &c.</span></p>
<p class="center f90"><em>Now ready at all Libraries.</em></p>
<p class="f120">ARMINELL: <span class="smcap">A Social Romance</span>.</p>
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<p class="center"><i>By the SAME AUTHOR.</i></p>
<p><span class="f120">OLD COUNTRY LIFE. By <span class="smcap">S. Baring Gould,
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W. Parkinson, F. D. Bedford, and F. Masey. Large crown
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<span class="bright">[<em>Just out.</em></span>
</p>
<blockquote>
<p><span class="smcap">Contents</span>:—Chaps. 1. Old County Families.—2. The Last Squire.—3.
Country Houses.—4. The Old Garden.—5. The Country Parson.—6.
The Hunting Parson.—7. Country Dances.—8. Old Roads.—9.
Family Portraits.—10. The Village Musician.—11. The Village
Bard.—12. Old Servants.—13. The Hunt.—14. The County Town.</p></blockquote>
<p class="center"><i>By the SAME AUTHOR.</i></p>
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<div class="chapter">
<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Foster, <cite>Baronetage</cite>, 1880. See Chaos, p. 653.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> <cite>Examples of Carved Oak Woodwork</cite>, by W. Bliss Sanders.
London: 1883.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Mr. Bliss Saunders gives details of one of these in the work
above referred to.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Hare, <cite>Walks in Rome</cite>.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Having got rid of the wall, and finding that flowers now suffer
from the wind, gardeners are fond of <em>sinking</em> beds, and not a few
gardens are thus furnished.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> <cite>A Reflective Tour through Part of France.</cite> London: 1789.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> From <cite>Songs of the West: Traditional Songs and Ballads of the
West of England.</cite> Collected by S. Baring Gould and H. Fleetwood
Sheppard. London: Methuen & Co. 1889.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> The Flying Horse is a peculiarly dangerous throw over the
head, and usually breaks or severely injures the spine of the
wrestler thus thrown.</p></div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> From <cite>Songs of the West</cite>, by S. Baring Gould and H. Fleetwood
Sheppard. Methuen & Co.: 1889.</p></div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="transnote">
<h3> Transcriber's Notes</h3>
<p>Minor punctuation errors have been corrected.</p>
<p>Some inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation have been left as printed.</p>
<ul class="index">
<li>p 18. "seventeeth century" to "seventeenth century."</li>
<li>p. 46. "old and risty". may be a typo for rusty. Left as printed.</li>
<li>p. 71. "plate glass" to "plate-glass"</li>
<li>p. 161. "Mrs Chowne" to "Mrs. Chowne"</li>
<li>p. 184. "peform" to "perform"</li>
<li>p. 186. "brauls" to "braules" </li>
<li>p. 187. "Duke of Monmoth" to "Duke of Monmouth"</li>
<li>p. 228. The decade of the marriage date of AB is unclear in this edition,
but visible as 1638 in an alternate source.</li>
<li>p. 312. "Wipe you shoes" to "Wipe your shoes"</li>
<li>End pages (publications). "finger's en" to "finger's end"</li>
<li>In the text both teetotaller and teetotaler used and have been left as printed.</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 48522 ***</div>
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