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 LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 MRS. H. RUSSELL AMORY. 
 
 GIFT OF HER CHILDREN 
 R^ W. AND NINA PARTRIDGE 
 
 S^' 
 
 rA
 
 1 
 
 THE RURAL LIFE OF ENGLAND.
 
 ^Vv/.'^i^V^ 
 
 i:^«:a 
 
 THE RURAL LIFE OF ENGLAND 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM HOWITT, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE BOOK OF THE SEASONS, ETC. 
 
 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES.— VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS. 
 
 1838. 
 
 £R
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY MANNING AND SMITHSON, 
 IVy-LAKE, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
 
 DA 
 
 M.' 
 
 O, dear Britain ! O my mother isle ! 
 
 Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
 
 To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
 
 A husband, and a father ! who revere 
 
 All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
 
 Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
 
 native Britain ! O my mother isle ! 
 
 How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy 
 
 To me, who from thy lakes and mountain rills. 
 
 Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 
 
 Have drank in all my intellectual life. 
 
 All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
 
 All adoration of the God in nature. 
 
 All lovely and all honorable things. 
 
 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 
 The joys and greatness of its future being. 
 
 There lives not form nor feeling in my soul 
 
 Unborrowed from my country. O divine 
 
 And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
 
 And most magnificent temple, in the which 
 
 1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs. 
 
 Loving the God who made me, 
 
 Colerid"e.
 
 TO 
 
 THOMAS AND PHEBE HOWITT, 
 
 OF HEANOR, 
 
 IN THE COUNTY OF DERBY. 
 
 My dear Parents, 
 
 There are no living persons to whom these 
 volumes can be with so much propriety inscribed as to 
 you. To you my heart desires to present some visible 
 token of that affection and gratitude which animate it in 
 reviewing all the good it has derived from you. It was 
 to your mculcations, but far more to the spirit of your 
 daily life, — to the purity, integrity, independent feeling, 
 and simple religion, — in fact, to the pervading and per- 
 petual atmosphere of your house, that I owe everything 
 which has directed me onward in life : scorning what- 
 ever is mean ; aspiring after whatever is generous and 
 noble ; loving the poor and the weak, and fearless of the 
 strong ; in a word, everything which has not only pro- 
 longed life, but blessed and sanctified it. Following
 
 Vlll DEDICATION. 
 
 your counsels and example, I have striven not so much 
 for wealth as for an independent spirit and a pure con- 
 science. Do I not owe you much for these? But 
 besides this, it was under your roof that I passed a 
 childhood and youth the happiest that ever were passed ; 
 it was there that I imbibed that love of nature, which 
 must live though it cannot die with me. But beyond 
 this, the present volumes are descriptive of that rural 
 life to which your ancestors for many generations, and 
 yourselves to an honourable old age, have been in- 
 variably and deeply attached. To you, therefore, for 
 these and a thousand other kindred reasons, 
 
 The present Volumes are inscribed, 
 
 By your affectionate Son, 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In sending tliese volumes to press, it would be un- 
 grateful not to avow my satisfaction in the great and 
 continued popularity of the " Book of the Seasons." 
 The cordiality, indeed, with which both my own and 
 Mrs. Hewitt's writings have been received by the 
 public, is the more gratifying, seeing that we have 
 lived, in a great measure, apart from the literary 
 circles, — have belonged to no coterie; had no con- 
 nexion with the influential of the critical press — and 
 at the time of the publication of our first volume, did 
 not actually know one literary person. We have 
 not, therefore, had the benefit of that interest which 
 naturally springs from personal intercourse with lite- 
 rary parties. Whatever kindness has been shewn to 
 our writings — and it has been both great and greatly 
 felt, — with, it is true, some exhibitions of critical 
 spleen, to us quite unaccountable — has been shewn to 
 our writings themselves. 
 
 Whilst acknowledging this, there is one fact that
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 I am bound not to pass over without notice. In 
 availing myself of occasional passages from tlie works 
 of cotemporaries, I have but one simple rule ; and 
 that is, uniformly to acknowledge the loan. It is a 
 glorious rule, " to do as you would be done by :" and 
 I regret to have to complain, that that golden rule has 
 not been very nicely observed towards me. The Book 
 of the Seasons has been, by several writers, freely 
 drawn upon for descriptions of nature, and the sea- 
 sons, without the slightest acknowledgment. I believe 
 every original anecdote and trait of birds and other 
 animals, has been extracted, and repeated so fre- 
 quently, without any intimation of whence they are 
 borrowed, that any one now reading the Book of the 
 Seasons for the first time, would naturally imagine 
 that I myself had borrowed them of others. In one 
 of the last volumes of Time's Telescope that ap- 
 peared, after that interesting work had ceased to be 
 vmder the management of my worthy friend John 
 ISIillard, free and unacknowledged use of such things 
 was made. In one of the Companions to the British 
 Almanack, the tables of the migrations of birds which 
 had cost me much labour to construct, were taken 
 entire, and in the following volume the borrower feli- 
 citated himself on being the happy author of these 
 tables ! In one of the books of Mr. Jesse, I observed 
 the anecdote of the landrail, taken from the Book of 
 the Seasons (p. 223), without any acknowledgment 
 whence it came, and probably without his knowing it. 
 I am bound to notice these facts, for the mainten-
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 ance of literary right. If such a system be permitted 
 with impunity, it will soon become necessary to set up 
 warning boards against trespassers in books as well 
 as in gardens and grounds. It is pleasant enough to 
 see one's self quoted, — not quite so pleasant to see 
 one's self plundered. I am perfectly sensible of the 
 compliment of being quoted; but it ceases to be a 
 compliment when unaccompanied by a fair acknow- 
 ledgment. But enough : I make these remarks re- 
 luctantly, and I trust that I shall not have occasion to 
 renew the subject; but rather that opportunity will 
 be offered me, from time to time, to remove any errors 
 that may have crept into this work, and to render it, 
 by additional information, a perfect portraiture of 
 English country life. 
 
 My object in these volumes has been to present 
 to the reader a view of the Rural Life of England 
 at the present period, as seen in all classes and all 
 parts of the country. For this purpose I have not 
 merely depended upon my acquaintance with rural 
 life, which has been that of a great portion of my own 
 life from boyhood, but I have literally travelled, and 
 a great deal of it on foot, from the Land's-End to the 
 Tweed, penetrating into the retirements, and wit- 
 nessing the domestic life of the country in primitive 
 seclusions and under rustic roofs. If the mountains 
 and valleys, the fair plains and sea-coasts, the halls 
 and farm-houses, the granges, and cottages of shep- 
 herds, miners, peasants, or fishermen, be visited in 
 these volumes with a tenth part of the enjoyment
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 with which I have visited them in their reality, they 
 must be delightful books indeed ; for no moments of 
 my existence have been more deliciously spent, than 
 those in which I have wandered from spot to spot of 
 this happy and beautiful island, surveying its ancient 
 monuments, and its present living men and manners. 
 It will be seen on the title-page, that the em- 
 bellishments of these volumes are both designed and 
 engraved by Samuel Williams: the only exceptions 
 being, that I am indebted to our accomplished friend 
 Miss Twamley, of Birmingham, for the sketch on 
 the title-page of the first volume ; and for those of 
 the Charcoal-burner's Hut, and Morgan Lewis's last 
 View of the Fairies, to our excellent young friend 
 Miss Tregellis, of Neath Abbey. The embellish- 
 ments altogether must, I think, for their beauty and 
 spirit, excite general admiration. 
 
 W. H. 
 
 West-end Cottage, Esher, Surrey, 
 November 2\st, 1837.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 VOLUME I. — PART I. 
 
 LIFE OF THE ARISTOCRACY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Page 
 Pre-eminence of England as a Place of Country Residence — Its 
 Political and Moral position — The Conveniences conferred 
 by the Perfection of tiie Arts on Social Life — Its Literature, 
 Spirit of Freedom, Religious Feeling, and Philanthropic 
 Institutions — The Delightfulness of its Country Residences; 
 with its Parks, Lawns, Woods, Gardens, etc. — The Variety 
 of Scenery in a small compass — Advantages of its Climate, 
 notwithstanding all just cause of complaint — Its Soil sancti- 
 fied by Noble Deeds, and Intellectual Renown — Real su- 
 periority of England as a Place of Residence ; shewn by its 
 effects on Foreigners — Willis's Description of its Effect on 
 him. .......... Y 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Enviable Position of the English Country Gentleman as regards 
 all the Pleasures and Advantages of Life — Every Art and 
 Energy exerted in his Favour — by them his House sur- 
 rounded with Deliglits — The News, and the Luxuries of the 
 World brought to his Table — Books, Music, Paintings at 
 his command — Farming, Gardening, Planting, Field-sports 
 all within his grasp — Scenes which offer themselves to extend 
 his Pleasures — The Service of his Country open to him — 
 Facilities for Travel — Pursuits and Pleasures afforded, by 
 Country Life, to Ladies. - - - - - -15
 
 XIV CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER III. Page 
 
 Life of the Gentry in the Country — Effect of the Annual Visit 
 of the Aristocracy to Town — Pleasure of Re-assembling at 
 their Country Houses — Impressions of our Country Houses 
 and Country Life on Foreigners — The German Prince's 
 description of the Dairy at Woburn Abbey — Willis's descrip- 
 tion of the Mode of Life at Gordon Castle — The peculiar 
 Charms of this kind of life. ------ 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Routine of Country Sports — Hunting, Shooting, Coursing, pur- 
 sued in a different style to that of our Ancestors — Each its 
 own Season, Apparatus, and Appointments — English Sports- 
 men communicate their Knowledge through the Press — The 
 Extinction of Falconry — The perfection of Fox-hunting in 
 this Country — Manner in which some Old Sportsmen amuse 
 themselves during the Summer — Favour into which Angling 
 has risen of late years — Our Tourist-Anglers — Grouse- 
 Shooting: its exciting Nature — Symptoms of the approach 
 of the l"2th of August in England, the same as exhibited in 
 Scotland — Sportsmen on their way to the Highlands by the 
 Packet — The contrast between them and Pedestrianizing 
 Students — Tom Oakleigh's description of the commence- 
 ment of Grouse-Shooting on the Moors — Other features of 
 it both there and in Scotland— Return for Partridge Shoot- 
 ing — A Word with the Too-Sensitive. - - - - 41 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Scientific Farming : its State, Implements, and Admirers, An- 
 cient and Modern — Agricultural Pursuits delighted in by 
 the greatest Men of all Ages — Attachment of the Roman 
 Nobility to them — Cicero's enthusiastic Encomiums on 
 Country Affairs — Farming now practised as a Science — 
 Vast Improvements during the last Century — Multiplicity 
 of its Modern Implements — Benefits derived from Chemistry 
 and Mechanics — Progressive Improvements in Tillage, Breed 
 of Cattle, Wool, Machinery, etc. by TuU, Menzies, Bake- 
 well, Lord Somerville, Coke, Duke of Bedford, the Gal- 
 leys, etc. — By Periodicals and Associations — Men to whom 
 Agricultural Interests are peculiarly Indebted — Characters 
 of the Duke of Buccleugh and Lord Somerville, by Sir 
 Walter Scott — Anecdote of the Duke of Portland. - - 69 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Planting : its Pleasures — Vast Effect of the Writings of Evelyn 
 in England, and Dr. Johnson in Scotland — Evidences of 
 the growth of the Planting Spirit in all parts of the King- 
 dom — Wordsworth's Complaint of the Larch in the Lake 
 Country — Larch Plantations of the Duke of Athol — His
 
 CONTENTS. XV 
 
 Page 
 calculated Profits—Monteith of Stirling's Calculations of 
 the Profits of 100 Acres of Oak Planting in seventy years — 
 Anecdote of an extensive Planter. - - - - 82 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Gardens— Pleasures of them — Retrospective View of English 
 Gardens — Influence of our Imaginative Writers on their 
 Character — Writers before the Reign of Elizabeth — The 
 Roman Style of Gardens under the name of Italian, French 
 and Dutch Gardens, prevalent till the 18th Century, over- 
 turned by the Writings of Addison, Pope, and Walpole, and 
 by the Works of Bridgman, Kent, and Brown — Gardens of 
 Hampton Court, Nonsuch, Theobalds, etc., as described by 
 Hentzner in 1598— The Old Style of Gardens appropriate 
 to the Old Houses and the Character of the Times — Ad- 
 vantages of the Prevalence of different Tastes at different 
 Periods pointed out — Laborious Lives and Travels of our 
 earlier Gardeners and Botanists — Our Old Gardens interest- 
 ing objects in different parts of the Kingdom — Their Classi- 
 cal Antiquity pleaded in their favour. - - - - 93 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Country Excitements — Diminution of the Enjoyment of Country 
 Life by Petty Rivalries and Jealousies ; and by the Neglect 
 of Walking — Racing a great cause of Excitement to the 
 Gentry in the Country — The Present State of the Turf, as 
 shewn by Nimrod — Variety afforded by Race and Country 
 Balls, Musical Festivals, etc. — Confirmation — Parade of 
 Assize Time — The Sheriff's Pageant. - - - - 107 
 
 PART II. 
 
 LIFE OF THE AGRICULTURAL POPULATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 The English Farmer : his Character, and Mode of Life — Picture 
 of the approach to a Market Town on a Market Day- 
 Farmers going in and coming out — Contrast between the 
 space occupied by the Concerns of the Farmer and the City 
 Trader — Enviable Aspect of the Farmer's Abode — His 
 Life and Soul in his Profession — His Conversation — A great 
 Charm in Nature working with him — Delight which Poets 
 and Great Men have found in Farming — The Intellectual 
 grade of the Farmer — Pressing Hospitalities of Farmers and
 
 XVI CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 their Wives — A Sketch of one Day's Feasting at a Farm- 
 House — Dinner, and its chaos of Good Things — Tea, and 
 the arrival of Fresh Guests — Who they are — Traits of 
 Character both in Men and Women of this Class — The 
 Dance, and the Departure. ..._-- 121 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The English Farmer as operated upon by Modern Circumstances 
 — Complaint of Cobbett that the Farmer is spoiled by modern 
 Refinement — In what degree this is true — Men of all 
 Ranks to be found amongst Farmers — The Old Farmer in 
 retired parts of England as Rustic as ever — Effects of Poli- 
 tical Economy — Evils of the Large Farm System — The 
 Farmer in a Healthy State of the Country — Drawbacks 
 on the Pleasantness of Farm Houses — The Remedy easy — 
 Advantages and Disadvantages of Large Farms stated — 
 Instance of the Success of a Small Farmer, and its obvious 
 Causes — Just equilibrium of Interests, and an open field for 
 Enterprise necessary to National Prosperity. - - - 138 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 Farm Servants, and their mode of Life — A Peak-of- Derbyshire- 
 man's Address to his Guest — The Plodding Farmer and his 
 Wife — The Journal of a Farmer's Day, by Mr. Robinson of 
 Cambridge— Mode in which Farm-Servants, both Men and 
 Women, are brought up — Ordinary course of the Farmer- 
 Man's Life — The same in Harvest — Sketch of him as pre- 
 paring for Plough, or for the Team — Custom of going out 
 with the wagon to deliver Corn, etc. — Anecdote of a "States- 
 man's" Wife in Cumberland. - - - - - -149 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The Bondage System of the North of England — Manner in 
 which it strikes a Stranger from the South — Bands of Women 
 working in the Fields — Mode of Maintaining the Hinds — 
 Description of their Cottages — Cottage of the Herd of 
 Middleton — Cobbett's surprise on discovering the Bondage 
 System — His view of its Effects on the Pojjulation and Pro- 
 ductiveness of the Country — Curious Coach Scene near 
 Morpeth — Cobbett's Address to the Chopsticks of the South 
 on the State of the Bondage District — Bondage Farms and 
 Farm-yards — Lodgings of the Hinds — Their allowance of 
 Corn and Pease — The Schoolmaster paid in Meal — Preca- 
 rious Nature of the Tenure of their Houses — Enormous 
 Rent of the Land — The Farm-yards, Cornfactories — Scan- 
 tiness of the Population compared with the Agricultural 
 Districts of the South — Hardsliips of tlie System on the 
 Hinds — A Certificate required from the last Master — The 
 same custom in the Collieries of the Midland Counties — 
 Concluding Remarks. - - - - - - -163
 
 CONTENTS. XVll 
 
 CHAPTER V. Page 
 
 The Terrors of a Solitary House — Sense of Insecurity which a 
 Townsman feels in a Solitary House at Night — Wide dif- 
 ference in our feeling of such a place by Day and by Night 
 — Nervous Fancies excited by them on Stormy Nights — 
 Decrease of Burglaries and Higliway Robberies through 
 Modern Improvements — Noble Defence of his House by 
 Colonel Purcell — Attack of the House of a Welsh Gentle- 
 man, Mr. Powell, and his Murder — Fact related by a 
 Minister of the Society of Friends — Sturdy Rogues — Fright 
 of an Old Gentleman with one — Cowardice inspired by 
 living in a Solitary House — Superstitions generated by 
 such Places — Concluding Remarks - - - _ 183 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Midsummer in the Fields — The Spiritual effect of Green Fields 
 at Midsummer — True Wisdom of Izaak Walton — Delicious 
 Haunts of the Angler at this Season — Profound repose of 
 Trees — Rich Mosaic of Fields — Sound of Birds at this 
 Season — Mowers at work — Delights of Brook- sides, with 
 their Plants and Insects — Curious Metamorphosis of Midges 
 — Beauty of Dragon -flies — Summer Birds — Feelings con- 
 nected with this fleeting Season ... - - 212 
 
 PART III. 
 
 PICTURESQUE AND MORAL FEATURES OF THE COUNTRY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Gipsies: their History and Present State — Gipsies part and 
 parcel of the English Landscape — An essential Portion of 
 our Poetry and Literature — Uses made of them by many 
 kinds of Writers — Gipsy Adventure of Sir Roger de Cover- 
 ley — Gipsy Sketches by Wordsworth, Cowper, Crabbe, and 
 others — Inquiries after their Origin — The notion of the 
 Ettrick Shepherd of it — Arab-like Character of Gipsies — 
 Researches of Grellman and Buttner into the Gipsy Origin 
 — Account of their Numbers, Treatment, and Habits in all 
 Nations — Their Language — Various Names by which they 
 are and have been known — M. Hasse's Theory of their 
 Antiquity — Pointed out by Herodotus and Strabo — Causes 
 of their niOre numerous appearance in Western Europe 
 about the Year 1400 — Their first entry into France in 
 1427, as described by Pasquin — Banished by Proclamation 
 — The same policy pursued in other Countries — Cruelties 
 practised on them in Spain — Order to drive them from
 
 • • • 
 
 XVIU CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 France with Fire and Sword — Attempt to Expel them from 
 Sweden, Denmark, Italy, and England — Entry respecting 
 them in the Parish Records of Uttoxeter — The Inquiries of 
 Mr. Hoyland into their History and Condition — His Visits 
 to their Haunts at Norwood and London — Their Annual 
 Progresses from London through various Counties — Mr. 
 Hoyland's Researches in Scotland — The Border- Country 
 their chief Resort — Letter of Sir Walter Scott respecting 
 them — Remarkable Scene with them at Riding the Marches 
 near Yetholm — Sir Walter Scott's Recognition of one of 
 them at Kelso Fair— The Family of the Faas— Old Will 
 Faa, the Gipsy Kings Journey to see the Laird on his 
 Death-bed — Meg Merrilies one of their Clan — The Author's 
 Visit to Yetholm — The Gipsy Houses : the Feud between 
 them and the Shepherds — Old Will Faa, the present King 
 
 The Importance given him by Sir Walter Scott's Writings 
 
 — His Smuggling and Fighting — His Portrait by Sir Martin 
 Archer Shee — General Review of their Numbers and Con- 
 dition in these Kingdoms — Camp near Nottingham, and 
 Death of the Gipsy King — Peculiaiities of the whole 
 Race — Their estimated Numbers in Europe — Children sent 
 to School in London — Gipsy Wife reading her Bible to 
 her Children — Feelings naturally presented by the sight 
 of a Gang — Curious accidental Meeting of the Author with 
 two Ladies of Rank acting the Gipsies in Surrey - - 219 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Nooks of the World, or a Peep into the Back Settlements of 
 England — Beauty and Repose of many such Places to the 
 eye — Their Intellectual slumber — Wordsworth's Descrip- 
 tion of a Farmer-lad — The Books generally to be found 
 in primitive Cottages — Worst state of Morals in Districts 
 partly Agricultural and partly Manufacturing — Exertions 
 of the Methodists — The Effect of Political Pressure on the 
 Working Class — Necessity of sound Education — The Effect 
 of it in Scotland — Rural Book Societies recommended — 
 An Example of the effect of Reading on a Working Man — 
 Sordid Cliaracter of the People of some Property in obscure 
 Hamlets — A Physician living in a Dove Cot — Sketch of a 
 Country Proprietor and his Family — The Farmer Brothers 
 — The Land Agent's account of a curious Dinner Scene at 
 the Squire's — A worthy Example of the Old School of 
 Country Gentlemen — Education the great need of the 
 Rural Districts. 251 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Nooks of the World : Part II. — Life in the Dales of Lancashire 
 and Yorkshire — Wide Contrast between the Aspect and 
 Condition of the Agricultural and Manufacturing Districts — 
 Poverty and Rudeness of some Parts of Lancashire — Half- 
 wild Children in the Lancashire Hills — Old Factory System 
 — Wild Country between Lancashire and the Yorkshire
 
 CONTENTS. XIX 
 
 Page 
 
 Dales — General Character of the Dales — Primitive Simpli- 
 city of the People — Formerly much visited by George Fox 
 — A Friend's Meeting — Dent Dale — Singular Appearance 
 of the Bed of the River Dent — Rural Occupation and 
 Vehicles — Population of a Dale divided into little Com- 
 munities — Customs at a Birth — Knitting Parties — Knitting 
 Songs — Other Particulars of their Knitting Habits — In- 
 stances of Eccentricities of Character — Dislike of Factories 
 — Every Person and House has its Name — Singular Story 
 of Deception practised on a rich Widow — Peculiar Customs 
 of the Dales — Their Hospitality - _ . _ . 285 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Old English Houses — General Impression of them — The strong 
 Historic Interest connected with them — A delightful 
 Record of such Abodes might be written — Feelings that 
 arise in passing through them — Their various Styles, 
 Furniture, Pictures, Tapestry, and Arms, Memorials of the 
 Changes of National Power and Manners — Passages of most 
 Tragical Interest indicated by many of our Family Pictures 
 — Treasures of Ancient Art collected in our Noble Houses 
 — Horace Walpole's wish, that all our Noble Mansions were 
 congregated in London — Beneficial Influence of the Country 
 Residence of tiie Aristocracy — Feelings of Horace Walpole 
 on visiting his Father's House at Houghton - _ . 32-2 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Hardwicke Hall — The Author's Visit to it on the present 
 Duke's coming of Age — Scenes which presented them- 
 selves — A Second Visit with a Party of Friends — A Third 
 Visit after the Lapse of Twenty Years — Present Aspect of 
 the Place — Building Maniaof Bess of Haidwicke — Remains 
 of the Old Hall of Hardwicke — Gog and Magog — Arabella 
 Stewart, and Queen of Scots imprisoned there — Cliapel — 
 Old Tapestry — Family Gallery — Good Taste by which the 
 House is kept in its Original State — Statue of the Queen 
 of Scots — Mrs. Jameson's Account of Hardwicke — The 
 Duke there — His Apartments — Contrast of different Ages 
 presented by such Houses as Hardwicke, Haddon, and 
 Chatsworth ----.-.__ 333 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Annesley Hall, and Hucknall— Annesley Hall, the abode of 
 Mary Chaworth, most singularly overlooked by Visitors to 
 Newstead — Tomb and Funeral of Lord Byron — Scene in the 
 Vault on the Evening of the Funeral — Moore's Visit to the 
 Tomb — Variety of Visitors shewn by the Book kept by the 
 Clerk — Inscription by Lord Byron's Sister — Interesting 
 Signatures — Annesley Hall — The Hill mentioned by 
 Byron in "The Dream "—Curious Mistake by Moore — 
 The " Diadem of Trees in circular array," cut down by
 
 XX CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 Mary Chaworth's Husband — A Mechanic's Exclamation on 
 hearing of it — Interesting Aspect of the Old Place in its 
 Woods — State of Desolation in which it was found by the 
 Author — The Old Hjuse-keeper — Description of the 
 Interior — Superstitions of the Place — Paper Cuttings on the 
 Drawing-room Screen — Likeness of Mary Chaworth thereon 
 — Fine Old Terrace — Scene of Lord Byron's last Interview 
 with Mary Chaworth — Her melancholy after-life here — 
 Impressions during the Visit to this Place ■ _ - 348 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 Newstead Abbey — Picturesque approach to it. — Recollection of 
 a former Visit — The Desolation of the Place then — Byron's 
 own Description of it — The Gallery — The Library — Sculls 
 and Crucifix — Dog's Tomb — The Satyr Statues — Eccentric 
 Character of the former Lord Byron — Anecdotes of Lord 
 Byron's Minority — Paintings connected with the Poet's 
 History — General good taste displayed by the present 
 Possessor of the Abbey — Exceptions to this Taste — General 
 Description of the Abbey from Don Juan — Houses of 
 Fletcher and Rushton — Tree inscribed by Lord Byron — 
 Demolition of the Mill — Concluding Remarks on the Old 
 Houses of England, and List of the most remarkable - 376 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 Cliaracteristics of Park Scenery .-._-. 393
 
 PART I. 
 
 RURAL LIFE, PURSUITS, AXD ADVANTAGES OF THE 
 GENTRY OF ENGLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PRE-EMINENCE OF ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 
 
 Let every man who has a sufficiency for the enjoy- 
 ment of life, thank heaven most fervently that he lives 
 in this country and age. They may tell us of the 
 beauty of southern skies, and the softness of southern 
 climates; but where is the land which a man would 
 rather choose to call himself a native of — because it 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 
 2 ENGLAND AS A PLACE Oi" 
 
 combines more of the requisites for a happy and 
 useful existence ; more of the moral, social, aftd intel- 
 lectual advantages, without which fair skies or soit 
 climates would become dolorous, or "at best, indifferent? 
 I say, let every man gratefully rejoice, who has the 
 means of commanding the full blessings of English 
 life, — for alas ! there are thousands and millions of our 
 conntrymen who possess but a scanty portion of these ; 
 whose lives are too long and continuous a course of 
 toil and anxiety to permit them even to look round 
 them and see how vast are the powers of enjoyment 
 in this country, and how few of those sources of ease, 
 comfort, and refined pleasure are within their reach. 
 I trust a better day is coming to this portion of our 
 population ; that many circumstances are working to- 
 gether to confer on the toiling children of these king- 
 doms the social rewards which their unwearied industry 
 so richly merits ; but for those who already hold in their 
 hands the golden key, where is the country like Eng- 
 land ? If we are naturally proud of making portion of 
 a mighty and a glorious kingdom, where is the king- 
 dom like England? It is a land of which the most 
 ambitious or magnanimous spirit may well say with a 
 high emotion — " That is my country !" Over what 
 an extent of the earth it stretches its territories; over 
 wiiat swarming and diversified millions it extends its 
 sceptre ! On every side of the globe, lie its outspread 
 regions ; under every aspect of heaven, walk its free or 
 tributary people. In the West Indies; in the vaster 
 dominions of the East; in America and Australia; 
 through each wide continent, and many a fair island ! 
 But its political and moral power extends even far 
 beyond these. What nation is there, however great,
 
 -^;- 
 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 3 
 
 that does not look with breathless anxiety to the 
 movements of England ; what country is not bound 
 '^■^■l Vtp with it in the strongest interests and hopes ; what 
 country is there which does not feel the influence of 
 its moral energy ? Through all the cities and forests 
 of Republican America, the spirit of England, as well 
 ^"'. I as its language, lives and glows. France, Germany, 
 and even Russia to the depths of its frozen heart, feel 
 the emanations of its free and popular institutions. 
 Every pulse of love which beats here — every principle 
 of justice that is more clearly recognized — every sen- 
 timent of Christianity that is elevated on the broad 
 basis of the human heart, hence spreads through the 
 earth as from a centre of moral life, and produces in 
 the remotest regions its portion of civilization. 
 
 Hence do I love my country ! — and partake 
 Of kindred agitations for her sake; 
 She visits oftentimes my midniglit dream ; 
 Her glory meets me with the earliest beam 
 Of light, which tells that morning is awake. 
 
 It is something to make a part, however small, of 
 such a nation. It is something to feel that you have 
 such a scope of power and beneficence in the earth. 
 But when you add to this, the food laid up for the 
 heart and the intellect in this island — the wealth of 
 literature and science ; the spirit of freedom in which 
 they are nourished, and by which they are prosecuted ; 
 the sound religious feeling which has always distin- 
 guished it as a nation ; the philanthropic institutions 
 that exist in it — every true heart must felicitate itself 
 that its lot is cast in this kingdom. 
 
 Such are the moral, political, and intellectual advan- 
 tages of English life, vrhich must make any noble-
 
 4 ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF 
 
 minded and reflecting man feel, as he considers his 
 position in the scale of humanity, that he is ''a citizen 
 of no mean city :" but our social advantages are not 
 a whit behind these. Can any state of society be 
 well conceived on which the arts and sciences, litera- 
 ture, and general knowledge can shed more social 
 conveniences and refined enjoyments ? In our houses, 
 in our furniture, in all the materials for our dresses, 
 in the apparatus for our tables and the endless variety 
 of good things by which they are supplied, for which 
 every region has been traversed, and every art in 
 bringing them home, or raising them at home, has 
 been exerted ; in books and paintings ; in the won- 
 derful provision and accumulation of every article in 
 our shops, that the real wants or the most fanciful 
 desires of men or women may seek for ; in our gar- 
 dens, roads, the beautiful and affluent cultivation of 
 the country, — what nation is there, or has there been, 
 which can for a moment bear a comparison with 
 England ? 
 
 Ye miserable ancients, had ye these? 
 
 And this we may ask, not merely as it respects gas, 
 steam, the marvellous developements of chemistry 
 and electro-magnetism, by which the mode and em- 
 bellishment of our existence have been so much 
 changed already, and which promise yet, changes too 
 vast to be readily familiarised to the imagination,— 
 but of a thousand other privileges and conveniences 
 in which England is pre-eminent. It is, however, to 
 our rural life that we are about to devote our 
 attention ; and it is in rural life that the superiority of 
 England is, perhaps, more striking, than in any other
 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 5 
 
 respect. Over the wliole face of our country tlie 
 charm of a refined existence is diffused. There is 
 nothing which strikes foreigners so much as the 
 beauty of our country abodes, and the peculiarity of 
 our country life. The elegancies, the arts and refine- 
 ments of the city are carried out and blended, from 
 end to end of the island, so beautifully with the 
 peaceful simplicity of the country, that nothing 
 excites more the admiration of strangers than those 
 rural paradises, the halls, castles, abbeys, lodges, 
 and cottages in which our nobility and gentry 
 spend more or less of every year. Let Prince 
 Puckler Muskaw, Washington Irving, Willis, Count 
 Pecchio, Rice, and others, tell you how beautiful, in 
 their eyes, appeared the parks, lawns, fields, and 
 the whole country of England, cultivated like a 
 garden. It is true that our climate is not to be 
 boasted of for its perpetual serenity. It has had no 
 lack of abuse, both from our own countrymen and 
 others. We are none of us without a pretty lively 
 memory of its freaks and changes, its mists and 
 tempests ; its winters wild as the last, and its springs 
 that are often so late in their arrival, that they find 
 summer standing in the gate to tell them they are no 
 longer wanted. All this we know; yet which of us 
 is not ready to forgive all this, and to say \\'ith a full 
 heart, 
 
 " England, with all thy faults, I love thee still ! " 
 
 Which of us is not grateful and discerning enough 
 to remember, that even our fickle and imperfect 
 climate has qualities to which England owes much 
 of its glory, and we, many a proud feeling and victo- 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 6 ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF 
 
 rious energy? Which of us can forget, that this 
 abused climate, is that which has not enervated by its 
 heats, has not seduced by its amenities, has not de- 
 populated by its malaria, so that under its baneful 
 influence we have become feeble, listless, reckless of 
 honour or virtue ; the mean, tlie slothful, the crouch- 
 ing slaves of barbarians, or even effeminate despots : 
 it is that which has done none of these things; pro- 
 duced no such effects as these ; but it is that which 
 has raised millions of frames strong and muscular and 
 combatant, and enduring as the oaks of its rocky hills; 
 that has nerved those frames to the contempt alike 
 of danger and effeminacy; and has quickened them 
 with hearts full of godlike aspirations after a virtuous 
 glory. What a long line — what ages after ages, of 
 invincible heroes, of dauntless martyrs for freedom 
 and religion, of solemn sages and lawgivers, of phi- 
 losophers and poets, men sober, and prescient, and 
 splendid in all their endowments as any country ever 
 produced ; — what a line of these has flourished amid 
 the glooms and severities of this abused climate ; and 
 while Italy has sunk into subjection, and Greece 
 has lain waste beneath the feet of the Turk — has 
 piled up by a succession of matchless endeavours the 
 fame and power of England, to the height of its 
 present greatness. 
 
 In our halls is hung 
 Armoury of the invincible knights of old : 
 We must be free or die, who speak the tongue 
 That Shakspeare spake ; the faith and morals hold 
 Which Milton held. In everything we are sprung 
 Of earth's best blood, have titles manifold. 
 
 And will any man tell me that the spirit of our
 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 7 
 
 climate, has had nothing to do with begetting and 
 nourishing the energy which has borne on to innnor- 
 tality these great men; which has quickened us with 
 "earth's best blood ;" which has given us " titles mani- 
 fold ?" The gloom and desolate majesty of autumn — 
 the wild magnificence of thunder-storms, with their 
 vivid lightnings, their awful uproar, the lurid darkness 
 of their clouds, and the outshining of rainbows — have 
 these had no effect on the meditations of divines and 
 the songs of poets? Has the soul-concentrating 
 power of winter driven our writers into their closets in 
 vain? Have the fireside festivities of our darkest 
 season ; has the blazing yule-clog, and the merriment 
 of the old English hall — things which have grown 
 out of the very asperity of the climate, left no traces 
 in our literature? Did Milton, Bacon, Spenser, 
 Shakspeare, and such spirits, M^alk through our solemn 
 halls, whether of learning, or religion, or baronial 
 pomp, all of which have been raised by the very 
 genius of a pensive climate ; or did they climb our 
 mountains, and roam our forests, amid winds that 
 roared in the boughs and whirled their leaves at their 
 feet, and gather thence no imagery, no similies, no 
 vigour of thought and language, such as still skies 
 and flowery meadows could not originate ? Let us 
 turn to the lays and romances of Scott and Byron, 
 and see whether brown heaths and splintered moun- 
 tains; the savage ruins of craggy coasts, moaning 
 billows, mists, and rains ; the thunder of cataracts, 
 and the sleep of glens, all seen and felt under the 
 alternations of seasons and of weather, such only as 
 an unsettled climate could show, have not tinged 
 their spirits, and therefore their works, with hues of
 
 8 ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF 
 
 an immortal beauty, the splendid product of a boister- 
 ous climate. Why they are these influences, which 
 have had no small share in the creation of such men 
 as Burns, Bloomfield, Hogg, and Clare — the shepherd- 
 poets of a free land, and an out-of-door life. Yes, 
 we are indebted to our climate for a mass of good, 
 a host of advantages of which we little dream, till we 
 begin to count them up. 
 
 And are all our experiences of the English climate 
 those of gloom ? Are there no glorious sunsets, no 
 summer evenings, balmy as our dreams of heaven, no 
 long sunny days of summer, no dewy mornings, 
 whose freshness brings with it ideas of earth in its 
 youth, and the glades of Paradise trod by the fair 
 feet of Eve ? Have we no sweet memories of youth 
 and friendship, in which such hours, such days, in 
 which fields of harvest, hay-harvest and corn-harvest, 
 with all their rejoicing rustic companies, lie in the 
 sunshine ? Are there none of excursions throug[-h the 
 mountains, along sea shores, of sailing on fair lakes, 
 or lying by running waters in green and flowery 
 dales, while over-head shone out skies so blue and 
 serene that they seemed as though they could never 
 change? In every English bosom there lie many 
 such sweet memories; and if we look through the 
 whole of one of the worst seasons that we have, what 
 intervals of pleasant weather we find in it. One of 
 the great charms of this country too, dependent on its 
 climate, is that rich and almost perpetual greenness, 
 of which strangers always speak with admiration. 
 
 But what of climate ? There are other claims on 
 our aff"ections for this noble country, which were its 
 climate the most splendid under heaven, would yet
 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 9 
 
 cast it far into the shade. That which binds us 
 closely to it, next to our living ties, is that every inch 
 of English ground is sanctified by noble deeds, and 
 intellectual renown; but on this topic ISIrs, Hovvitt 
 has, in her Wood-Leighton, put into the mouth of 
 a worthy clergyman of Staffordshire, words that will 
 better express my feelings, than any I can now use. 
 
 " I know not how it is ; I cannot comprehend the 
 feeling, with which many quit this noble country for 
 ever for strange lands. And yet it may be said, that 
 hundreds do it every day ; and for thousands it may 
 indeed be well. For those who have had no prospect 
 but the daily struggle for existence ; for those whose 
 minds have not been opened and quickened into a 
 sense of the higher and more spiritual enjoyments 
 which this country affords ; for the labouring many, 
 the valleys of Australia, or the vast forests and 
 prairies of America may be alluring. But to me, — 
 and therefore, it seems, equally to other men with 
 like tastes and attachments — to quit England, noble, 
 fearless, magnanimous and Christian England, would 
 be to cut asunder life, and hope, and happiness at 
 once. No ! till I voyage to " the better land," I 
 could never quit England. What ! after all the ages 
 that have been spent in making it habitable and 
 home-like ; after all the blood shed in its defence, 
 and for the maintaining of its civil polity; after all 
 the consumption of patriotic thought and enterprise, 
 the labours of philosophers, divines, and statesmen, to 
 civilize and Christianize it ; after the time, the capital, 
 the energies employed, from age to age, to cultivate 
 its jBelds, dry up marshes, build bridges, and lay down 
 roads, raise cities, and fill every house with the pio-
 
 10 ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF 
 
 ducts of the arts and the wealth of literature; can 
 there be a spot of earth that can pretend to a tithe 
 of its advantages, or a spot that creates in the heart 
 that higher tone necessary for their full enjoyment ? 
 Why, every spot of this island is sanctified, not only 
 by the efforts of countless patriots, but as the birth- 
 place and abode of men of genius. Go where you 
 will, places present themselves to your eyes which are 
 stamped with the memory of some one or other of those 
 " burning and shining lights," that have illuminated 
 the atmosphere of England with their collective 
 splendour, and made it visible to the men of ftirthest 
 climates. Even in this secluded district, which, beau- 
 tiful as it is, is comparatively little known or spoken 
 of, amongst the generality of English people, how 
 many literary recollections surround you ! To say 
 nothing of the actors in great historical scenes ; the 
 Talbots, Shrewsburys, Dudleys, and Bagots of former 
 ages; or the Ansons, Vernons, St. Vincents, and 
 Pagets of the later and present ones ; in this county 
 were born those excellent bishops, Hurd and Newton, 
 and the venerable antiquary and herald, Elias Ash- 
 mole. To say nothing of the quantity of taste and 
 knowledge that exist in the best classes of society here- 
 about, we have to-day passed the houses of Thomas 
 Gisborne and Edward Cooper, clergymen who have 
 done honour to their profession by their talents, and 
 the liberality of their sentiments. In that antiquated 
 Fauld Hall, once lived old Squire Burton, the brother 
 of the author of the '' Anatomy of Melancholy ;" and 
 there is little doubt that some part of that remarkable 
 work was written there. By that Dove, Izaak Walton, 
 that pious old man, that lover of the fields, and his-
 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 11 
 
 torian of the worthies of the church, used to stroll 
 and meditate, or converse with his friend Charles 
 Cotton, a Staffordshire man too. In the woods of 
 Wootton, which are very visible hence by daylight, 
 once wandered a very different, but very distinguished 
 person, the wayward Rousseau. In Uttoxeter, that 
 great, but ill-used, and ill-understood astronomer, 
 FJamstead, received the greater part of his education ; 
 and from Lichfield, the spires of whose cathedral we 
 have seen to-day, went out Johnson and Garrich, 
 each to achieve supremacy in his own track of dis- 
 tinction. And there, too, lived Anna Seward, who, 
 with all her egotism and faults of taste, was superior 
 to the women of her age, and had the sagacity to 
 perceive amongst the very first, the dawning fame of 
 Southey and Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 " If this comparatively obscure district can thus 
 boast of having given birth or abode to so many in- 
 fluential intellects, what shall not England — entire and 
 glory-crowned England? And who shall not feel 
 proud to own himself of its race and kindred ; and, 
 if he can secure for himself a moderate share of its 
 common goods, be happy to live and die in it !" 
 
 Thus it is all England through. There is no part 
 of it, in which you do not become aware that there 
 some portion of our national glory has originated. 
 The very coachmen as you traverse the highways, 
 continually point out to you spots made sacred by 
 men and their acts. There say they, was born, or 
 lived Milton or Shakspeare, Locke or Bacon, Pope 
 or Dryden ; that was the castle of Chaucer ; there, 
 now, lives Wordsworth, Southey, or Moore. There 
 Queen Elizabeth was confined in her youth, here she
 
 12 ENGLAND AS A PLACE OF 
 
 confined Mary of Scotland in her age. There Wick- 
 liffe lived, and here his ashes were scattered in the air 
 by his enemies. There Hooker watched his sheep 
 while he pondered on his Ecclesiastical Polity. Here 
 was born Cromwell, or Hampden — here was the 
 favourite retreat of Chatham, Fox, Pitt, or other 
 person, who in his day exerted a powerful influence 
 on the mind or fortunes of this country. These 
 perpetual monitions that we are walking in a land 
 filled from end to end with glorious reminiscences, 
 make country -residence in England so delightful. 
 But the testimony of foreigners is more conclusive 
 than our own ; and therefore, we will close this 
 chapter with the impression which the entrance into 
 England made on two Americans — Washington 
 Irving and Mr. Willis. Irving's mind was full of the 
 inspiration of the character of England as he had 
 found it in books. " There is to an American, a 
 volume of associations with the very name. It is the 
 land of promise, teeming Avith every thing of vvhich his 
 childhood has heard, or on which his studious years 
 have pondered. The ships of war, that prowled like 
 guardian giants along the coast; the headlands of 
 Ireland, stretching out into the Channel ; the Welsh 
 mountains, towering into the clouds ; all were objects 
 of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I 
 reconnoitred the shores with a telescope. My eye 
 dwelt with delight on neat cottages, with their trim 
 shrubberies and green grass-plots. I saw the moul- 
 dering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the 
 taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of 
 a neighbouring hill — all were characteristic of Eng- 
 land." That is the feeling of an American, arriving
 
 COUNTRY RESIDENCE. 13 
 
 here directly from his own country : tliis is that of 
 one coming from the European Continent. Mr. 
 Willis says, on landing at Dover: " My companion 
 led the way to an hotel, and we were introduced by 
 Ejiglish waiters (I had not seen such a thing in three 
 years, and it was quite like being waited on by gentle- 
 men) to two blazing coal fires in the coffee-room of 
 the * Ship.' O, what a comfortable place it appeared ! 
 A rich Turkey carpet snugly fitted ; nicely rubbed 
 mahogany tables ; the morning papers from London ; 
 bell-ropes that looidd ring the bell ; doors that would 
 shut; a landlady that spoke English, and was kind 
 and civil ; and, though there were eight or ten people 
 in the room, no noise above the rustle of a newspaper, 
 and positively rich red damask curtains, neither 
 second-hand nor shabby, to the windows ! A greater 
 contrast than this, to the things that answer to them 
 on the Continent, could scarcely be imagined. The 
 fires were burning brilliantly, and the coffee-room was 
 in the nicest order when we descended to our breakfast 
 at six the next morning. The tea-kettle singing on 
 the hearth, the toast was hot, and done to a turn, and 
 the waiter was neither sleepy nor uncivil — all, again, 
 very unlike a morning at an hotel in La belle France. 
 England is described always very justly, and always 
 in the same words, 'it is all one garden.' There is 
 scarce a cottage, between Dover and London (seventy 
 miles) where a poet might not be happy to live. I 
 saw a hundred little spots I coveted with quite a 
 heart-ache. Everybody seemed employed, and every 
 body well-made and healthy. The relief from the 
 deformity and disease of the way-side beggars of the 
 Continent was very striking." 
 
 c 2
 
 14 ENGLAND AS A RESIDENCE. 
 
 It is through this England, thus worthy of our love, 
 whether as seen by our own eyes, or the eyes of 
 intelligent foreigners, that we are about to make 
 our progress, visiting plain and mountain, farm and 
 hamlet, and making acquaintance with the dwellings, 
 habits, and feelings of both gentle and simple.
 
 15 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ENVIABLE POSITION OF THE ENGLISH COUNTRY 
 GENTLEMAN, AS REGARDS ALL THE PLEASURES 
 AND ADVANTAGES OF LIFE. 
 
 Alexander of Macedon said if he were not Alex- 
 ander, he would choose to be Diogenes ; Alexander 
 of Russia also said if he were not Alexander, he would 
 choose to be an English gentleman. And truly, it 
 would require some ingenuity to discover any earthly 
 lot like that of the English gentleman. The wealth 
 and refinement at which this country has arrived, have 
 thrown round English rural life every possible charm. 
 Every art and energy is exerted in favour of the 
 English srentleman. Look at the ancient castle, or 
 the mansion of later ages, and then at the dwelling of 
 the private gentleman now, and what a difference ! 
 The castle with its dungeon-like apartments, its few 
 loop-holes for windows, its Myalls, mounds, moats, 
 drawbridges, and other defences to keep out the hostile 
 prowlers that a semi-savage state of society brought, 
 ever and anon, around it. Look at its naked walls, 
 its massy, lumbering doors, its floors spread with 
 rushes, and the rude style in which bed and board 
 were constructed and served; and then turn your eyes
 
 16 POSITION OF THE 
 
 on the modern mansion of the country gentleman ! 
 
 What a lovely sight is that ! What a bright and 
 
 pleasant abode, instead of that heavy, martial pile. 
 
 What a fair country — what a peaceful, well-ordered 
 
 population surround it, instead of dreary forests, and 
 
 savaire hordes ! And look ao^ain at the mansion of the 
 
 feudal ages ; see its large, cheerless, tapestried halls, 
 
 its ill-fitting doors and windows, through which the 
 
 wintry winds come whistling and careering. What 
 
 naked, or rush-strewn floors still ; what rude fashion of 
 
 furniture, and vessels for the table ; what a rude style 
 
 of cookery; what a dearth of books; what a miserable 
 
 and scanty display of portraits on the walls, making 
 
 those they are intended to represent, look grim and 
 
 hard as a generation of ogres. I'hen again, look at 
 
 the modern mansion. What a snug and silken nest 
 
 of delight is that. See what the progress of the arts 
 
 and civilization has done for it. How light and airily 
 
 it rises in some lovely spot. How it is carpeted and 
 
 draped with rich hangings and curtains. What soft 
 
 and elegant beds: what a superior grace in the fashion 
 
 of furniture, and all household utensils. Silver and 
 
 gold, brass and steel, porcelain and glass, into what 
 
 rich and beautiful shapes have they been wrought by 
 
 skilful hands for all purposes. See what a variety of 
 
 rooms; what a variety of inventions in those rooms, 
 
 which artificial and refined wants have called into 
 
 existence. What books enrich the fair library ; what 
 
 glorious paintings grace its delicately papered walls. 
 
 Hark ! music is issuing from instruments of novel and 
 
 most ingenious construction. And all around what a 
 
 splendidly cultivated country ! What lovely gardens, 
 
 in which flowers from every region are blowing. Here
 
 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 17 
 
 is a vast change ! — a vast advance from the rude life 
 of our ancestors ; and the more we look into the pre- 
 sent state of domestic life, the more we shall perceive 
 the admirable perfection of its economy and arrange- 
 ments. What was the life of our great nobility for- 
 merly in their country halls ? With little intercourse 
 with the capital ; in the midst of huge forests, and 
 almost impassable roads ; hunting and carousing were 
 their chief pleasures and employments, amid a throng 
 of rude retainers. Look now at the mode of life of 
 a private gentleman of no extraordinary revenue. 
 When he comes down in a morning he finds on his 
 breakfast-table the papers which left London probably 
 on the previous evening, bringing him the news of 
 the whole world. There is nothing which is going 
 on in Parliament, in the courts of law, in public 
 meetings in the capital, or in any town of the king- 
 dom, no birth, marriage, death, or any occurrence of 
 importance, but they are all laid before him ; there is 
 nothing done or said in the mercantile, the literary, 
 the scientific world, nothing which can afi'ect the 
 interests of his country in the most remote degree; 
 nothing, indeed, which can thoroughly affect the well- 
 being of men all the world over, but there it is too. 
 He sits in the midst of his woods and groves, in the 
 quietness of the country a hundred miles from the 
 capital, and is as well acquainted with the movements 
 and incidents of society as a reigning prince could have 
 been some years ago, by couriers, correspondents, 
 spies, fast-sailing packets, and similar agencies, main- 
 tained by all the aid and revenues of a nation. And 
 for his morning meal, China and the Indies, east and 
 west, send him their tea, eoff"ee, sugar, chocolate, and
 
 18 POSITION OF THE 
 
 preserved fruits. Lapland sends its reindeer tongues ; 
 Westphalia its hams; and his own rich land abun- 
 dance of rural dainties. When breakfast is over, if 
 he ask himself how he shall pass the day, what nume- 
 rous and inexhaustible resources present themselves 
 to his choice. Will he have music ? The ladies of 
 his family can give it him in a high style of excellence. 
 Does he love paintings ? His walls, and tliose of his 
 wealthy neighbours are covered with them. There 
 are said to be more of the works of the great Masters 
 accumulated in our English houses than in all the 
 world besides. Is he fond of books ? What a mass 
 of knowledge is piled up around him ! Greece, 
 Rome, Palestine, Arabia, India, France, Germany, 
 Italy, every country, ancient or modern, which has 
 distinguished itself by its genius and intelligence, has 
 poured into his halls its accumulated wealth of heart 
 and imagination. There is hoarded up in his library 
 food for the most insatiate spirit for an eternity. In 
 the literature and science merely of this country, he 
 possesses more than the enjoyment of a life. Think 
 only of the works of our historians and divines, of our 
 travellers, — our natural, moral, and scientific philoso- 
 phers; of the wit, the pathos, the immense extent of 
 inventions and facts in our general literature ; of the 
 glorious and ennobling themes of our great poets. 
 What a mighty difference is there between the exist- 
 ence of one of our old baronial ancestors, who could 
 not read, but as he sate over his winter fire solaced his 
 spirit with the lays of a wandering minstrel; and of 
 him who has at his command all the intellectual splen- 
 dour, power and wit, the satire, the joyous story, the 
 humour, the elegance of phrase and of mind, the pro-
 
 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 19 
 
 found sentiment and high argument of such men as 
 Chaucer, Milton, Shakspeare, Spenser, Addison, 
 Steele, Pope, Dryden, Ben and Sam Johnson, Gold- 
 smith, Beaumont and Fletcher, Covvper, and the noble 
 poets of the present day. Is it possible that ennui can 
 come near a man who can at any moment call to his pre- 
 sence our Jeremy Taylors and Tillotsons, our Barrows, 
 Burnets, and Stillingfleets — our travellers from every 
 corner of the earth, and our great novelists with their 
 everlasting inventions? Why, there is more delight 
 in one good country library, than any one mortal life 
 can consume. If a man's house were situated in a 
 desert of sand, the magic of this divine literature 
 were enough to raise around him an elysium of per- 
 petual greenness. 
 
 But it is not merely within-doors that the singular 
 privileges of an English gentleman lie. He need 
 only step out, and he sees them surrounding him on 
 every side. His gardens, by the labours and disco- 
 veries of centuries, by the genius of some men who 
 have blended the spirit of nature most happily with 
 that of art, and by the researches of others who have 
 collected into this country the vegetable beauty and 
 wealth of the whole world, have been made more 
 delightful than those of Alcinous or Armida. Look 
 at his glazed walls, his hot and green houses, which 
 supply his table Avith the most delicious dessert. But 
 go on, — advance beyond the boundaries of his gardens, 
 and the pleasant winding walks of his shrubberies, and 
 where are you ? In the midst of his park, his farms, 
 his woods, and plantations. Now every one knows 
 the healthful and perpetual recreation to be found in 
 any one of these places ; the intense delight which
 
 20 POSITION OF THE 
 
 maiiy of our country gentlemen take in them, and 
 the beauty and pre-eminence of our English parks, 
 farms, and woods, in consequence. We shall speak 
 more particularly of them presently ; but it must not 
 here be forgotten what a boundless field of enjoyment, 
 and increase of wealth, science has of late years 
 opened to the amateur farmer, and to the country 
 gentlemen in general. To their fields, agricultural 
 chemistry, mineralogy, botany, vegetable physiology, 
 entomology, etc. have brought new and inexhaustible 
 charms. They have, in a manner, enlarged the terri- 
 tories of the smallest proprietor into kingdoms of 
 boundless extent and interest. In the study of soils, 
 their defects and remedies ; in the selection of plants 
 most consonant to the earth in which they are to 
 grow, or the adaptation of the earth to them ; in the 
 inquiry into the mineral wealth that lies below the 
 surface ; in cultivating an acquaintance with the 
 various animals and especially insects, on whose pre- 
 sence or absence depends in a great degree the proper 
 growth or destruction of crops and young woods : in 
 all these the country gentleman has a source of 
 noble and profitable employment for the main part 
 unknown to his ancestors, and worthy of his most 
 earnest pursuit. 
 
 But if all these means of happiness were not 
 enough to satisfy his desires, or did not chime in with 
 Ins taste, see what another field of animating and 
 praiseworthy endeavour lies before him still, in the 
 official service of his country. Retaining his charac- 
 ter of a country gentleman, he can accept the office 
 of a magistrate, and become, if so disposed, a real 
 benefactor and peace-maker to his neighbourhood.
 
 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 21 
 
 But lie need not stop here. There is no country, 
 not excepting British America, where the path of 
 public service lies so open to a man of fortune, or is 
 so wide in its reach. He can enter parliament ; and 
 residing- part of the year in the country, can during the 
 other part take his place in an assembly, that for the 
 importance of its discussions and acts has no fellow ; 
 for there is no other legislative assembly in the whole 
 world where, with similar freedom of constitution, the 
 same mighty mass of human interests is concerned — 
 to which the same vast extent of influence is appended. 
 I need do no more in proof of this, than merely point to 
 the position of England amid the nations of the earth ; 
 her wealth and activity at home; her enormous terri- 
 tories abroad. Over all this, — over this extent of 
 country, over these millions of beings, there is not a 
 single country gentleman who has the ambition, but 
 who may be called to exercise an influence. Here is a 
 field of labour, enough of itself to fill the amplest 
 desires, and by which, if he have the talent, any man 
 of fortune may rise to the highest pitch of rank and 
 distinction. 
 
 But if the country gentleman have not the ambi- 
 tion, or the love of so active a life ; if he desire to 
 enjoy himself in a diff"erent way, there is yet abundant 
 choice. He may travel, if he please ; and what a rich 
 expanse of pleasures and interests lies before him in 
 that direction. In our own islands there is a variety 
 of scenery not to be rivalled in the same space in any 
 other part of the world. The mountains, the lakes, 
 the rivers of Wales, Scotland, Ireland, those of Cum- 
 berland and Derbyshire; the rich plains; the busy 
 cities, with all their arts and curious manufactures ;
 
 22 POSITION OF THE 
 
 our ports, with all their interesting scenes; the va- 
 rious historical and antiquarian objects : the numerous 
 breeds of cattle, sheep, and horses ; the varied kinds 
 of vegetable products, and modes of farming; — 
 these, to a mind of any taste and intelligence, offer 
 plentiful matter of observation in short summer excur- 
 sions. And what splendid roads, fleet horses, conve- 
 nient carriages and excellent inns, are ready to convey 
 him on the way, or receive him for refreshment. If 
 he is disposed to go abroad, who has the money, or the 
 education, to give facility and advantage to travel in 
 every region like the English gentleman ? — Such are 
 the privileges and pleasures attendant on the country 
 gentleman of England. In all these he has, or may 
 have, the society of women whose beauty and intelli- 
 gence are everywhere acknowledged; and for the ladies 
 of England living in the country, there are books, 
 music, the garden, the conservatory — an abundance of 
 elegant and womanly occupations. There are drives 
 through woods and fields of the most delicious charac- 
 ter ; there is social intercourse with neighbouring 
 wealthy families, and a host of kind offices to poor 
 ones, which present the sweetest sources of enjoyment. 
 I think the extraordinary blessings and privileges 
 of English rural life have never been sufficiently con- 
 sidered. It is only when we begin to count them up 
 that we become aware of their amount, and surpassing 
 character. What is there of divine sentiment or 
 earthly knowledge, of physical, intellectual, or reli- 
 gious good ; what is there of generous, social, reflec- 
 tive, retiring or aspiring; what is there of freshness 
 and beauty ; of luxurious in life, or preparatory to a 
 peaceful death; what is there that can purify the
 
 COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 23 
 
 spirit, ennoble the heart, and prompt men to a wise 
 and extensive beneficence, which may not be found in 
 English rural life ? It has everything in it Avhich is 
 beautiful, and may become glorious and godlike. 
 
 Such golden deeds lead on to golden days, 
 Days of domestic peace — by him who plays 
 On the great stage how uneventful thought ; 
 Yet with a thousand busy projects fraught, 
 A thousand incidents that stir the mind 
 - To pleasure, such us leaves no sting behind ! 
 Such as the heart delights in — and records 
 Within how silently — in more than words ! 
 A Holiday — the frugal banquet spread 
 On the fresh herbage, near the fountain-head. 
 With quips and cranks — what time the woodlark there 
 Scatters his loose notes on the sultry air, 
 W^hat time the king-fisher sits hushed below, 
 Where silver-bright tlie water-lilies blow ; — 
 A Wake — the booths whitening the village green. 
 Where Punch and Scaramouch aloft are seen ; 
 Sign beyond sign in close array unfurled. 
 Picturing at large the wonders of the world ; 
 And far and wide, over the Vicar's pale. 
 Black hoods and scarlet crossing hill and dale. 
 All, all abroad, and music in the gale: — 
 A Wedding Dance — a dance into the night, 
 On the barn-floor, wlien maiden feet are light; 
 When the young bride receives the promised dower. 
 And flowers are flung, herself a fairer flower; 
 A Morning-visit to the poor man's shed, 
 (Who would be rich while one was wanting bread?) 
 Where all are emulous to bring relief. 
 And tears are falling fast — but not for grief: — 
 A Walk in Spring — Grattan, like those with thee 
 By the heath-side (who had not envied me?) 
 When the sweet limes, so full of bees in June, 
 Led us to meet beneath their boughs at noon : 
 And thou didst say which of the great and wise, 
 Could they but hear and at thy bidding rise, 
 Thou would'st call up and question.
 
 24 THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Graver things 
 Come in their turn. Morning and evening brings 
 Its holy office ; and the sabbath bell, 
 That over wood and wild, and raountain-dell, 
 Wanders so far, cliasing all thoughts unholy, 
 With sounds most musical, most melancholy, 
 Not on his ear is lost. Then he pursues 
 The pathway leading through the aged yews, 
 Nor unattended ; and when all are there, 
 Pours out his spirit in the House of Prayer, — 
 That House with many a funeral-garland hung. 
 Of virgin white — memorials of the young j 
 The last yet fresh when marriage chimes were ringing, 
 And hope and joy in other hearts were springing ; — 
 That House where age led in by filial love, — 
 Their looks composed, their thoughts on things above. 
 The world forgot, or all its wrongs forgiven — 
 Who would not say they trod the path to Heaven? 
 
 Rogers^ Human Life.
 
 25 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 LIFE OF THE GENTRY IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 One of the chief features of the life of the nobility 
 and gentry of England, is their annual visit to the 
 metropolis ; and it is one which has a most essential 
 influence upon the general character of rural life 
 itself. The greater part of the families of rank and 
 fortune, flock up to town annually, as punctually 
 as the Jews flocked up to Jerusalem at the time 
 of the Passover ; and it may be said for the purpose 
 of worship too, though worship of a diff'erent kind — 
 that of fashion. A considerabte portion of them 
 being, more or less, connected with one or other 
 House of Parliament, go up at the opening of Par- 
 liament, generally in February, and remain there till 
 the adjournment, often in July ; but the true season 
 does not commence till April. 
 
 When April verdure springs in Grosvenor Square, 
 Then the furred beauty comes to winter there. — Rogers. 
 
 Much has been said of the evil efi"ect of this 
 aristocratic habit, of spending so much time in the 
 metropolis ; of the vast sums there spent in ostenta- 
 tious rivalry, in equipage and establishments ; in the 
 dissipations of theatres, operas, routes, and gaming-
 
 26 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 houses ; and unquestionably, there is much truth in 
 it. On the other hand, it cannot be denied that 
 this annual assembling together has some advantages. 
 A great degree of knowledge and refinement results 
 from it, amid all the attendant folly and extravagance. 
 The M^ealthy are brought into contact with vast 
 numbers of their equals and superiors, and that sullen 
 and haughty habit of reserve is worn off, which is 
 always contracted by those who live in solitary seclu- 
 sion, in the midst of vast estates, with none but 
 tenants and dependents around them. They are also 
 brought into contact with men of talent, and intelli- 
 gence. They move amongst books and w'orks of art, 
 and are induced by different motives to become 
 patrons and possessors of these things. If they spend 
 large sums in splendid houses and establishments in 
 town, such houses and such establishments become 
 equally necessary to them in the country; and it is 
 by this means that, instead of old and dreary castles 
 and chateaus, we have such beautiful mansions, so 
 filled with rich paintings and elegant furniture, dis- 
 persed all over England. From these places, as 
 centres existing here and there, similar tastes are 
 spread through the less wealthy classes, and the 
 elegancies of life flow into the parsonages, cottages, 
 and abodes of persons of less income and less inter- 
 course with society. In town, undoubtedly, a vast 
 number of the aristocracy spend their time and 
 money very foolishly ; but it is equally true, that 
 many others spend theirs very beneficially to the 
 country. Men of fortune from all quarters of the 
 kingdom there meet, and everything which regards 
 the improvement of their estates is discussed. They
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 27 
 
 hear of different plans pursued in different parts of 
 the kingdom. They make acquaintances, and these 
 acquaintances lead to visits, in which they observe, 
 and copy all that can add to the embellishment of 
 their abodes, and the value and productiveness of 
 their gardens and estates. If many acquire a relish 
 only for Newmarket, and the gaming club, and a 
 strong distaste for the quiet enjoyments of the country ; 
 many, on the other hand, come down to their estates 
 after a season of hurry and over-excitement, with a 
 fresh feeling for the beauty and repose of their 
 country abodes. The possessors of great houses and 
 estates, invite a party to spend the recess, or espe- 
 cially, the shooting season with them. Thus the 
 world of fashion is broken up and scattered from the 
 metropolis into a multitude of lesser circles, and into 
 every corner of the empire. I can conceive nothing 
 which bears on its surface the aspect of the perfection 
 of human society, so much as this assembling of a 
 choice party of those who have nothing to do but to 
 enjoy life, in the house of some hospitable wealthy 
 man, in some one of the terrestrial paradises of this 
 kingdom, — far off, in some retired vale of England, 
 where the country and its manners remain almost as 
 simple and picturesque as they did ages ago. In 
 some fine Elizabethan mansion^ some splendid baro- 
 nial castle, as Warwick, Alnwick, or Raby; or in 
 some rich old abbey; amid woods and parks, or 
 seated on one of our wild coasts ; or amid the moun- 
 tains of Wales or Scotland, with all their beautiful 
 scenery, rocks, hanging cliffs, dashing water-falls, 
 rapid rivers, and fairy wildernesses around them. 
 Here, assembled from the crush and rush of London
 
 28 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 in its fulness, with new books and new music brought 
 down with them ; with plenty of topics suggested by 
 the incidents of the past season in the saloons of the 
 fashionable, and in parliament ; with every luxury 
 before them ; with fine shrubberies and parks, and 
 with every vehicle and facility for riding and driving 
 through field or forest, or sailing on river or ocean ; 
 if people are not happy in such circumstances, where 
 is the fault? 
 
 And imagine the possessor of a noble estate coming 
 down to receive his friends there. To a high and 
 generous mind there must be something very delight- 
 ful. When he enters his own neighbourhood, he 
 enters his own kingdom. The very market- town 
 through which he last passes, is probably, totally or 
 three-fourths of it his property. If he be a kind and 
 liberal man, the respect which is there testified 
 towards him, has in it the most cordial of flatteries. 
 When he touches his own land, everything acknow- 
 ledges his absolute sway. On all sides he sees symp- 
 toms of welcome. Wherever he looks, they are the 
 woods, the parks, the fields of his ancestors, and now 
 his own, that meet his eyes. The freshness and green- 
 ness of the fields, the sombre grandeur of the woods, 
 the peaceful elegance of his house, all the odours of 
 flowers breathing through the rooms, and the sight of 
 rich fruits on his walls and in his hot-houses ; after the 
 heat, dust, crowding, noise, political contention, and 
 turning night into day, of London, must be peculiarly 
 grateful. Here he is sole lord and master; and from 
 him, he feels, flow the good of his dependent people, 
 and the pleasures of his distinguished guests. The 
 same where
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 29 
 
 Far to the south a mountain vale retires, 
 
 Rich in its groves, and glens, and village spires ; 
 
 Its upland lawns, and cliffs with foliage hung, 
 
 Its wizard stream, nor nameless nor unsung; 
 
 And through the various year, the various day. 
 
 Where scenes of glory burst and melt away. — Rogers. 
 
 The hamlet, which shews its thatched roofs and 
 lowly smoking- chimneys near, is all his own ; nay, 
 the rustic church is part and parcel of the family 
 estate. It was probably built and endowed by his 
 ancestors. The living is in his gift, and is perhaps 
 enjoyed by a relative, or college chum. The very 
 churchyard, with its simple head-stones, and green 
 mounds, is separated often only by a sunk fence from 
 his grounds. It blends into them, and the old grey 
 tower lifts itself amongst trees which form one majes- 
 tic mass with his own. The sabbath-bell rings, and 
 he enters that old porch with his guests ; he sees the 
 banner of some brave ancestor float above his head, 
 and the hatchments and memorial inscriptions of 
 others on the walls. What can be more delicately 
 flattering to all the feelings of a human creature; 
 what lot can be more perfect ? 
 
 The ease and perfect freedom from ceremony in 
 these rural gatherings is a feature which has always 
 excited the admiration of foreigners. Every guest 
 has his om-u apartment, where he can retire at plea- 
 sure, and after taking his meals in common can spend 
 the day as he chooses. But, as I have before said, 
 we see our own customs and manners better in the 
 descriptions of foreigners, because they are described 
 by them as they are seen, with the freshness of 
 novelty. Prince PUckler Muskau speaks with enthu- 
 siasm of the country houses and park scenery of 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 30 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 England. His book, indeed, is full of such pictures 
 of country life and scenery. The beautiful dairies 
 which he sometimes found in noblemen's parks 
 delighted him extremely. Thus he speaks of the one 
 at Woburn Abbey : — " The dairy is a prominent and 
 beautiful object. It is a sort of Chinese temple, 
 decorated with a profusion of white marble, and 
 coloured glasses ; in the centre is a fountain, and 
 round the walls hundreds of large dishes and bowls, 
 of Chinese and Japan porcelain of every form and 
 colour, filled with new milk and cream. The 'consoles' 
 upon which these vessels stand, are perfect models 
 for Chinese furniture. The windows are of ground- 
 glass, with Chinese painting, which shews fantastically 
 enough by the dim light." 
 
 But the testimony of Mr. Willis as an American, 
 and therefore accustomed to a life and sentiment 
 more allied to our own, is still stronger. His account 
 of his visit to Gordon Castle is a perfect example of 
 all such scenes, and is an exact counterpart of the 
 German Prince's description of the English "vie de 
 chateau," in his third volume, p. 311. 
 
 " The immense iron gate, surmounted by the 
 Gordon arms; the handsome and spacious stone 
 lodges on either side ; the canonically fat porter, in 
 white stockings and grey livery, lifting his hat as he 
 swung open the massive portal, all bespoke the 
 entrance to a noble residence. The road within was 
 eds:ed with velvet sward, and rolled to the smoothness 
 of a terrace walk; the winding avenue lengthened 
 away before with trees of every variety of foliage; 
 light carriages passed me, driven by gentlemen or 
 ladies, bound on their afternoon airing ; a groom led
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 31 
 
 up and down lwo beautiful blood-horses, prancing 
 along with side-saddles and morocco stirrups; and 
 keepers with hounds and terriers, gentlemen on foot, 
 idling along the walks, and servants in different 
 liveries, hurrying to and fro, betokened a scene of 
 busy gaiety before me. I had hardly noted these 
 various circumstances, before a sudden curve in the 
 road brought the castle into view, — a vast stone pile 
 witli castellated wings ; and in another moment I was 
 at the door, where a dozen lounging and powdered 
 menials were waiting on a party of ladies and gentle- 
 men to their several carriages. It was the moment 
 for the afternoon drive. 
 
 " The last phaeton dashed away, and my chaise 
 advanced to the door. A handsome boy, in a kind of 
 page's dress, immediately came to the window, 
 addressed me by name, and informed me that his 
 Grace was out deer-shooting, but that my room was 
 prepared, and he was ordered to w^ait on me. I 
 followed him throuo;h a hall lined with statues, deers' 
 horns, and armour, and was ushered into a large 
 chamber looking out on a park, extending with its 
 lawns and woods to the edge of the horizon. A more 
 lovely view never feasted human eye. 
 
 " ' Who is at the castle ?' I asked, as the boy 
 busied himself in unstrapping my portmanteau. ' O, 
 a great many, sir' — he stopped in his occupation, and 
 began counting on his fingers a long list of lords and 
 ladies. 'And how many sit down to dinner?' 
 * Above ninety, sir, besides the Duke and Duchess.' 
 ' That will do ;' and off tripped my slender gentle- 
 man, with his laced jacket, giving the fire a terrible 
 stir-up in his way out, and turning back to inform me 
 that the dinner hour was seven precisely.
 
 32 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 " It was a mild, bright afternoon, quite warm for 
 the end of an English September, and with a fire 
 in the room, and a soft sunshine pouring in at the 
 windows, a seat at the open casement was far from 
 disagreeable. I passed the time till the sun set, 
 looking out on the park. Hill and valley lay between 
 my eye and the horizon ; sheep fed in picturesque 
 flocks ; and small fallow-deer grazed near them ; the 
 trees were planted, and the distant forest shaped by 
 the hand of taste ; and broad and beautiful as was 
 the expanse taken in by the eye, it was evidently one 
 princely possession. A mile from the castle-wall, the 
 shaven sward extended in a carpet of velvet softness, 
 as bright as emerald, studded by clumps of shrubbery, 
 like flowers wrought elegantly in tapestry ; and across 
 it bounded occasionally a hare, and the pheasants fed 
 undisturbed near the thickets, or a lady with flowing 
 riding-dress and flaunting feather, dashed into sight 
 upon her fleet blood-palfrey, and was lost the next 
 moment in the woods, or a boy put his pony to its 
 mettle up the ascent, or a gamekeeper idled into 
 sight with his gun in the hollow of his arm, and his 
 hounds at his heels. And all this little world of 
 enjoyment and luxury and beauty lay in the hand of 
 one man, and was created by his wealth in those 
 northern wilds of Scotland, a day's journey almost 
 from the possession of another human being ! I 
 never realised so forcibly the splendid results of wealth 
 and primogeniture. 
 
 " The sun set in a blaze of fire among the pointed 
 firs crowning the hills ; and by the occasional prance 
 of a horse's feet on the gravel, and the roll of rapid 
 wheels, and now and then a gay laugh and many
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 33 
 
 voices, the different parties were return'ng to the 
 Castle. Soon after, a loud gong sounded through 
 the galleries, the signal to dress, and I left my musing 
 occupation unwillingly to make my toilet for an 
 appearance in a formidable circle of titled aristocrats, 
 not one of whom I had ever seen, the duke himself a 
 stranger to me, except through the kind letter of 
 invitation lying on the table. 
 
 " I was sitting by the fire, imagining forms and 
 faces for the different persons who had been named 
 to me, when there was a knock at the door, and a 
 tall, white-haired gentleman, of noble physiognomy, 
 but singularly cordial address, entered with a broad 
 red ribbon across his breast, and welcomed me most 
 heartily to the castle. The gong sounded at the next 
 moment, and in our way down, he named over his 
 other guests, and prepared me, in a measure, for the 
 introductions which followed. The drawing-room 
 was crowded likq a soiree. The duchess, a tall and 
 very handsome woman, with a smile of the most 
 winning sweetness, received me at the door, and I 
 was presented successively to every person present. 
 Dinner was announced immediately, and the difficult 
 question of precedence being sooner settled than I 
 had ever seen it before in so large a party, we passed 
 through files of servants to the dining-room. It was 
 a large and very lofty hall, supported, at the ends, by 
 marble columns, within which was stationed a band of 
 music playing delightfully. The walls were lined 
 with full-length family pictures, from old knights in 
 armour to the modern dukes in kilt of the Gordon 
 plaid; and on the sideboards stood services of gold 
 plate, the most gorgeously massive, and the most
 
 34 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 beautiful in workmanship I have ever seen. There 
 were, among the vases, several large coursing-cups, 
 won by the duke's hounds, of exquisite shape and 
 ornament. 
 
 " I fell into my place between a gentleman and a 
 very beautiful woman, of perhaps, twenty-two, neither 
 of whose names I remembered, though I had but just 
 been introduced. The duke probably anticipated as 
 much, and as I took my seat, he called out to me, 
 from the top of the table, that I had on my right, 
 
 Lady , ' the most agreeable woman in Scotland.* 
 
 It was unnecessary to say that she was the most 
 lovely. 
 
 " I have been struck everywhere in England with 
 the beauty of the higher classes, and as I looked 
 around me upon the aristocratic company at the table, 
 I thought I had never seen ' Heaven's image double- 
 stamped as man, and noble,' so unequivocally clear. 
 * * * * The band ceased playing when the ladies 
 left the table ; the gentlemen closed up, conversation 
 assumed a merrier cast, coffee and liqueurs were 
 brought in when the wines began to be circulated 
 more slowly, and at eleven there was a general move 
 to the drawing-room. Cards, tea, music, filled up 
 the time till twelve, and then the ladies took their 
 departure, and the gentlemen sat down to supper. I 
 got to bed somewhere about two o 'clock ; and thus 
 ended an evening, which I had anticipated as stiff and 
 embarrassing, but which is marked in my tablets as 
 one of the most social and kindly I have had the good 
 fortune to record on my travels. 
 
 "I arose late in the morning, and found the large 
 party already assembled about the breakfast table. I
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 35 
 
 was struck on entering, with the different air of the 
 room. The deep windows opening out upon the 
 park, had the effect of sombre landscapes in oaken 
 frames ; the troops of liveried servants, the glitter of 
 plate, the music, that had contributed to the splendour 
 of the scene the night before, were gone. The duke 
 sat laughing at the head of the table, with a news- 
 paper in his hand, dressed in a coarse shooting-jacket 
 and coloured cravat; the duchess was in a plain 
 morning dress and cap of the simplest character ; and 
 the hieli-born women about the table, whom I had 
 left glittering with jewels and dressed in all the 
 attractions of fashion, appeared in the simplest coiffure 
 and a toilet of studied plainness. The ten or twelve 
 noblemen present were engrossed with their letters or 
 newspapers over tea and toast, — and in them, perhaps, 
 the transformation was still greater. The soigne man 
 of fashion of the night before, faultless in costume 
 and distinguished in his appearance — in the full force 
 of the term — was enveloped now in a coat of fustian, 
 with a coarse waistcoat of plaid, a gingham cravat, and 
 hob-nailed shoes, for shooting; and in place of the 
 gay hilarity of the supper-table, wore a face of calm 
 indifference, and eat his breakfast, and read the paper 
 in a rarely broken silence. I wondered as I looked 
 about me, what would be the impression of many 
 people in my own country, could they look in upon 
 that plain party, aware that it was composed of the 
 proudest nobility and the highest fashion of England. 
 " Breakfast in Eng^land is a confidential and unce- 
 remonious hour, and servants are generally dispensed 
 with. This is to me, I confess, an advantage it has 
 over every other meal. I detest eating with twenty
 
 36 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 tall fellows standing opposite, whose business it is to 
 watch me. The coffee and tea were on the table, 
 with toast, muffins, oat- cakes, marmalade, jellies, fish, 
 and all the paraphernalia of a Scotch breakfast ; and 
 on the sideboard stood cold meats for those who liked 
 them, and they were expected to go to it and help 
 themselves. Nothing could be more easy, unceremo- 
 nious, and affable than the whole tone of the meal. 
 One after another rose and fell into groups in the 
 windows, or walked up and down the long room, and, 
 with one or two others, I joined the duke at the head 
 of the table, who gave us some interesting particulars 
 of the salmon-fisheries of the Spey. The privilege 
 of fishing the river within his lands is bought of him 
 at the pretty sum of eight thousand pounds a-year. 
 
 "The ladies went off unaccompanied to their walks 
 in the park and other avocations ; those bound for 
 the covers, joined the game-keepers, who were wait- 
 ing with their dogs in the leash at the stables ; and 
 some paired off to the billiard-room. Still suffering 
 from lameness, I declined all invitations to the shoot- 
 ing parties, who started across the park, with the dogs 
 leaping about them in a frenzy of delight, and 
 accepted the duke's kind offer of a pony phaeton to 
 drive down to the kennels. The duke's breed, both 
 of setters and hounds, is celebrated throughout the 
 kingdom. They occupy a spacious building in the 
 centre of a wood, a quadrangle enclosing a court, and 
 large enough for a respectable farm-house. The 
 chief huntsman and his family, and perhaps a game- 
 keeper or two, lodge on the premises, and the dogs 
 are divided by palings across the court. I was rather 
 startled to be introduced into the same enclosure with
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 37 
 
 a dozen gigantic blood-hounds, as high as my breast, 
 the keeper's whip in my hand, the only defence. I 
 was not easier for the man's assertion, that, without it, 
 they would ' have the life out of me in a crack.' 
 They came around me very quietly, and one immense 
 fellow, with a chest like a horse, and a head of the 
 finest expression, stood up and laid his paws on my 
 shoulders, with the deliberation of a friend about to 
 favour me with some grave advice. One can scarce 
 believe that these noble creatures have not reason 
 like ourselves. Those slender, thorough-bred heads, 
 large, speaking eyes, and beautiful limbs and grace- 
 ful action, should be gifted with more than mere 
 animal instinct. The greyhounds were the beauties 
 of the kennel, however ; I never had seen such perfect 
 creatures. The setters were in the next division, and 
 really they were quite lovely. The rare tan and 
 black dog of this race, with his silky floss hair, intelli- 
 gent muzzle, good-humoured face, and caressing fond- 
 ness, quite excited my admiration. There were 
 thirty or forty of these, old and young, and a friend 
 of the duke's would as soon ask him for a church- 
 living as for the present of one of them. The former 
 would be by much the smaller favour. Then there 
 were terriers of four or five breeds, of one family of 
 which, long-haired, long-bodied, short-legged, and 
 perfectly white little wretches, the keeper seemed 
 particularly fond. # * * * 
 
 " The routine of Gordon Castle was what each one 
 chose to make it. Between breakfast and lunch, the 
 ladies were generally invisible, and the gentlemen 
 rode or shot, or played billiards, or kept in their 
 rooms. At two o'clock, a dish or two of hot game 
 
 d2
 
 38 LIFE OF THE GENTRY 
 
 and a profusion of cold meats, were set on the small 
 tabli'S in the dining-room, and everybody came in 
 for a kind of lounging half-meal, which occupied 
 perhaps an hour. Thence all adjourned to the draw- 
 ing-room, under the windows of which were drawn 
 up carriages of all descriptions, with grooms, out- 
 riders, footmen, and saddle-horses for gentlemen and 
 ladies. Parties were then made up for driving or 
 riding, and from a pony-chaise to a phaeton-and-four, 
 there was no class of vehicle which was not at your 
 disposal. In ten minutes the carriages were usually 
 all filled, and away they flew, some to the banks of 
 the Spey, or the sea-side, some to the drives in the 
 park, and with the delightful consciousness, that, 
 speed where you would, the horizon scarce limited 
 the possession of your host, and you were every- 
 where at home. The ornamental gates flying open 
 at your approach, miles distant from the castle ; the 
 herds of red-deer trooping away from the sound of 
 wheels in the silent park ; the stately pheasants feed- 
 ing tamely in the immense preserves ; the hares 
 scarcely troubling themselves to get out of the length 
 of the whip ; the stalking gamekeepers lifting their 
 hats in the dark recesses of the forest, — there was 
 something in this, perpetually reminding you of pri- 
 vileges ; which, as a novelty, was far from disagree- 
 able. I could not at the time bring myself to feel, 
 what perhaps would be more poetical and republican, 
 that a ride in the wild and unfenced forest of my own 
 country would have been more to my taste. 
 
 " The second afternoon of my arrival, I took a seat 
 in the carriage with Lord A., and we followed the 
 duchess, who drove herself in a pony-chaise, to visit
 
 IN THE COUNTRY. 39 
 
 a school on the estate. Attached to a small gothic 
 chapel, a five minutes' drive from the castle, stood a 
 building in the same style, appropriated to the instruc- 
 tion of the children of the duke's tenantry. There 
 were a hundred and thirty little creatures, from two 
 years to five or six, and, like all infant schools, in 
 these days of improved education, it was an interest- 
 ing: and aftectinof sio-ht. The last one I had been in, 
 was at Athens, and though I missed here the dark 
 eyes and Grecian faces of the ^gean, I saw health 
 and beauty, of a kind which stirred up more images 
 of home, and promised, perhaps, more for the 
 future. * * * * 
 
 "The number at the dinner- table of Gordon 
 Castle was seldom less than thirty; but the company- 
 was continually varied by departures and arrivals. 
 No sensation was made by either one or the other. 
 A travelling-carriage dashed up to the door, was dis- 
 burdened of its load, and drove round to the stables, 
 and the question was seldom asked, 'Who is arrived?' 
 You are sure to see at dinner — and an addition of 
 half a dozen to the party, made no perceptible differ- 
 ence in anything. Leave-takings were managed in 
 the same quiet w-ay. Adieus were made to the duke 
 and duchess, and to no one else, except he happened 
 to encounter the parting guest upon the staircase, or 
 were more than a common acquaintance. In short, 
 in every way the gene of life seemed weeded out, 
 and if unhappiness or ennui found its way into the 
 castle, it was introduced in the sufferer's own bosom. 
 For me, I gave myself up to enjoyment with an 
 abandon I could not resist. With kindness and 
 courtesy in every look, the luxuries and comforts of a
 
 40 LIFE OF THE GENTRY, ETC. 
 
 regal establishment at my freest disposal ; solitude 
 when I pleased, company when I pleased, — the whole 
 visible horizon fenced in for the enjoyment of a house- 
 hold, of which I was a temporary portion, and no 
 enemy except time and the gout, I felt as if I had 
 been spirited into some castle of felicity, and had not 
 come by the royal mail-coach at all." 
 
 This is one of the most perfect and graphic descrip- 
 tions of English aristocratical life in the country, 
 which was ever written. It is, indeed, on the highest 
 and broadest scale, and is not to be equalled by every 
 country gentleman ; but in kind and in degree, the 
 same character and spirit extend to all such life, and 
 I have therefore taken the liberty of transcribing 
 Mr. Willis's sketch as completely as my limits would 
 admit. Nothing, were a volume written on the sub- 
 ject, could bring it more palpably and correctly before 
 the mind of the reader ; and I think that if there be 
 a perfection in human life it is to be found, so far as 
 all the goods of providence and the easy elegancies of 
 society can make it so, in the rural life of the English 
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 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE ROUTINE OF COUNTRY SPORTS. 
 
 In my last chapter I took a view of the variety given 
 to rural life by the annual visit to town : but if a 
 gentleman have no desire so to vary his existence ; 
 if he love the country too well to leave it at all, most 
 plentiful are the resources which offer themselves for 
 pleasantly speeding on the time. If he be attached 
 merely to field sports, not a moment of the whole 
 year but he may fill up with his peculiar enjoyment. 
 Racing, hunting, coursing, shooting, fishing, all oifer 
 themselves to his choice ; and rural sports, as every- 
 voL. I. D .3
 
 4-2 ROUTINE OF 
 
 thing else in English life, are so systematized ; every- 
 thing belonging to them is so exactly regulated ; all 
 their necessary implements and accessories, are brought 
 to such an admirable pitch of perfection by the ad- 
 vancement of the arts, that the pleasures of the sports- 
 man are rendered complete, and are diffused over 
 every portion of the year. Field sports have long 
 ceased to be followed in that rude and promiscuous 
 manner which they were when forests overrun the 
 greater part of Europe, and hunting was almost 
 necessary to existence. Parties of hunters no longer 
 go out with dogs of various kinds — greyhounds, 
 hounds, spaniels, and terriers, all in leash, as our 
 ancestors frequently did, ready to slip them on any 
 kind of game which might present itself, and with 
 bows also ready to make more sure of their prey. 
 We have no battues, such as are still to be found in 
 some parts of the continent, and which used to be the 
 common mode of hunting in the Highlands, when the 
 beasts of a whole district were driven into a small 
 space, and subjected to a promiscuous slaughter ; a 
 scene such as Taylor the water-poet, describes him- 
 self as witnessing in the Braes of Mar ; nor such as 
 those perpetrated by the King of Naples in Austria, 
 Bohemia, and Moravia, in which he killed 5 bears, 
 1820 boars, 1950 deer, 1145 does, 1625 roe-bucks, 
 1121 rabbits, 13 wolves, 17 badgers, 16,354 hares, 
 354 foxes, 15,350 pheasants, and 12,335 partridges. 
 Such scenes are not to be witnessed in this country. 
 Every field sport is here become a science. Hunting, 
 coursing, shooting, each has its own season, its well- 
 defined bounds, its peculiar horses, dogs, and weapons. 
 Our horses and dogs, by long and anxious attention
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 43 
 
 to tlie preservation of their specific characters, and to 
 the improvement of their breed, are become pre- 
 eminent, each in their own department. Our sport- 
 ing nobility and gentry have not contented themselves 
 with becoming thoroughly skilful in everything re- 
 lating to field diversions; but have many of them 
 communicated their knowledge through the press to 
 their countrymen, and have thus furnished our libra- 
 ries with more practical information of this kind than 
 ever was possessed by any one country at any one 
 time; and contributed to make these pursuits as 
 effective, elegant, and attractive as possible. It is 
 not my province to go into the details of any parti- 
 cular sports ; for them I refer the reader to Daniel, 
 Beckford, Col. Thornton, Sir John Sebright, Col. 
 Hawker, Tom Oakleigh, Nimrod, and the sporting 
 magazines. My business is to shew how gentlemen 
 may and do spend their time in the country. And in 
 the mere catalogue of out-of-door sports, are there 
 not racing, hunting, coursing, shooting, angling? 
 Hawking once was an elegant addition to this list ; 
 but that has nearly fallen into disuse in this country, 
 and may be said to exist only in the practice of Sir 
 John Sebright, and the grand falconer of England, 
 the Duke of St. Albans. Archery too, once the great 
 boast of our forests, and the constant attendant on the 
 hunt, has, as a field exercise, followed hawking. It 
 has of late years been revived and practised by the 
 gentry as a graceful amusement, and an occasion for 
 assembling together at certain periods in the country; 
 but as an adjunct of the field sports it is past for ever. 
 Racing, every one knows, is a matter of intense 
 interest with a great portion of the nobility, gentry,
 
 44 ROUTINE OF 
 
 and others; and those who delight in it, know where 
 to find Newmarket, Epsom, Ascot Heath, Doncaster, 
 and other places, often to their cost : almost e very- 
 county and considerable town, has its course and 
 annual races. These, however, to the country gentle- 
 man, unless he be one whose great and costly passion 
 is for breeding and betting on race-horses, are but 
 occasional excitements : the rest run their round of 
 seasons as regularly as the seasons themselves; and 
 place a lover of field sports in the country at any 
 point of the year, and one or more of them are ready 
 for his enjoyment. Is it winter? He has choice of 
 all, except it be angling. Hunting, coursing, shoot- 
 ing, are all in their full season. Hunting, as I have 
 said, is more confined in its range than it was 
 anciently ; but it is more regular, less fatiguing, less 
 savage in its character, more complete in its practice 
 and appointments. There is now neither the boar, 
 the bear, nor the wolf to try the courage of our youth, 
 and stag and buck hunting may be considered as rare 
 and almost local amusements, — but we may quote the 
 words of a great authority as to the position which 
 hunting occupies amongst the rural sports of England. 
 " There is certainly no country in the world, where 
 the sport of hunting on horseback is carried to such a 
 height as in Great Britain at the present day, and 
 where the pleasures of a fox-chase are so well under- 
 stood, and conducted on such purely scientific princi- 
 ples. It is considered the beau ideal of hunting by 
 those who pursue it. There can be no doubt, that 
 it is infinitely superior to stag-hunting, for the real 
 sportsman can only enjoy that chase, when the deer is 
 sought for, and found like other game which are pur-
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 45 
 
 sued by liounds. In the case of finding an out-lying 
 fallow-deer, which is unharboured in this manner, 
 great sport is frequently afforded ; but this is rarely 
 to be met with in Great Britain : so that fox-hunting 
 is now the chief amusement of the true British sports- 
 man : and a noble one it is — the artifices and dex- 
 terity employed by this lively, crafty animal, to avoid 
 the dogs, are worthy of our admiration, as he exhibits 
 more devices for self-preservation than any other 
 beast of the chase. In many parts of this and the 
 sister Island, hare-hunting is much followed, but fox- 
 hunters consider it as a sport only fit for women and 
 old men, — but, although it is less arduous than that 
 of the fox-chase, there are charms attached to it which 
 compensate for the hard riding of the other." 
 
 I do not enter here into the question of cruelty in 
 this sport, nor into the other question of injury 
 resulting from it to crops and fences, on which grounds 
 many so strongly object to hunting, and on the former 
 ground, indeed, to all field sports. Lord Byron, 
 for instance, thought hunting a barbarous amuse- 
 ment, fit only for a barbarous country. It is not my 
 intention to undertake the defence of this old English 
 sport from the standing charge against it, we here have 
 only to deal with it as a feature of rural life; and 
 though one cannot say much in praise of its humanity, 
 it cannot be denied that it is a pursuit of a vigorous 
 and excitino: character. A fine field of hunters in 
 their scarlet coats, rushing over forest, heath, fence or 
 stream, on noble steeds, and with a pack of beautiful 
 dogs in full cry, is a very picturesque and animating 
 spectacle. 
 
 Through the winter, then, up to the very approach
 
 46 ROUTINE OF 
 
 of spring, hunting offers whatever charms it possesses ; 
 pheasant, woodcock and snipe shooting, in the woods 
 and by the streams are in all their glory. It is the 
 time for pursuing all manner of wild fowl in fens and 
 along the sea-coast; and if any one would know what 
 are the eager and adventurous pleasures of that pursuit, 
 let him join some old fowler for a week amongst the 
 reeds of Cambridge, Huntingdon, or Lincolnshire, — 
 now laying his traps and springes, now crouching 
 amongst the green masses of flags and other water 
 plants, or crawling on hand and knees for a shot at 
 teal, widgeon, or wild duck ; now visiting the decoys, 
 or shooting right and left amongst the rising and 
 contorting snipes. Or let him read Col. Hawker's 
 delightful description of swivel shooting on the coasts, 
 the mud-launchers and followers of the sea flocks by 
 night. Those are sports that require a spice of 
 enthusiasm and love of adventure far above the pitch 
 of the ordinary sportsman. 
 
 When spring arrives, and warns the shooter to 
 give rest to the creatures of his pursuit that they may 
 pair, produce, and rear their broods ; as he lays down 
 the gun, he can take up the angle. Many a keen 
 and devoted old sportsman, however, never knows 
 when to lay down the gun. Though he will no 
 lono-er fire at game, he likes through the spring and 
 summer months to carry his gun on his arm through 
 the woods, to knock down what he calls vermin, — 
 stoats, weazels, polecats, jaj'^s, magpies, hawks, owls; 
 all those creatures that destroy game, or their young 
 broods, or suck their eggs. He is fond of spying out 
 the nests of partridges and pheasants, and from time to 
 time marking their progress. It is a grand anticipa-
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 47 
 
 tive pleasure to him M'hen, passing along the furrow 
 of the standing corn, his okl pointer, or favourite 
 spaniel starts the young birds just able to take the 
 wing, and he counts them over with a silent exulta- 
 tion. He is fond of seeing to the training of his 
 young dogs, of selecting fresh ones, of putting his 
 fowling-pieces, and all his shooting gear in order. 
 There are some old sportsmen of my acquaintance, 
 who, during what tliey call this idle time, have made 
 collections of curious birds and small animals which 
 might furnish some facts to natural history. An old 
 uncle of mine in Derbyshire, who has shot away a 
 fine estate, I scarcely ever recollect to have seen out 
 of doors without his gun ; I saw him lately, when in 
 that country, a feeble, worn-out old man, just able to 
 totter about, but still with the gun on his arm. For 
 those, however, who can find it in their hearts to lay 
 aside the gun at the prescribed time, and yet long for 
 rural sports, what can so delightfully fill up the spring 
 and summer as the fishing rod ? There is no rural 
 art, except that of shooting, for which modern science 
 and invention have done so much as angling. Since 
 Izaak Walton gave such an impetus to this taste by 
 his delicious old book, it has gradually assumed a new 
 and fascinating character. A host of contrivances 
 have been expended on fishing tackle. What splendid 
 rods for simple angling, trolling, or fly-fishing, are 
 now oifered to the admiring eyes of the amateur ! 
 what a multitude of apparatus of one kind or other ! 
 what silver fish and endless artificial flies ! Angling 
 has become widened and exalted in its sphere with 
 the general expansion of knowledge and the improve- 
 ment of taste. It has associated itself with the plea-
 
 48 ROUTINE OF 
 
 sures and refinements of literature and poetry. All 
 those charms which worthy Izaak threw round it, have 
 continued to cling to it, and others have grown up 
 around them. The love of nature, the love of travel 
 have intertwined themselves with the love of angling. 
 Angling has thence become, as it were, a new and 
 more attractive pursuit — a matter of taste and science 
 as well as of health and pleasure. It is found that it 
 may not only be followed by the tourist without 
 diverting him from his primal objects, but that it adds 
 most essentially to the delights of a summer excur- 
 sion. Since Wordsworth and John Wilson set up 
 their " Angler's Tent" on the banks of Wast- Water, 
 "at the head of that wild and solitary lake, which they 
 had reached by the mountain path that passes Barn- 
 Moor-Tarn from Eskdale," making: an anplinof excur- 
 sion of seven days amongst the mountains of West- 
 morland, Lancashire, and Cumberland, having " their 
 tent, large panniers filled with its furniture, provisions, 
 etc., loaded upon horses, which, while the anglers, 
 wdio separated every morning, pursued each his own 
 sport up the torrents, were carried over the mountains 
 to the appointed place, by some lake or stream, where 
 they were to meet again in the evening;" and 
 
 that solitary trade, 
 Mid rural peace in peacefulness pursued, 
 Through rocky glen, wild moor, and hanging wood. 
 White flowering meadow, and romantic glade ; 
 
 since Sir Humphry Davy went angling and philo- 
 sophizing in the mountain tarns, and along the trout 
 and salmon streams not only of Scotland and Ireland, 
 but of France and Switzerland, the enthusiasm for 
 angling has grown into a grand and expansive
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 49 
 
 passion. We have our " Anglers in Wales," our 
 "Anglers in Ireland;" Stephen Oliver has flourished 
 his lines over the streams of the north, Jesse over the 
 gentle and majestic Thames. The only wonder is, 
 that, as our countrymen walk to and fro through all 
 known regions of the earth, we do not hear of anglers 
 in the Danube — the Ister— the Indus— the Joliba, — 
 of trolling in La Plata, and fly-fishing in South 
 Africa and Australia. All that will come in its own 
 good time: meanwhile let us remind our country 
 friends of the further blessings which await them, 
 even should all the rapid streams of our mountain 
 rivers and rivulets. Loch Leven trout, Loch Fine 
 herrings, and salmon pulled flouncing from the crystal 
 waters of the Teith or the Shannon, to be crimped 
 and grilled by most delicious art, satiate them before 
 the summer is over. The 12th of August approaches ! 
 the gun is roused from its slumber — the dogs are 
 howling in ecstasy on their release from the kennel — 
 the heather is burst into all its crimson splendour on 
 the moors and the mountains, and grouse-shooting is 
 at hand once more ! 
 
 That sentence is enough to make a sportsman start 
 to his feet if it were but whispered to him in his 
 deepest after-dinner doze. In " The Book of the 
 Seasons" I asserted that sportsmen felt the animating 
 influence of nature and its beauty in their pursuits. 
 For that passage many have been the gentle lectures 
 of the tender-hearted ; but that it was a true passage 
 has been shewn by the thanks which many sportsmen 
 have given me for that simple vindication, and by the 
 repeated quotation of the whole article in their books. 
 That they do feel it, is plainly shewn in many papers
 
 50 ROUTINE OF 
 
 of the sporting magazines ; but nowliere more vividly 
 than in "The Oakleigh Shooting Code." If the 
 unction with which the paper on grouse-shooting is 
 written in that book were more diffused through works 
 of the like nature, vain would be all arguments to 
 check the love of shooting. The feeling on this 
 subject has been evidenced by the avidity with which 
 that part of the book has been quoted far and wide. 
 But the spirit of the picturesque is not more prominent 
 in these chapters than in the description of Oakleigh 
 Hall, and of the " wide-ranging treeless view of the 
 smooth-turfed limestone hills, the white rocks breaking 
 out in patches, so characteristic of Derbyshire." 
 
 But we are pausing on our way to the Highlands ; 
 and surely nothing can be so inspiring and exciting 
 in the whole circle of sporting scenes as a trip to the 
 moors and mountains of the north, in the height of 
 summer — in the beauty of summer weather, and in 
 the full beauty of the scenery itself. If the season is 
 fine — the roads are dry — the walks are dry — the bogs 
 are become, many of them, passable, the heather is in 
 full bloom, the fresh air of the mountains, or the 
 waters in sailing thither, the rapid changes of scene, 
 the novel aspects of life and nature in progressing 
 onward, by the carriage, the railway, the steamer, 
 with all their varying groups of tourists and pleasure- 
 seekers, of men of business and men of idleness, are 
 full of enjoyment. To the man from the rich mono- 
 tonous Lowlands, from the large town, from the 
 heart of the metropolis perhaps, from the weary yoke 
 of business public or private, of law, of college study, 
 of parliament and committees, what can be more 
 penetrating and delicious than the breathing of the
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 61 
 
 fresh buoyant air, the pleasant flitting of the breeze, 
 the dash of sunny waters, the aspect of mountains and 
 moors in all their shadow and gloom, or in their 
 brightness as they rise in their clear still beauty into 
 the azure heavens, or bask broad and brown in the 
 noon-sun ? There go the happy sportsmen ; seated 
 on the deck of some fast-sailing steamer, with human 
 groups around them ; they are fast approaching the 
 " land of the mountain and the flood." They already 
 seem to tread the elastic turf, to smell the heather 
 bloom, and the peat fire of the Highland hut; to 
 climb the moory hill, to hear the thunder of the linn, 
 or pace the pebbly shore of the birch-skirted lake. 
 They have left dull scenes or dry studies behind, and 
 a volume of Walter Scott's novels is in their hands, 
 livinsr with all the character and traditions of the 
 mountain-land before them. Well then, is it not a 
 blessed circumstance that our poets and romancers 
 have kindled the spirit of these things in the heart of 
 our countrymen, that such places lie within our own 
 island, and that science has so quickened our transit 
 to them? Let us just note a few of the symptoms 
 which shew us that this memorable 12th of August is 
 at hand. In the market towns you see the country 
 sportsman hastening along the streets, paying quick 
 visits to his gunsmith, ammunition dealer, tailor, 
 draper, etc. He is getting all his requisites together. 
 His dogs are at his heels. Then you see him already 
 invested in his jacket and straw hat, driving off in his 
 gig, phaeton, or other carriage, with keeper or com- 
 panion, and perhaps a couple of dogs stowed away 
 with him. You see the keeper and the dog-cart on 
 their way too. As you get northward these signs
 
 62 ROUTINE OF 
 
 thicken. In large towns, as Manchester, Liverpool, 
 Glasgow^, Edinburgh, you see keeper-like looking 
 men, with pointers and setters for sale tied up to some 
 pallisade, or lamp-post, at the corner of a street. But 
 woe to those who have to purchase dogs under such 
 circumstances. It is ten to one but they are grievously 
 gulled ; or if they should chance to stumble upon a 
 tolerable dog, there is not time for that mutual know- 
 ledge to grow up which should exist between the 
 sportsman and his companion of the field. He that 
 sees beforehand his trip to the hills, should beforehand 
 have all in readiness : he who on a summer ramble is 
 smitten with a sudden desire of grouse-shooting, must 
 however, do the best he can. 
 
 When you pass into Scotland the signals of the 
 time grow more conspicuous. In the newspapers, 
 you see everywhere advertisements of Highland tracts 
 to be let as shooting-grounds. When you get into 
 the Highlands themselves, you find in all the inns 
 maps of the neighbouring estates, divided into shooting 
 grounds for letting. It is very probable that the 
 income derived from this source by the Highland 
 proprietors frequently far exceeds the rental of the 
 same estates for the grazing of sheep and cattle. The 
 waters and the heaths seem to be the most profitable 
 property of a great part of the Highlands. Almost 
 every stream and loch is carefully preserved and let 
 as a trout or salmon fishery, many of them for enor- 
 mous sums ; and so far is this carried, that sportsmen 
 who are not inclined to pay eighty or a hundred pounds 
 a-year for a shooting ground, complain that Ireland is 
 the only country now for shooting in any degree of 
 freedom. Many gentlemen join at a shooting ground ;
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 53 
 
 and it is a picturesque sight to see them, and their 
 dogs and keepers, drawing towards their particular 
 locations as the day approaches. 
 
 On the 10th of August, 1838, we sailed up the 
 Grand Caledonian Canal from Fort William to Inver- 
 ness in the steam-packet with a large party of these 
 gentlemen. Of their number, principally military 
 men — 
 
 Captains, and colonels, and men at arms, 
 
 some notion may be formed from the fact that we had 
 on board upwards of seventy dogs, mostly beautiful 
 setters ; a perfect pyramid of gun-cases was piled on 
 the deck, and dog-carts and keepers completed the 
 scene. 
 
 One of the singular features of English life at the 
 present moment is the swarming of summer tourists 
 in all interesting quarters. In these Highland regions 
 the consequent effect is often truly ludicrous. Into 
 one miserable village, or one poor solitary inn, pour, 
 day after day, the summer through, from seventy to a 
 hundred people. The impossibility of such a place 
 accommodating such a company is the first thing which 
 strikes every one. The moment, therefore, that the 
 vessel touches the quay, out rushes the whole throng, 
 and a race commences to the house or village to secure 
 beds for the night. Such is the impetus of the rush 
 that the first arrivers are frequently driven by the 
 "pressure from without" up the stairs to the very 
 roof. A scene of the most laughable confusion is 
 exhibited. All are clamouring for beds ; nobody can 
 be heard or attended to; and generally all who can, 
 burst into rooms which are not locked up, and take 
 forcible possession. Such scenes, any one who has
 
 54 ROUTINE OF 
 
 gone up this canal, or to the Western Isles must have 
 seen, — at Oban, at Tobermory, and at Inverness, 
 which last place boasts three inns, and where, on our 
 arrival with a hundred fellow passengers, we found 
 three hundred others had just landed from a London 
 steamer ! Our sportsmen, however, who were well 
 aware of the statistics of the north, had written before- 
 hand, and secured bed-rooms at all the sleeping 
 places, which were duly locked up against their 
 arrival, and they sate very composedly to witness the 
 race of worse-informed mortals. 
 
 On this occasion a very characteristic contrast was 
 presented between the sportsmen, and a number of 
 students who were on board at the time. These 
 students, many of whom spend the college recess in 
 pedestrianizing through the Highlands, have a cha- 
 racter almost as peculiar to themselves as the German 
 Blirschen. In twos and threes, with their knapsacks 
 on their backs, they may be seen rambling on, where- 
 ever there is fine scenery or spots of note to be visited. 
 They step on board a packet at one place, and go 
 off at another, steering away into the hills ; ready to 
 take up their quarters at such abode as may offer — the 
 road-side inn or the smoky hut of the Gael. Wliere- 
 ever you see them, they are all curiosity and enthu- 
 siasm; all on fire with the sublime and beautiful — 
 athirst for knowledge, historical, antiquarian, tradi- 
 tionary, botanical, geological — anything in the shape 
 of knowledge. They are the first to climb the hill, 
 to reach the waterfall, to crowd round every spot of 
 tragic interest ; everywhere they go agog with ima- 
 gination, and everywhere they lament that they do 
 not feel adequately, the power, and beauty, and
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 65 
 
 grandeur of the objects of tlieir attention. Such a 
 group we had on board. On the other hand, the 
 sportsmen had but one object, which absorbed all their 
 interests and faculties. They cared not at that 
 moment for the Fall of Foyers, saw scarcely the 
 splendid mountains and glens around. Their souls 
 were in the brown hills of their shooting grounds — 
 the fever of the 12th of August was upon them. 
 They kept together, talking of guns, dogs, grouse, 
 roebucks ; all their conversation was larded and 
 illustrated with the phraseology of their own favourite 
 pursuit. They Avere, many of them, clad in a close 
 jacket and trowsers of shepherd's tartan, with their 
 telescope slung at their backs. They seemed to 
 look on the students as so many hair-brained and 
 romantic striplings — the students on them, as so many 
 creatures of the chase. As we proceeded, the fiery 
 Nimrods were, one after another, put out at the 
 opening of beautiful glens, and at the foot of wild 
 mountains where their huts lay, and the vessel 
 received a considerable accession of silence by the 
 departure of their keepers, who, having found a 
 Highland piper on board, got up a dance in the 
 steerage cabin, and kept that end of the vessel pretty 
 well alive both day and night. Having thus brought 
 them to their grounds, there can be no better narrator 
 of what passes there than Thomas Oakleigh. 
 
 " On the eleventh of August, the sportsman arrives 
 at his shooting quarters ; probably some isolated 
 tavern, 'old as the hills,' — if such a house as the 
 grouse-shooter occasionally locates himself in, in the 
 northern or midland counties of England, or in Scot- 
 land, where oatcake and peat supply the place of
 
 56 ROUTINE OF 
 
 bread and fuel, can be called a tavern. The place, 
 humble in character, has been the immemorial resort 
 of sportsmen in August, although during the rest of 
 the year, sometimes many months elapse ere a cus- 
 tomer, save some itinerant salesman calling for his 
 mug of beer, * darkens the door.' * * * At the 
 house will be found all the keepers, and tenters, and 
 poachers, and young men from the country round, 
 assembled, amounting in the whole to not more than 
 some eight or ten persons, all knowing ones, each 
 anxious to display his knowledge of the number and 
 locality of the broods, but each differing, wide as the 
 poles asunder, in his statement, except on four points, 
 in which all are agreed, viz. — That the hatching season 
 has been finer than was ever known before ! Tliat the 
 broods are larger and more numerous than tcere ei^er 
 counted before ! That the birds are heavier and stronger 
 than were ever seen before ! and that they ivill, on the fol- 
 lowing day, lie better than they ever did on any previous 
 opening day in the recollection of the oldest person present ! 
 Each successive season being, in their idea, more pro- 
 pitious than its precursor ! Anxiety and expectation 
 are now arrived at a climax. At night, the blithe and 
 jocund peasantry mingle with their superiors : their 
 pursuits are for once something akin. In the field- 
 sports they can sympathise together : the peasant and 
 the peer associate ; the ploughboy and the squire talk 
 familiarly together ; it is the privilege of the former, 
 his prescriptive right. The circling cup, and light- 
 hearted and hilarious laugh promiscuously go round ! 
 This night distinctions are unknown — and would that 
 it were oftener so ! * * * Long before midnight, 
 all who can obtain beds retire, though not an eye
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 57 
 
 is drowsy. The retainers lie on sofas, elbow-cliairs, 
 or whatever else presents itself; but sleej) is almost a 
 stranger during the night. The soldier before battle, 
 is not more anxious as to the result of the morrow, 
 than is the sportsman on the night of the 11th of 
 August ! Morning dawns, ' and heavily with mists 
 comes on the day.' The occupiers of benches and chairs 
 are first on the alert: the landlady is called; break- 
 fast is prepared — the dogs are looked at, ail is tumult, 
 noise, and confusion. Reckless must he be that can 
 rest longer in bed — ' the cootie moor-cocks crowsely 
 crow;' breakfast is hastily dispatched — next is heard 
 the howling and yelping of dogs, the cracking of 
 whips, the snapping of locks, the charging, and flash- 
 ing, and firing of guns, and every other note of pre- 
 pai-ation. The march is sounded, and away they 
 wind for the heather and hills, true peep -d' -day hoys, 
 far, far from the busy, money-getting world, to 
 breathe empyreal air; to enjoy a sport that should be 
 monopolized by princes — if, indeed, princes could be 
 found deserving of such a monopoly ! Every person 
 the shooter meets with seems this day to have thrown 
 off his sordid cloak, and to be divested of those meaner 
 passions which render life miserable : all are now 
 warm, open-hearted, frank, sincere, and obliging. 
 The sportsman's shooting dress is a sibboleth, which 
 introduces him alike to his superiors, to his fellows, 
 and his inferiors : an acquaintance is formed at first 
 sight: there are no distant looks, no coldness, no out- 
 pouring of arrogance, or avarice, or pride ; but a 
 happy riv^alry exists, to eclipse each other in the 
 number and size of birds killed — the chief object of 
 emulation beina: to kill the finest old cock. Let us 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 58 ROUTINE OF 
 
 be understood to express that this happy state of 
 things, subsists only so long as the shooter's pere- 
 grinations are circnmscribed by the limits of his own 
 or friend's manor. The moment he becomes a bor- 
 derer, a very different reception awaits him ! To the 
 sportsman in training, full of health and strength, and 
 well appointed, it is of little consequence whether 
 there be game or not. The inspiriting character of 
 the sport, and the wild beauty of the scenery, so 
 different from what he is elsewhere in the habit of 
 contemplating, hold out a charm that dispels fatigue ! 
 He feels not the drudgery. To him the hills are 
 lovely in every aspect; whether beneath a hot, 
 autumnal sun, with not a cloud to intercept the torrid 
 beam, or beneath the dark canopy of thunder-clouds ; 
 whether in the frosty morn or in the dewy eve — 
 whether, when through the clear atmosphere he surveys 
 as it were in a map, the countries that lie stretched 
 around and beneath him, or when he wanders darkly 
 on, amidst eternal mists that roll continuously past 
 him — still a charm pervades the hills. The sun shines 
 brighter, and the storm rages more furiously than in 
 the valleys ! The very sterility pleases : and to him 
 who has been brought thither by the rapid means of 
 travelling now adopted, from some bustling mart of 
 trade, or vortex of fashion, the novelty of loneliness 
 is agreeably exciting ! The stillness that reigns 
 around is as wonderful to him as the solidity of land 
 to the stranded sailor ! Scarcely is there a change of 
 scene — stillness and solitude, hill and ravine, sky and 
 heather, everywhere magnificent, the outline every- 
 where bold, and ndiere the view terminates amid rocks 
 and crags, frequently sublime ! At noonday, near
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 59 
 
 some rocky summit, perchance on the shepherd's stone, 
 the shooter seats himself, and shares his last sandwich 
 with liis panting dogs. We will suppose him to be 
 on the boundary of the muir-lands : on one hand he 
 sees an unbounded expanse of heathery hills, by no 
 means monotonous if he will look upon them with the 
 eye of a painter, for there is every shade of yellow, 
 green, brown, and purple, — the last is the prevailing 
 colour at this season, the heather being in bloom : 
 nor are the hills monotonous, if he looks at them with 
 the eye of a sportsman, for by this time (we suppose 
 him to have been shooting all the morning) he will 
 have performed many feats, or at any rate will have 
 met with several adventures, and the ground before 
 him is the field of his fame. He now looks with 
 interest on many a rock, and cliff, and hill, which 
 lately appeared but as one of so many ' crags, knolls, 
 and mounds confusedly hurled !' He contemplates 
 the site of his achievements, as a general surveys a 
 field of battle during an interval of strife; the ex- 
 perience of the morning has taught him a lesson, and 
 he plans a fresh campaign for the afternoon, or the 
 morrow or probably the next season, should the same 
 hills be again destined to be the scene of his exploits. 
 The shooter looks down on the other hand from his 
 rocky summit, and, in the bright relief, through the 
 white rents in the clouds, sees the far-off meadows 
 and hamlets, the woods, the rivers, and the lake. He 
 rises, and renews his task. The invigorating influ- 
 ence of the bracing wind on the heights, lends the 
 sportsman additional strength — he puts forth every 
 effort, every nerve is strained — he feels an artificial 
 glow after nature is exhausted, and returns to the cot
 
 60 ROUTINE OF 
 
 where he had previously spent a sleepless night, to 
 enjoy his glass of grog, and such a snooze as the 
 citizen never knew !" 
 
 This is a graphic and true picture of the outset of 
 grouse-shooting ; but it is but one amongst many of 
 the exciting situations and picturesque positions which 
 this fine sport presents. There is a wide difference 
 too, between the grouse-shooting of the north of 
 England and of the Highlands. On the English 
 moors, the majority of shooters who assemble there, 
 are the friends or acquaintances of the proprietors, 
 or of their friends and acquaintances, who have re- 
 ceived invitations, or procured the favour to shoot for 
 a day or two at the opening of the season. The 
 outbreak on the morning of the 12th, is therefore 
 proportionably multitudinous and bustling. The 
 throng of the people on the preceding evening, 
 crowded into the inns and cottages in the neighbour- 
 hood where the best shooting lies, is often amazing. 
 Many sportsmen, who on other occasions would think 
 scorn to enter such a hovel, or jostle in such a crowd, 
 may be seen waiting in patient endurance, in a situa- 
 tion in which a beggar would not envy him. Others 
 will be seen stretched on their cloaks on the floor, 
 while their dogs are occupying their beds, or the soft 
 bottom of a huge old chair ; their great anxiety being, 
 to have their dogs fresh and able for the coming day. 
 At the faintest peep of dawn, which is about three 
 o'clock at that season, loud is the sound of guns on 
 all sides, going off farther and farther in the distance. 
 At noon, on some picturesque and breezy hill, you 
 may see a large party congregated to lunch, where 
 provisions and drink have been conveyed by appoint-
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 61 
 
 ment. There ten or a dozen sportsmen seated on the 
 ground, all warm in body and mind — their dogs 
 watching eagerly for their share of the feast, which 
 is thrown them with liberal hand — their guns reared 
 against some rock — their game thrown picturesquely 
 on the moorland turf — Flibbertigibbets, with their 
 asses who have brought up the baskets of provisions, 
 the keg of beer, and bottles of porter, are running 
 about and acting the waiters in a style of genuine 
 originality ; while keepers and markers are at once 
 lunching and keeping an eye on the dogs, lest they 
 are too troublesome to their masters ; who are all 
 talking together with inconceivable ardour of their 
 individual achievements. The situation, the mixture 
 of men and animals, of personages and costumes, all 
 go to make up a striking picture. On the English 
 moorlands, however, grouse-shooting is but as it were 
 a brilliant and passing flash. As the enjoyment of 
 the sport is generally a matter of grace and friendship, 
 and is sought by numbers who can only devote to the 
 excursion, at the best, a few days, it is a scene of 
 animation and havoc for a week or ten days, and then 
 its glory is over. During this time, however, the 
 keepers on many estates make a rich harvest, by 
 presents from gentlemen for attendance and guidance 
 to the best haunts of the game — by the loan of dogs 
 at good interest to such as have not come well pro- 
 vided, or have met with accidents, or whose dogs, as 
 is sometimes the case, unused to this kind of sport 
 and scenery, have bolted and disappeared at the first 
 general discharge of guns ; and by furnishing, sub 
 rosd, grouse at a guinea a brace to certain luckless 
 braggadochioes, who have boastingly promised to
 
 62 ROUTINE OF 
 
 various friends at home plenty of game from the 
 moors ; and have not been able to ruffle a single 
 feather ! In the Highlands the scene is different. 
 The grounds are more generally rented by individuals 
 or parties ; they are wider and wilder, and both from 
 their extent and distance from the populous districts 
 of England are more thinly scattered with shooters. 
 There, some of the sportsmen take their families to 
 their cottages on their shooting-ground, and on which 
 they have probably bestowed some trouble and ex- 
 pense - to render them sufficiently comfortable and 
 convenient for a few months' occasional summer so- 
 journ, and what in nature can afford a more delicious 
 change from the ordinary course and place of life ? 
 Up far amongst the wild mountains and moorlands, 
 amid every fresh and magnificent object — amid fairy- 
 land glens of birch and hills of pine, the sight of 
 crystal, rapid, sunny streams, and the sound of water- 
 falls, in the lands of strange and startling traditions. 
 To intelligent children full of the enjoyment of life 
 and healthful curiosity, in such scenery everything is 
 wonderful and delightful ; to ladies of taste, such a life 
 for a brief season must be equally pleasant. There 
 are some ladies, indeed, of the highest rank, who are 
 in the regular habit of spending a certain portion of 
 every year in the Highlands ; and one in particular, 
 of ducal rank, who at that season rambles far and wide 
 amongst the cottages and the beautiful scenery of her 
 native hills, telling her daughters, that if they there 
 indulge in English luxuries, they must prepare them 
 themselves, — such is the simplicity of her mountain 
 residence and establishment; and they take their Cook's 
 Oracle, and wonderfully enjoy the change. The
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 63 
 
 language and costume of the inhabitants are those of 
 a foreign country ; every object has its novelty, and 
 the little elegancies of books, music, and furniture 
 which can be conveyed to such an abode, strike all 
 the more from the stern nature without. Then there 
 is the finest fishing in the lochs and mountain- 
 streams, the most delightful sailing in many places, 
 and in the woods there are the shy roebuck and some- 
 times the red-deer to be pursued. The grouse and 
 black-cock shooting season is, therefore, longer and 
 steadier there ,• but the full perfection of its enjoy- 
 ment is to be found, perhaps, after all, only by the 
 happy mortal who makes one of the select party 
 collected at one of the great Highland houses of the 
 aristocracy, where the best shooting, every requisite 
 of horses, dogs, attendants, etc., is furnished — and 
 where, after the fatigues of the day the sportsman 
 returns to his own clean room, to an excellent dinner, 
 music, and refined society. But, amid all these 
 seductions, nothing will make the thorough English 
 sportsman forget the 1st of September. Back he 
 comes, and enters on that regular succession of par- 
 tridge, pheasant, woodcock, snipe, and wild-fowl 
 shooting, of hunting and coursing, which diversify and 
 fill up the autumn and winter of English rural life. 
 To these pleasures then we leave him. 
 
 A WORD WITH THE TOO SENSITIVE. 
 
 1 have not attempted to defend the hunter, the courser, 
 or even the shooter, in the preceding chapter, from 
 the charge of cruelty which is perpetually directed
 
 64 ROUTINE OF 
 
 against them — they are a sturdy, and now a very 
 intelligent people ; often numbering amongst them 
 many of our principal senators, authors, and men of 
 taste, and very capable of vindicating themselves ; but 
 I must enact the shield-bearer for a moment, for that 
 very worthy and much- abused old man Izaak Walton, 
 and the craft which he has made so fashionable. Spite 
 even of Lord Byron's jingle about the hook and 
 gullet, and a stout fish to pull it, they may say what 
 they will of the old man's cruelty and inconsistency — 
 the death of a worm, a frog, or a fish, is the height of 
 his infliction, and what is that to the ten thousand 
 deaths of cattle, sheep, lambs, fish, and fowl of all 
 kinds, that are daily perpetrated for the sustenance of 
 these same squeamish cavillers ! They remind me 
 of a delicate lady, at whose house I was one day, and 
 on passing the kitchen door at ten in the morning, 
 saw a turkey suspended by its heels, and bleeding 
 from its bill, drop by drop. Supposing it was just 
 in its last struggles from a recent death-wound, I 
 passed on, and found the lady lying on her sofa over- 
 whelmed in tears over a most touching story. I was 
 charmed with her sensibility; and the very delightful 
 conversation which I held with her, only heightened 
 my opinion of the goodness of her heart. On acci- 
 dentally passing by the same kitchen door in the 
 afternoon, six hours afterwards, I beheld, to my 
 astonishment, the same turkey suspended from the 
 same nail, still bleeding, drop by drop, and still 
 giving an occasional flutter with its wings ! Hasten- 
 ing to the kitchen, I inquired of the cook, if she 
 knew that the turkey was not dead. " O yes, sir," 
 she replied, " it won't be dead, may-happen, these two
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 65 
 
 hours. We always kill turkeys that way, it so im- 
 proves their colour ; they have a vein opened under 
 the tongue, and only bleed a drop at a time !" " And 
 does your mistress know of this your mode of killing 
 turkeys ?" " O yes, bless you sir, it's our regular way; 
 missis often sees 'em as she goes to the gardens — 
 and she says sometimes, ' Poor things ! I don't like 
 to see 'em, Betty ; I wish you would hang them 
 where I should not see 'em!" I was sick! I was 
 dizzy ! It was the hour of dinner, but I walked 
 quietly away, 
 
 And ne'er repassed that bloody threshold more ! 
 
 I say, what is Izaak Walton's cruelty to this, and 
 to many another such perpetration on the part of the 
 tender and sentimental? What is it to the grinding 
 and oppression of the poor, that is every day going on 
 in society, — to the driving of wheels and the urging 
 of steam engines, matched against whose iron power 
 thousands daily waste their vital energies ? What is 
 it to the laying on of burdens of expense and trouble 
 by the exactions of law, of divinity, of custom, — 
 burdens grievous to be borne, and which they who 
 impose them, will not so much as touch with one of 
 their little fingers? 
 
 They sit at home and turn an easy wheel, 
 And set sharp racks to work to pinch and peel. 
 
 John Keats. 
 
 These things are done and suffered by human 
 beings, and then go the very doers of these things, 
 and cry out mightily against the angler for pricking 
 the gristle of a fish's mouth ! 
 
 e3
 
 66 ROUTINE OF 
 
 I do not mean to advocate cruelty — far from it ! 
 I would have all men as gentle and humane as possi- 
 ble ; nor do I argue that because the world is full of 
 cruelty, it is any reason that more cruelty should be 
 tolerated : but I mean to say, that it is a reason why 
 there should not be so much permission to the greater 
 evils, and so much clamour against the less. Is there 
 more suifering caused by angling than by taking 
 fishes by the net ? Not a thousandth, — not a ten 
 thousandth part ! Where one fish is taken with a 
 hook, it may be safely said that a thousand are taken 
 with the net : for daily are the seas, lakes, and rivers 
 swept with nets ; and cod, haddock, halibut, salmon, 
 crabs, lobsters, and every species of fish that supplies 
 our markets, are gathered in thousands and ten thou- 
 sands — to say nothing of herrings and pilchards by 
 millions. Over these there is no lamentation ; and yet 
 their sufi'erings are as great — for the suffering does 
 not consist so much in the momentary puncture of a 
 hook, as in the dying for lack of their native element. 
 Then go these tender-hearted creatures and feast 
 upon turtles that have come long voyages nailed to 
 the decks of ships in living agonies ; upon crabs, 
 lobsters, prawns, and shrimps, that have been scalded 
 to death ; and thrust oysters alive into fires ; and fry 
 living eels in pans, and curse poor anglers before their 
 gods for cruel monsters, and bless their own souls 
 for pity and goodness, forgetting all the fish-torments 
 they have inflicted ! 
 
 " Ay, but " — they turn round upon you suddenly 
 with what they deem a decisive and unanswerable 
 argument — " Ay, but they cannot approve of making 
 the miseries of sentient creatures a pleasure." What !
 
 COUNTRY SPORTS. 67 
 
 is there no pleasure in feasting upon crabs that have 
 been scalded, and eels that have been fried alive? 
 In sucking the juices of an oyster, that has gaped in 
 fiery agony between the bars of your kitchen grate ? 
 But the whole argument is a sophism and a fallacy. 
 Nobody does seek a pleasure, or make an amusement 
 of the misery of a living creature. The pleasure is 
 in the pursuit of an object, and the art and activity 
 by which a wild creature is captured, and in all those 
 concomitants of pleasant scenery and pleasant seasons 
 that enter into the enjoyment of rural sports ; — the 
 suffering is only the casual adjunct, which you would 
 spare to your victim if you could, and which any 
 humane man will make as small as possible. And over 
 what, after all, do these very sensitive persons lament? 
 Over the momentary pang of a creature, which forms 
 but one atom in a living series, every individual of 
 which is both pursuing and pursued, is preying, or is 
 preyed upon. The fish is eagerly pursuing the fly, 
 one fish is pursuing the other, and so it is through the 
 whole chain of living things, and this is the order and 
 system established by the very centre and principle 
 of love, by the beneficent Creator of all life. The 
 too sensitively humane, will again exclaim — " Yes, 
 this is right in the inferior animals : it is their nature, 
 and they only follow the impulse which their Maker 
 has given them." True; but M'hat is right in them, 
 is equally right in man ; — the argument applies with 
 double force in his case. For, is there no such 
 impulse implanted in him? Let every sportsman 
 answer it ; let the history of the world answer it ; 
 let the heart of every nine-tenths of the human race 
 answer it. Yes, the very fact that we do pursue such
 
 68 COUNTRY SPORTS. 
 
 sports, and enjoy them, is an irrefragable answer. The 
 principle of chase and taking of prey, which is im- 
 pressed on almost all living things, from the minutest 
 insect to the lion of the African desert, is impressed 
 with double force on man. By the strong dictates 
 of our nature, by the very words of the Holy Scrip- 
 tures, every creature is given us for food ; our domi- 
 nion over them, is made absolute. The amiable 
 Cowper asserted that dogs would not pursue game, if 
 they were not tauglit to do so. We admit the excel- 
 lent nature of the man, but every day proves that, in 
 this instance, he was talking beyond his knowledge. 
 Every one who knows anything of dogs, knows, that 
 if you bring them up in a town, and keep them away 
 from the habits of their own class to their full growth, 
 the moment they get into the country, they will pur- 
 sue each their peculiar game, with the utmost avidity, 
 and after their own manner. There is then, unques- 
 tionably, an instinctive propensity in one animal to 
 prey upon another — in man pre-eminently so — and it 
 is not the work of wisdom to quench this tendency, 
 but to follow it with all possible gentleness and 
 humanity.
 
 69 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 Res rustica, sine dubitalione, proxima, et quasi consanguinea 
 SapientJEe est. — Columella, De Re Rustica. 
 
 Ob, blessed, who drinks the bliss that Hymen yields, - 
 And plucks life's roses in his quiet fields. — Ebcnezer Elliott. 
 
 There may be a difference of opinion as to the strict 
 utility or wisdom of the pursuits noticed in the last 
 chapter ; — of the excellence and rationality of those 
 which form the subject of this, there can be none. 
 Nothing' can be more consonant to nature, nothing 
 more delightful, nothing more beneficial to the coun- 
 try, or more worthy of any man, than the georgical 
 occupations which form so prominent a feature in the 
 rural life of England. Whether a country gentleman 
 seek profit or pleasure, in them he can, at any time, 
 find them. While he is increasing the value of his 
 estate, he is in the midst of health, peace, and a series 
 of operations which have now become purely scientific, 
 and have called in to their accomplishment various 
 other sciences and arts. In every age of the world 
 agricultural pursuits have formed the delight of the 
 greatest nations and the noblest men. Some of the
 
 70 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 most illustrious kings and prophets of Israel were 
 taken from the fold or the plough. David and EHsha 
 are great names in the history of rural affairs. King 
 Uzziah " built towers in the desert, and digged many 
 wells, for he had much cattle both in the low country 
 and in the plains ; husbandmen also, and vinedressers 
 in the mountains, and in Carmel, for he loved hus- 
 bandry." How delightful are the associations which 
 the literature of Greece and Rome has thrown 
 around country affairs ! Homer, Hesiod, and Theo- 
 critus — how elysian are the glimpses they give us into 
 rural life ! how simple, how peaceful, how picturesque ! 
 Laertes, that venerable old monarch, pruning his 
 vines, and fetching young stocks from the woods for 
 his fences. Eumeus, at his rustic lodge, entertaining 
 his prince and his king. Hesiod himself, wandering 
 at the feet of Helicon, less impressed with the subli- 
 mity of the poet than with the spirit of the husband- 
 man ! He shews us the very infancy of agriculture : 
 
 Forget not when you sow the grain, to mind 
 That a boy follows with a rake behind ; 
 And strictly charge him, as you drive, with care 
 The seeds to cover, and the birds to scare. 
 
 Works and Days, B.2. 
 
 The harrow, an implement well known to King 
 David, for he put the subjected Ammonites under it, 
 was unknown then in Greece ! They raked in the 
 grain. That was but the second stage in the progress 
 of tillage ; the first undoubtedly being that in which 
 their plough was a pointed stick, and their harrow a 
 bush ; as the most ancient drawing of hay-forks shews 
 that they were forked sticks cut from the thicket. But 
 to leave those primitive times of Greece, — there is no
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 71 
 
 nation that at once acquired so vast a military renown 
 and yet retained such a passion for the peaceful pursuits 
 of agriculture as Rome. Nothing is so soon familiar- 
 ized to the mind of the school-boy as the fact of their 
 generals, dictators, and emperors tilling their own 
 lands — leaving them with reluctance for state honours, 
 and retiring to them with gladness to end their days 
 in meditative tranquillity. Cicero tells us that couriers 
 were first introduced by them, to run between the 
 capitol and their farms, that they themselves might 
 leave them only on most important occasions. Almost 
 every one of their writers on rural affairs whose works 
 have reached us were men of distinction in the state. 
 Varro was consul ; Cato, the most remarkable man of 
 his time, filled the highest offices; Columella and 
 Palladius were men of note ; and Pliny, a patrician 
 officer, was governor of Spain. But what is more 
 remarkable even is, that such men as Virgil, Horace, 
 and Cicero, men of imaginative genius, and so involved 
 in court life, or the business of government, should be 
 such passionate lovers of rural concerns. Every one 
 knows how their writings overflow with the praises of 
 country life, and what delight they took in their farms 
 and villas. Cicero seems as though he could never 
 have done with telling us of the pleasure he took in 
 farming. "I might expatiate," he says, "on the 
 beauty of verdant groves and meadows, on the charm- 
 ing aspects of vineyards and olive-yards, but to say all 
 in one word, there cannot be a more pleasing, or a 
 more profitable scene that that of a well-cultivated 
 farm. In my opinion, indeed, no kind of occupation 
 is more fraught with happiness, not only as the 
 business of husbandry is of singular utility to mankind,
 
 72 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 but, as I have said, being attended with its own 
 peculiar pleasures. I will add too, as a further recom- 
 mendation, and let it restore me to the good graces of 
 the voluptuous, that it supplies both the table and the 
 altar with the greatest variety and abundance. Ac- 
 cordingly, the magazines of the skilful and industrious 
 farmer are plentifully stored with wine and oil, with 
 milk, cheese, and honey; as his yards abound with 
 poultry, and his fields Muth flocks and herds of kids, 
 lambs, and porkets. The garden also furnishes him 
 with an additional source of delicacies, in allusion to 
 which the farmers pleasantly call a certain piece of 
 ground allotted to that particular use, their dessert. I 
 must not omit, likewise, that in the intervals of their 
 more important business, and in order to heighten the 
 relish of the rest, the sports of the field claim a share 
 of their amusements. * * * Of country occupations I 
 profess myself a warm admirer. They are pleasures 
 perfectly consistent with every degree of advanced 
 years, as they approach the nearest of all others to 
 those of the purely philosophical kind. They are 
 derived from observing the nature and properties of 
 their own earth, which yields a ready obedience to 
 the cultivator's industry, and returns with interest 
 what he deposits in her charge." — De Senectute. 
 
 He then goes on to tell us what delight he took in 
 the cultivation of the vine ; in watching the springing 
 and progress of corn ; the green blade pushing forth, 
 shooting into a knotted stem, nourished and supported 
 by the fibres of the root, terminated in the ear in 
 which the grain is lodged in regular order, and 
 defended from the depredations of birds by its bearded 
 spikes. He tells us that he could name numbers of
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 73 
 
 his most distinguished friends and neighbours, and 
 some of them at very advanced ages, wdio take such 
 interest in all that is going on at their farms, that 
 they will be present at every important agricultural 
 operation — many of them engaged in improvements 
 of which they will see neither the benefit nor the end. 
 " And what," says he, " do these noble husbandmen, 
 when they are asked for what purpose they dig and 
 plant, reply — ' In obedience to the immortal gods, by 
 whose bountiful providence we received these fields 
 from our ancestors, and whose will it is that we should 
 deliver them down with improvement to posterity !' " 
 And this generous and high sense of duty it was 
 which animated the Romans during the better portion 
 of their republic, and kept alive their virtue and their 
 simplicity of life, so far as to give them power to 
 despise wealth, and to command the fortunes of other 
 men. Cicero is delighted with this noble principle, 
 and he reverts with enthusiasm to the picture of 
 Manlius Curius, who, after having conquered the 
 Samnites, the Sabines, and even Pyrrhus himself, 
 passed the honourable remainder of his age in culti- 
 vating his farm. He adds, " 1 can never behold his 
 villa without reflecting with the highest degree of 
 admiration both on the sinofular moderation of his 
 mind, and the general simplicity of the age in which 
 he flourished. Here it was, while sitting by his fire- 
 side, that he nobly rejected the gold which was offered 
 him on the part of the Samnites, and rejected it with 
 this memorable saying, ' that he placed his glory, not 
 on the abundance of his own wealth, but in command- 
 ing those amongst whom it abounded.'" With equal 
 exultation he refers to the enthusiasm into which
 
 74 -SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 Xenophon in his treatise of CEconomics breaks forch 
 in the praise of agriculture, and relates the interview 
 of Lysander the Spartan ambassador with Cyrus the 
 younger, as told by Socrates to his friend Critobulus, 
 in which Cyrus assures Lysander that all the trees, 
 shrubs, etc. which he admired in his garden were 
 planted by his own hand. 
 
 But if such were the charms which agriculture had 
 for the Roman nobility, how much greater ought it 
 to possess for the nobles and gentlemen of England ! 
 Amid all the advantages and recreations which have 
 been pointed out in the preceding chapters as sur- 
 rounding the country life of modern England, that of 
 scientific farming is certainly one of the greatest. It 
 is a pursuit full of interest and variety, at once natural, 
 philosophical, and dignified. It is difficult to imagine 
 a man of wealth and education more usefully or 
 honourably employed than in directing the culture 
 and improvement of his estate. Agriculture is now 
 become, indeed, as Cicero termed it in his day, " the 
 nearest of all employments to the purely philosophical 
 kind," It is a science which requires a first-rate 
 education to prosecute it to its full capability, to make 
 the other arts and sciences of modern times bear upon 
 it, and co-operate with it, so as to add something to 
 its progression, or even to apply beneficially the 
 knowledge of its already established principles and 
 practices. It is no longer an occupation which requires 
 a man to forego the refined pleasures of society, to 
 bury himself amid woods and wildernesses in some 
 obscure hamlet far from the enjoyments and intelli- 
 gence of the world. As we have already seen, locate 
 himself where he will in these islands, the arts, the
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 75 
 
 elegancies, the news and knowledge of civilized life 
 will penetrate to him by swift agencies, and give him 
 all the real advantages of the city in the peace and 
 fulness of his retirement. And what a noble art is 
 agriculture nov/ become ! Look at the manner it is 
 now practised by the most skilful of its professors. 
 Let any one just turn over the leaves of Mr. Loudon's 
 Encyclopaedia of Agriculture, and trace the progress 
 of its implements only, from the plough of the ancients 
 in the shape of a mere pick, to the almost endless 
 machines which the active brains of men and their 
 advancing knowledge of mechanics have given to the 
 scientific farmer. Let any one turn to the list of 
 engravings of farming apparatus in the same excellent 
 work, amounting to about 300, and he will obtain some 
 idea of the amount of science and invention now devoted 
 to the use of the agriculturist. There are no men who 
 have availed themselves of the progress of the arts and 
 of general knowledge more than they. Mechanics, 
 chemistry, hydraulics, steam, all have been seized upon, 
 to develope the principles, or facilitate the operations 
 of agriculture. Within the last century the strides 
 which have been made in this interesting department 
 of knowledge are admirable. The Netherlands may be 
 said to have been the mother of our modern agriculture 
 — Scotland its nurse. TuU's system of horse-hoeing 
 and drill husbandry has been introduced by Dawson, 
 and has brought after it a numerous train of drills, dib- 
 bling-machines, horse-hoes, ploughs, rollers, scufBers, 
 scarifiers, watering-machines, brakes, drill-harrows, 
 etc., which we now see almost everywhere where the 
 old system of plain ploughing, harrowing, and broad- 
 cast sowing prevailed to the infinite loss of seed and
 
 76 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 growth of weeds. Then comes the thrashing machine 
 invented by Menzies, and improved by Meikle from 
 stage to stage, successively adapted to horses, wind, 
 water, and eventually the giant power of steam, thus 
 giving to the operations of the barn a rapidity equal 
 to the skill and neatness displayed in the field. The 
 scientific genius of Sir Humphry Davj^, Thompson, 
 Fourcroy, Parmentier, Kirwan, Gay Lussac, and 
 many other eminent chemists, have been employed to 
 investigate more accurately the real nature of soils 
 and manures, and a vast increase of productive power 
 has been the result. Bones, a source of fertility till of 
 late entirely wasted, have done wonders; rape-dust, 
 malt-dust, oil, fish, salt, wood and peat ashes, soot, 
 gypsum, and many other substances, have been made 
 the active agents of human subsistence. The best 
 mixture of crops has been determined by numerous 
 experiments ; and the benefits of stall-feeding clearly 
 demonstrated. Mangel-wUrzel, trifolium incarnatum, 
 a plant that from its rich crimson hue would be an 
 ornament of our fields even were it not a profitable 
 production, and other vegetables, have been added to 
 that plenteous growth of clover, dills, lucerne, rape, 
 turnips, etc., with which modern tillage has enriched 
 both summer and winter stalls. The improvement of 
 the breed of cattle and sheep by Bakewell of Dishly, 
 and the CuUeys; the growth of finer and better wools 
 by the introduction and crossing with the Merino by 
 Lord Somerville and others, have been as remarkable 
 as the superior cultivation of the soil. The science of 
 draining has found dev^otees equally ardent, and has 
 produced the most striking consequences. In many 
 instances the mere act of draining has quadrupled the
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 77 
 
 produce of land. In the weald of Kent, land which 
 produced only a rental of five shillings an acre, has 
 been raised by this process to five-and-twenty. And 
 all these objects have been watched over, canvassed, 
 and stimulated by the establishment of agricultural 
 societies, agricultural journals and newspapers, and 
 ploughing matches. Agricultural associations are now 
 to be found in almost every county, and in different 
 districts of the same county, which oifer premiums on 
 the best specimens of horses, cattle, and sheep ; the 
 best ploughing, and the most steady and industrious 
 farm and household servants. It is a new feature in 
 rural life, to see the whole farming population of a 
 district hastening on a given day, gentlemen, farmers, 
 and farm servants all in their best array, to some one 
 spot where the cattle are shewn, the ploughing is 
 done, the prizes are awarded by umpires chosen from 
 the most skilful, and the different parties then going 
 to a good dinner, and a long talk and hearty toast- 
 ing of all the interests of agriculture. 
 
 It is really too, as curious to see on our scientific 
 farms the vast variety of implements and machines 
 which these causes have produced ; — ploughs — about a 
 dozen and a half swing-ploughs, and upwards of a 
 dozen wheel-ploughs of different constructions, and 
 by different patentees; harrows, drills, cultivators. 
 Every species of soil and crop has its peculiar appa- 
 ratus ; in the field and the farm-yard ; for getting 
 seed into the ground, clearing and dressing when 
 there, for thrashing it out and cleaning it for market; 
 for sowing peas, beans, turnips, carrots, parsnips, etc., 
 for chopping, slicing, and preparing them for cattle ; 
 their machines for tedding hay, for stacking it with
 
 78 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 least possible risk, for cutting and steaming- it ; for 
 ploughing up weeds, ploughing up moorlands, and 
 even roads ; for reaping by wholesale, and raking by- 
 wholesale ; for tapping deep springs, and guttering the 
 surface for the escape of top-water ; there are their ma- 
 chines for paring and levelling lumpy lands ; for cross- 
 cutting furrows to make rough mossy land take seed 
 better; their channels, sluices, and schemes for irriga- 
 tion. And then, who shall tell all their implements for 
 hay-binding, rope-twisting, furze-pounding for cattle ; 
 their novel churns, their ratteries, their new-fangled 
 mole-traps, their poultry-feeders, and pheasant-feeders, 
 by which those birds are enabled to help themselves 
 from tin boxes supplied with grain for them, without 
 feathered depredators being able to go shares with 
 them. Truly Solomon might say that men now-a-days 
 have sought out many inventions ! 
 
 But who shall calculate all the thoughts and the 
 labours of such men as Fitzherbert, Tusser, Gooch, 
 Piatt, Hartlib, Weston, Markham, Sir Walter Ra- 
 leigh, Sir John Norden, John Evelyn, Worlidge, 
 Stillingfleet, Harte, Arthur Young, Maxwell, Lord 
 Kaimes, Sir John Sinclair, etc. etc.? Who shall 
 aggregate and estimate the numerous valuable sug- 
 gestions and articles of anonymous writers in the 
 journals; and the personal labours and fostering 
 influence of such men as the late Duke of Buccleugh, 
 the Dukes of Bedford and Portland, the late Lord 
 Somerville, Mr. Coke of Holkham, now the Earl of 
 Leicester, and many other noblemen and gentlemen 
 who have spent their lives in the unostentatious but 
 most meritorious endeavour to perfect the agricultural 
 science of England? With the exception of natu-
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 79 
 
 ralists, there are no men whose pursuits seem to me 
 to yield them so much real happiness as intelligent 
 agriculturists M^hose hearts are in the business ; and 
 though there are men whose offices or professions 
 place them more in the public eye, there are none 
 who are more truly the benefactors of their country. 
 Such were Lord Somerville and the Duke of Buc- 
 cleugh, as described by Sir Walter Scott ; and there 
 is a passage in his memoir of the latter nobleman 
 well worth the notice of those who propagate or be- 
 lieve in the nonsense of the economists on the non- 
 influence of absenteeism. "In the year 1817, when 
 the poor stood so much in need of employment, a 
 friend asked the Duke why his grace did not prepare 
 to go to London in the spring ? By way of answer, 
 the Duke showed him a list of day-labourers then 
 employed in improvements on his different estates, 
 the number of whom, exclusive of his regular estab- 
 lishments, amounted to nine hundred and forty-seven 
 persons. If we allow to each labourer two persons, 
 whose support depended on his wages, the Duke was 
 in a manner foregoing, during this severe year, the 
 privilege of his rank, in order to provide with more 
 convenience for a little army of nearly three thousand 
 persons, many of whom must otherwise have found it 
 difficult to obtain subsistence. The result of such 
 conduct is twice blessed; both in the means which it 
 employs, and in the end which it attains in the general 
 improvement of the country. This anecdote forms a 
 good answer to those theorists who pretend that the 
 residence of proprietors on their estates is a matter of 
 indifference to the inhabitants of that district. Had 
 the Duke been residing, and spending his revenue
 
 80 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 
 
 elsewhere, one half of these poor people would have 
 wanted employment and food ; and would probably 
 Jiave been little comforted by any metaphysical argu- 
 ments upon population, which could have been pre- 
 sented to their investigation." — Scott's Prose Works, 
 vol. 4. 
 
 Many such things may be daily heard of the pre- 
 sent Duke of Portland, in the neighbourhood of 
 Welbeck Abbey, in Nottinghamshire; which con- 
 vince you that he is one of those men that contrive 
 to pass through life without much noise, but reaping 
 happiness and respect in abundance, and while grati- 
 fying the taste for rural occupation, conferring the 
 most lasting benefits upon the country. I shall close 
 this section of this chapter with the substance of one 
 such act as related to me some years ago. In the 
 manner of relation it may therefore differ somewhat 
 from that in which originally told, but in fact I believe 
 it to be perfectly correct. The Duke found that one 
 of his tenants, a small farmer, was falling, year after 
 year, into arrears of rent. The steward wished to 
 know what should be done. The duke rode to the 
 farm ; saw that it was rapidly deteriorating, and the 
 man, who was really an experienced and industrious 
 farmer, totally unable to manage it, from poverty. 
 In fact, all that was on the farm was not enough to 
 pay the arrears. " John," said the duke, as the farmer 
 came to meet him as he rode up to the hous?, " 1 want 
 to look over the farm a little." As they went along, 
 — " Really" said he, "everything is in very bad case. 
 This won't do. I see you are quite under it. All 
 your stock and crops won't pay the rent in arrear. I 
 will tell you what I must do. I must take the farm
 
 SCIENTIFIC FARMING. 81 
 
 into my own hands. You shall look after it for me, 
 and I will pay you your wages." Of course there 
 was no saying nay, — ihe poor man bowed assent. 
 Presently there came a reinforcement of stock, then 
 loads of manure, — at the proper time, seed, and wood 
 from the plantations for repairing gates and buildings. 
 The duke rode over frequently. The man exerted 
 himself, and seemed really quite relieved from a load 
 of care by the change. Things speedily assumed a 
 new aspect. The crops and stock flourished ; fences 
 and outbuildings were put into good order. In two 
 or three rent days, it was seen by the steward's books 
 that the farm was paying its way. The duke on his 
 next visit, said, " Well, John, I think the farm does 
 very well now. We will change again. You shall 
 be tenant again, and as you now have your head fairly 
 above water, I hope you will be able to keep it there." 
 The duke rode off at his usual rapid rate. The man 
 stood in astonishment; but a happy fellow he was, 
 M'hen on applying to the steward he found that he 
 was actually re-entered as tenant to the farm just as 
 it stood in its restored condition;- — I will venture to 
 say, however, that the duke himself was the happier 
 man of the two. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 82 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 PLANTING. 
 
 '' Jock, when ye Iiae naetliing else to do, ye may be aye sticking 
 in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye Ve sleeping.'" 
 
 Heart of Mid Lothian. 
 
 What we have just said of the pleasures and benefit 
 of scientific farming, may be said also of planting ; it 
 is but another interesting mode of employing time by 
 landed proprietors, at once for recreation and the 
 improvement of their estates. What, indeed, can be 
 more delightful than planning future woods, where, 
 perhaps, now sterile heather, or naked declivities 
 present themselves; clothing, warming, diversifying 
 in imagination your vicinity; then turning your 
 visions into realities, and watching the growth of your 
 forests? Since John Evelyn wrote his eloquent 
 Sylva, and displayed the deplorable condition of our 
 woodlands, and since Dr. Johnson penned his sarcastic 
 Tour to the Hebrides, both England and Scotland 
 have done much to repair the ravages made in the 
 course of ages in our woods. A strong spirit on the 
 subject has grown up in the minds of our landed 
 gentry, and vast numbers of trees of all kinds suitable 
 to our climate have been planted in different parts of 
 the island. The Commissioners of Woods and Forests
 
 PLANTING. 83 
 
 have made extensive plantations of oak in the New 
 Forest, and other places. In the neighbourhood of all 
 gentlemen's houses we see evidences of liberal planting: 
 and the rich effect of these young woods is well calcu- 
 lated to strengthen the love of planting. In this part 
 of Surrey, wood, indeed seems the great growth of 
 the country. Look over the landscape from Richmond 
 Hill, from Claremont, from St. George's, or St. Anne's 
 Hill, and it is one wide sea of wood. The same is the 
 case in the bordering regions of Buckingham and Berk 
 shires. Richmond Park, Hampton-Court Park, Bushy 
 Park, Claremont and Esher Parks, Oatlands, Painshill, 
 Windsor, Ockham, Bookham, the whole wide country is 
 covered with parks, M'oods, and fields, the very hedge- 
 rowsof which are dense, continuous linesof trees. Look 
 into the part of Kent approaching the metropolis from 
 the heights of Norwood, and the prospect is the same. 
 Many of the extensive commons hereabout, as Book- 
 ham and Streatham commons, are scattered with fine 
 oaks, some of them very ancient, and diversified with 
 thickets and green glades, and rather resemble old 
 forests and parks, than commons as seen elsewhere. 
 Then again, the sandy heaths of Surrey are covered in 
 many places with miles of Scotch firs. There certainly 
 is no want of wood in these parts. In the sandy 
 wastes of Old Sherwood Forest in Nottinghamshire, 
 many thousand acres, principally of larch, have been 
 planted on the estates of the Dukes of Portland and 
 Newcastle, Lord Scarborough, Earl Manvers, Cols. 
 Need, Wildman, and other proprietors. Even the 
 cold hills of the Peak of Derbyshire have been planted 
 in some parts extensively ; and lands in those districts 
 which were literally unproductive, are now a source of
 
 84 PLANTING. 
 
 considerable income from the thinning of the woods. 
 In Scotland the same change is very visible. All 
 along the borders the good lands are beautifully culti- 
 vated, the bad extensively planted. From the dreary 
 flats about Gretna Green to the borders of Northum- 
 berland and Berwickshire, tliis is the case. Passing 
 into Scotland by the Cheviots, we saw extensive woods 
 on the border lands of the Duke of Northumberland, 
 Earl Tankerville, Mr. Collingwood, Mr. St Paul, etc. 
 The cold and wild tract between Kelso and Edinburgh 
 presents cheering appearances of the extension of the 
 planting spirit. In the counties of Argyle, Ross, and 
 Inverness, which Monteith of Stirling, in his Forester's 
 Guide, particularly points out as wanting w^ood, 
 we were struck with the great extent of planting 
 already done. Every summer tourist up the Clyde 
 sees how much the woods round Roseneath have 
 sheltered and beautified it — and the woods around 
 Inverary Castle are, to a great extent, very splendid — 
 while all the way thence to Oban you pass through 
 mountain glens and over moorlands enriched with 
 woods. The Duke of Athol, about Athol and Dunkeld 
 has planted upwards of 15,000 acres. I'he Duke of 
 Montrose has been a great planter. Sir Walter ScotE 
 was a diligent planter, as the young woods round 
 Abbotsford testify ; and there are no moments of his 
 life in which we can imagine him happier than when 
 mounted on his pony he progressed through his plan- 
 tations at his leisure, with his pruning knife in his 
 hand. But what he did on his own estate is trivial to 
 what he did by his writings. He may be said to have 
 planted more trees by his pen than any mun alive 
 has with his spade. He himself tells us that the
 
 PLANTING. 85 
 
 simple words put into the mouth of the Laird of 
 Dumbiedikes, and placed as a motto at tlie head of 
 this chapter, induced a certain earl to plant a large 
 tract of country. 
 
 In the neijrhbourhood of Dingwall, Beuley, Beau- 
 fort, — from Inverness to CuUoden, — in short, in 
 almost every part of the Highlands, — you find ex- 
 tensive young woods of larch and pine. Many of 
 these, it must be confessed, have apparently been 
 made with more regard to profit than beauty. In 
 many of the sweet straths, and along the feet of the 
 mountains, the long monotonous reaches of larch — an 
 unbroken, unvaried succession of pointed pyramids — 
 present but an indifferent contrast to the free slopes 
 of beauty which the native growth of the birches 
 exhibits; dotting glens and embosoming lochs wifli a 
 fairyland loveliness. As they become large, and are 
 thinned properly, or rather, where they are planted 
 thinly, on the plan of the Duke of Athol, this defect 
 may be remedied. Scotch firs, when large, assume a 
 wild forest majesty ; and larches in mountainous 
 situations, of an ancient growth, have an Alpine 
 sweep of boughs that is extremely picturesque and 
 graceful ; but young crowded firs of any kind are too 
 formal for beauty. 
 
 Mr. Wordsworth, in his Guide to the Lakes of 
 Westmoreland and Cumberland, complains grievously 
 of the injury done to the scenery there, by the inju- 
 dicious planting of larch. " Larch and fir plantations 
 have been spread, not merely with a view to profit, 
 but in many instances for the sake of ornament. To 
 those who plant for profit, and are thrusting every 
 other tree out of the way, to make room for their
 
 86 PLANTING. 
 
 favourite, the larch, I would utter first a regret, that 
 they should have selected these lovely vales for their 
 vegetable manufactory, when there is so much barren 
 and irreclaimable land in the neighbouring moors, 
 and in other parts of the island, which might have 
 been had for this purpose at a far cheaper rate. — It 
 must be acknowledged that the larch, till it has out- 
 grown the size of a shrub, shews, when looked at 
 singly, some elegance of form and appearance, espe- 
 cially in spring, decorated, as it then is, by the pink 
 tassels of its blossoms ; but, as a tree, it is less than 
 any other pleasing. Its branches — for boughs it has 
 none — have no variety in the youth of the tree, and 
 little dignity even when it attains its full growth; 
 leaves it cannot be said to have, consequently affords 
 neither shade nor shelter. In spring, the larch 
 becomes green long before the native trees, and its 
 green is so peculiar and vivid, that, finding nothing 
 to harmonize with it, wherever it comes forth a dis- 
 agreeable speck is produced. In summer, when all 
 other trees are in their pride, it is of a dingy, lifeless 
 hue ; in autumn, of a spiritless unvaried yellow ; and 
 in winter, it is still more lamentably distinguished 
 from any other deciduous tree of the forest, for they 
 seem only to sleep, but the larch seems absolutely 
 dead. If an attempt be made to mingle thickets, or 
 a certain proportion of other forest trees, with the 
 larch, its horizontal branches intolerantly cut them 
 down, as with a scythe, or force them to spindle up 
 to keep pace with it. The terminating spike renders 
 it impossible that the several trees, where planted in 
 numbers, should ever blend together so as to form a 
 mass, or masses of wood. Add thousands to tens of
 
 PLANTING. 87 
 
 thousands, and the appearance is still the same — a 
 collection of separate individual trees, obstinately- 
 presenting- themselves as such ; and which, from 
 whatever point they are looked at, if but seen, may 
 be counted upon the fingers. Sunshine, or shadow, 
 has little power to adorn the surface of such a wood ; 
 and the trees not carrying up their heads, the wind 
 raises amongst them no majestic undulations." 
 
 There is much truth in these remarks, and they 
 cannot be too much borne in mind by all planters 
 where picturesque beauty is an object. On dreary 
 moors, where the larch is planted merely for profit, 
 and where the tout^ensemhle cannot readily be attained, 
 woods of it often present a great degree of pleasant- 
 ness by contrast. They give you green glades and 
 narrow footpaths, between heath and fern, their 
 slender boughs hanging above you, especially in the 
 freshness of their foliage, very agreeably. As a 
 matter of profit, and for the value of its timber, few 
 species of wood can compete with it. The following 
 extract from the Transactions of the Highland 
 Society, gives a very striking view of its importance. 
 " Larch will supply ship-timber at a great height 
 above the region of the oak ; and while a seventy-four 
 gun ship will require the oak timber of seventy-five 
 acres, it will not require more than the timber of ten 
 acres of larch ; the trees in both cases being sixty- 
 eight years old. The larch, at Dunkeld, grows at the 
 height of 1300 feet above the level of the sea ; the 
 spruce at 1200; the Scotch pine at 700; and de- 
 ciduous trees at not higher than 500. The larch, in 
 comparison with the Scotch pine, is found to produce 
 three and three-quarter times more timber, and that
 
 88 PLANTING. 
 
 timber of seven times more value. The larch also, 
 being a deciduous tree, instead of injuring the pasture 
 under it, improves it. The late Duke of Athol, 
 John the Second, planted in the last year of his life, 
 6500 Scotch acres of mountain ground solely with 
 the larch, wldch in the course of seventy-two years 
 from the time of planting, will be a forest of timber 
 fit for the building of the largest class of ships in his 
 majesty's navy. It will have been thinned out to 
 about 400 trees per acre. Each tree will contain at 
 the least fifty cubic feet, or one load of timber, which 
 at the low price of one shilling the cubic foot, only 
 one half of its present value, will give lOOOZ. per 
 acre, or in all, a sum of 6,500,000/. sterling. Besides 
 this, there will have been a return of 11. per acre from 
 the thinnings, after deducting all expense of thinning, 
 and the original outlay of planting. Further still, 
 the land on which the larch is planted, is not worth 
 above ninepence or one shilling per acre. After the 
 thinnings of the first thirty years, the larch will make 
 it worth at least ten shillings per acre by the improve- 
 ment of the pasturage, on which cattle can be kept 
 summer and winter." 
 
 That is pretty well. This calculation is made 
 upon land stated at \s. per acre, planted with larch; 
 but Monteith, an experienced timber planter and 
 valuer, gives us for oak planted on land of \l. per 
 acre yearly rent, the following statement. 
 
 " If the proprietor, for instance, plants 100 acres 
 of ground, the trees being placed four feet distant 
 from each other, each acre will contain 3422 plants. 
 If it be planted M'ith hard woods, chiefly oaks, and a 
 few firs to nurse them up, supposing it is a plantation
 
 PLANTING. 89 
 
 purely for profit, the expense of plants and planting, 
 
 per acre, will he 61. £ 600 
 
 Rent of land for ten years, at 1/. per acre, per annum . 1000 
 
 Interest on rent 225 
 
 £xpenses of thinning, pruning, and train- 
 ing up for 10 years, at 1/. per acre, per 
 
 annum ........ 1000 
 
 Total expenditure £ 2825 
 
 Deduct produce of 1000 trees thinned 
 
 from each acre, during the first 10 
 
 years, at 2/. per acre . . . . £ 200 
 
 Deduct value of 2422 trees left on the 
 
 ground after the first 10 years, at 
 
 71. lOs. per acre . . . . 750 950 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 2412 
 
 Total outlay at the end of 10 years ^1875 
 
 To which add expense of thinning and 
 pruning for the next 10 years at 21, 
 per acre jB 200 
 
 Rent of the land for the same period at 
 
 1/. per acre, per annum . . . 1000 
 
 Interest on the rent for the same period 275 
 
 Interest on 1875/. for 10 years . . 937 
 
 Total outlay for 20 years £ 4287 
 
 Deduct produce of 1000 trees thinned out 
 
 during the last 10 years, from each 
 
 acre, at 6d. each, or 25/. per acre £ 2500 
 
 Deduct for 1422 trees which fall to be 
 
 enhanced in value during the last 10 
 
 years, and will come to at least 3ol. 1 Is. 
 
 per acre 3555 6055 
 
 ^ei768 
 Deduct from this the value of these 1000 
 trees as they were estimated at the end 
 of the first 10 years, at 31. 2s. per acre . . . 310 
 
 Thus leaving a balance in favour, of iG1458 
 
 f2
 
 90 PLANTING. 
 
 Hitherto the amount of gain is comparatively small, 
 but this calculation continued according to the growth 
 of the trees for ten years more, will leave the balance 
 no less than 23,667Z. And to the end of forty years 
 from first planting, the round sum of 41,000Z. "These 
 calculations," says Monteith, " may to those who 
 have paid no attention to the subject, excite wonder 
 if not doubt, but in making them, the author has been 
 careful to lessen rather than exaggerate the profits : 
 and if the plantation shall have been carried to the 
 age of sixty or seventy years, and properly thinned, 
 etc., the value will be double what it was at forty 
 years." Thus, if 100 acres in seventy years ^vill 
 yield 80,000/. planted with oak, 6000 acres will yield 
 about 5,000,000/. ; while 6000 acres of the larch plan- 
 tations of Athol in the same period are calculated to 
 yield about 6,000,000/. There is sufficient agree- 
 ment to lead us to suppose the calculations probably 
 accurate, and what a splendid inducement to judicious 
 planting do these calculations present ! 
 
 The following facts, given in the " Encyclopaedia 
 Britannica," (vol. i. art. agriculture), are also particu- 
 larly interesting to the planter. Mr. Pavier, in the 
 fourth volume of the Bath Papers, computes the 
 value of fifty acres of oak timber in 100 years, to be 
 12,100/., which is nearly 2/. lOs. annually per acre; 
 and if we consider that this is continually accumu- 
 lating, without any of that expense or risk, to which 
 annual crops are subject, it is probable that timber- 
 planting may be accounted one of the most profitable 
 articles in husbandry. Evelyn calculates the profit 
 of 1000 acres of oak land in 150 years at no less than 
 670,000/.
 
 PLANTING. 91 
 
 The following table shews the increase of trees 
 from their first planting. It was taken from the 
 Marquis of Lansdowne's plantation, begun in the 
 year 1765, and the calculation made in 1780. It is 
 about six acres in extent, the soil partly a swampy 
 meadow upon a gravelly bottom. The measures 
 were taken at five feet above the surface of the 
 ground; the small trees having been occasionally 
 drawn for posts and rails, as well as rafters for cot- 
 tages, and when peeled of the bark will stand well for 
 seven years. 
 
 Circumference in 
 Feet in height. Feet. Inches. 
 
 Lombardy Poplar ... 60 to 80 ... 4 8 
 
 Abeel 50 — 70 ... 4 G 
 
 Plane 30 — 60 ... 3 6 
 
 Acacia 50 — 60 ... 2 4 
 
 Elm 40 — 60 ... 3 6 
 
 Chestnut 30 — 50 ... 2 9 
 
 Weymouth Pine .... 30 — 50 ... 2 5 
 
 Chester Ditto .... 30 — 50 ... 2 5 
 
 Scotch Fir 30 — 50 ... 2 10 
 
 Spruce 30 — 50 ... 2 2 
 
 Larch 50 — 60 ... 3 10 
 
 From this table it appears that the planting of 
 timber trees, when the return can be waited for 
 twenty years, will undoubtedly repay tlie original 
 cost of planting as well as the interest of the money 
 laid out, M'hich is better worth the attention of the 
 proprietor of land, as the ground on which they grow 
 may be supposed good for cattle also. 
 
 In Argyleshire, there are probably 40,000 acres 
 of natural coppice wood which are cut periodically; 
 commonly every nineteen or twenty years, and are 
 understood to return about \L an acre annually.
 
 ^2 PLANTING. 
 
 Very extensive plantations have been formed by the 
 Duke of Argyle, and other proprietors. About thirty 
 years ago those of his grace were reckoned to contain 
 2,000,000 trees, worth then 45. each, amounting to 
 the enormous sum of 400,000/. 
 
 I knew a certain old military officer, who, during 
 his early years was a captain in a militia regiment. 
 His brother officers were a gay set of fellows, and 
 were continually drawing on their private incomes, 
 and often coming to him to borrow money ; but he 
 made it a rule never to spend more than his own pay, 
 and as to money he never had any to lend. He went 
 down to his estate every spring and autumn, and 
 planted as many acres of trees as his rental would 
 allow him. His planting gave him a perpetual plea 
 of poverty. At a certain age he retired on his half- 
 pay. A large family was growing around him, but 
 his woods were growing too. Many a time have I 
 seen him, mounted on an old brood mare, with a sort 
 of capacious game-bag across her loins, with his gun 
 slung at his shoulder, his saws and pruning-knives 
 strapped behind his saddle, going away into his woods : 
 and keeping the calculations of Monteith, and of the 
 larch plantations of Athol in mind, I can now imagine 
 the profound satisfaction which the old gentleman, 
 through a long course of years, must have felt in the 
 depths of his forest solitudes. He is still living, at 
 an advanced age. His family is large, and has been 
 expensive; but his woods were large too, and no doubt 
 their thinnings have proved very grateful thinnings of 
 his family charges.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 GARDENS. 
 
 We must now wind up, in a few words, what we have 
 to say of the country life of the gentry, and these words 
 must be on their gardens. In these, as in all those 
 other sources of enjoyment that surround them, per- 
 fection seems to be reached. They live in the midst 
 of scenes which, while they appear nature itself, are 
 the result of art consummated only by ages of labour, 
 research, science, travel, and the most remarkable 
 discoveries. Nothing can be more delicious than the 
 rural paradises which now surround our country 
 houses. Walks, waters, lawns of velvet softness, 
 trees casting broad shadows, or whispering in the 
 
 VOL. 1. F 3
 
 94 ■ GARDENS. 
 
 stirrings of the breeze; seclusion and yet airiness; 
 flowers from all regions, besides all the luxuries which 
 the kitchen-garden, the orchard, conservatories, hot- 
 houses, and sunny walls pour upon our tables, are so 
 blended and diffused around our dwellings, that no- 
 thing on earth can be more delectable. It is impos- 
 sible, without looking back through many ages of 
 English life, to form any idea of the real advantages 
 which we enjoy of this kind, — of the immense stride 
 we have made from the bare and rio^id life of our 
 ancestors. How many of the fruits or flowers, or 
 culinary vegetables, which we possess in such excel- 
 lence and perfection, did this country originally pro- 
 duce ? Few, indeed, of our indigenous flowers are 
 retained in our gardens, few of our vegetables besides 
 the cabbage and the carrot; and what were the an- 
 cient British fruits besides the crab and the bullace? 
 But we have only to look back to the feudal times to 
 see the wide difference between our gardens and 
 those then existing ; for all that could be enjoyed of 
 a garden must be compressed within the narrow 
 boundary of the castle moat. Everything without 
 was subject to continual ravage and destruction ; and 
 though orchards M^ere planted without, and suffered to 
 take their chance, the ladies' little parterre occupied 
 some sheltered nook of the court, or space between 
 grim towers : 
 
 Now was there maide fast by the touris wall, 
 
 A garden faire, and in the corneris set 
 An herbere grew; with wandis long and small, 
 
 Railit about, and so with treeis set 
 
 Was all the place, and hawthorn hedges knet, 
 That lyfe was now, walkyng there for bye, 
 
 That myght within scarce any wight espye. 
 
 The Quair, by James I. of Scotland.
 
 GARDENS. 95 
 
 And the plot of culinary herbs occupied some shel- 
 tered spot within the moat; which, when it is recol- 
 lected how many other requisites of existence and 
 defence were also compressed into the same space — 
 soldiers, arms, and machines of war; sleeping and 
 eating rooms; room for the stabling and fodder of 
 horses, and often of cattle ; space for daily exercise, 
 martial or recreative ; bowls, tilting or tennis, — when 
 cooped up by their enemies, or made cautious by 
 critical times, small indeed must have been the space 
 or the leisure for gardens. Even in 1540, Leland 
 in his Itinerary, tells us that our nobility still dwelt 
 in castles, and there retained the usual defences of 
 moats, and drawbridges. This was especially the 
 case, the nearer they approached to the Scotch or 
 Welsh borders ; though in the vicinity of London 
 villas and palaces had long sprung up. At Wrexhill 
 Castle, near Howden, in Yorkshire, he says, " The 
 gardens within the mote, and the orchardes without 
 were exceeding fair. And yn the orchardes were 
 mounts, oipere tojyiario, writhen about with degrees like 
 the turnings in cokil shelles, to come to the top with- 
 out payn." The career, indeed, by which our gardens 
 have reached their present condition, has been, as I 
 have said, the career of many ages, revolutions, and 
 stupendous events. It is not only curious, but most 
 interesting to trace all those circumstances which have 
 contributed to raise horticulture to its present emi- 
 nence, — the great national events, the extension of 
 discovery, of the arts, of general knowledge ; the deep 
 ponderings in cells and fields; the achievements of 
 genius, of enterprise ; the combinations of science, 
 and the variations of taste which have brought it to
 
 96 GARDENS. 
 
 what it is. The history of our gardening is, in fact, 
 the history of Europe. The monks, whose religious 
 character gave them an extraordinary security, as 
 they were the first restorers of agriculture, so they 
 were the first extenders and improvers of our gardens. 
 Their long pilgrimages from one holy shrine to 
 another, through France, Germany, and Italy, made 
 them early acquainted with a variety of culinary and 
 medicinal herbs, and with various fruits ; and amongst 
 the ruins of abbeys we still find a tribe of places 
 that they thus naturalized. The crusades gave 
 the next extension to horticultural knowledge; the 
 growing commerce and wealth of Europe fostered it 
 still farther ; and the successive magnificent discoveries 
 of the Indies, America, the isles of the Pacific and 
 Australia, with all their new and splendid and in- 
 valuable productions, raised the desire for such things 
 to the highest pitch ; and made our gardens and 
 green-houses affluent beyond all imagination. What 
 hosts of new and curious plants do they still send us 
 every season ! From every corner of the earth are 
 they daily reaching us : the average value of the 
 plants in Loddige's gardens is calculated at 200,000/. 
 But what a blank would they now be but for the 
 mighty spirit of commerce, the thirst of discovery, 
 and of traversing distant regions, which animate such 
 numbers of our countrymen, and send them out to 
 extend our geography, geology, and natural history, 
 or to prosecute astronomical and philosophical science 
 under every portion of the heavens? And besides 
 these causes, how much is yet to be accounted for by 
 the tastes of peculiar ages— out of the peculiar studies 
 of the times, and the singular genius of particular
 
 GARDENS. 97 
 
 men thence arsing. The influence of poets and 
 imaginative writers upon the character of our gardens 
 has been extreme. Whether an age were poetical 
 or mathematical, made a mighty difference in the 
 garden-style of the time. C. Matius, the favourite 
 of Augustus Csesar, iutroduced the fashion at Rome 
 of clipping trees into shapes of animals and other 
 grotesque forms; Pliny admired the invention, and 
 celebrated it under the name of topiary-work; and so 
 strongly did it take hold on the spirits of men, that 
 it descended to all the nations of Europe, and was 
 not exploded by us till the last century. Sir Henry 
 Wotton, the tasteful and poetical courtier of Queen 
 Elizabeth, and ambassador of James to Venice, with 
 notions of the fitness of a garden far beyond his age, 
 yet thought it "a graceful and natural conceit^' in 
 Michael Angelo to make a fountain-figure in the 
 shape of " a sturdy washerwoman, washing and wind- 
 ing of linen clothes, in which act, she wrings out the 
 water which made the fountain." And again Addi- 
 son, followed by Pope and Walpole, overturned this 
 ancient fondness for pleached walks, and tonsured 
 trees, and quaint fountain-figures, whether of Nep- 
 tunes, Niles, or washerwomen. Then the great 
 cliange of the social system, from the feudal and 
 military to civil and domestic, produced a correspon- 
 dent change in the culture of gardens. While the 
 country was rent to pieces by contentions for the 
 crown, there could be little leisure or taste for 
 gardens ; but when men became peaceful, and col- 
 lected their habitations into clusters, they naturally 
 began to embellish both them and their environs. 
 From the reign of Edward III. to that of Henry
 
 98 GARDENS. 
 
 VIII. we look over a large space, and find but slight 
 improvement in horticulture, and scanty traces of its 
 literature. A bushel of onions in Richard ll.'s reign 
 cost twelve shillings of our present money : Henry 
 VII. records himself in a MS. preserved in the 
 Remembrance Office, that apples were in his day one 
 and two shillings each, a red one fetching the highest 
 price ; and Henry VIII. 's queen, Catherine, when she 
 wanted a salad, sent to Flanders for it. The very 
 first book which was written on the culture of the soil 
 in this country, appears to be Walter de Henly's — 
 " De Yconomia sive Housbandria." Then came 
 Nicholas Dollar's books, " De Arborum plantatione, 
 and De generatione Arborum et modo generandi et 
 plantandi," and some other MS. writings. Richard 
 II. rewarded botanical skill in the person of John 
 Bray with a pension. Henry Calcoensis in the fif- 
 teenth century composed a Synopsis Herbaria, and 
 translated Palladius De Re Rustica into Gaelic. In 
 the sixteenth century William Horman, Vice-Provost 
 of Eton, wrote Herbarum Synonyma and indexes to 
 Cato, Varro, Columella, and Palladius; and in the 
 same century Wynkin de Worde printed " Mayster 
 Groshede's Boke of Husbandry," which contained 
 instructions for planting and grafting of trees and 
 vines. Arnold's Chronicle in 1521, had a chapter on 
 the same subject, and how to raise a salad in an 
 hour ; and Pynson published the " Boke of Surveying 
 and Improvements." Then came Dr. Bulleyn, Dodo- 
 neus, Sir Anthony Fitzherbert and Tusser ; and that 
 is the history of gardens and their literature till the 
 time of Henry VIII.; but thence to the eighteenth 
 century, — to the days of Bridgman and Kent, what
 
 GARDENS. 99 
 
 multitudes of grand, quaint, and artificial gardens 
 were spread over the country. Nonsuch, Theobalds, 
 Greenwich, Hampton-Court, Hatfield, Moor-Park, 
 Chatsworth, Beaconsfield, Cashiobury, Ham, and many 
 another, stood in all that stately formality which 
 Henry and Elizabeth admired, and in which our 
 Surreys, Leicesters, Essexes ; the splendid nobles of 
 the Tudor dynasty, the gay ladies and gallants of 
 Charles H.'s court, had walked and talked, fluttered 
 in glittering processions, or flirted in green alleys and 
 bowers of topiary-work ; and amid figures, in lead 
 or stone, fountains, cascades, copper trees dropping 
 sudden showers on the astonished passers under, 
 stately terraces with gilded balustrades, and curious 
 quincunx, obelisks, and pyramids — fitting objects of 
 the admiration of those who walked in high-heeled 
 shoes, ruffs and fardingales, with fan in hand, or in 
 trunk-hose and laced doublets. 
 
 "The palace of Nonsuch," said Hentzner in 1598, 
 " is encompassed with parks full of deer, delicious 
 gardens, groves ornamented with trellis-work, cabinets 
 of verdure (summer-houses, or seats cut in yew), and 
 walls so embowered by trees, that it seems to be a 
 place pitched upon by pleasure herself to dwell in 
 along with health. In the pleasure and artificial 
 gardens are many columns and pyramids of marble; 
 two fountains that spout water, one round, the other 
 like a pyramid, upon which are perched small birds 
 that stream water out of their bills. In the grove of 
 Diana is a very agreeable fountain, with Actceon 
 turned into a stag, as he was sprinkled by the god- 
 dess and the nymphs, with inscriptions. Here is, 
 besides, another pyramid of marble full of concealed
 
 100 GARDENS. 
 
 pipes, which spurt upon all who come within their 
 reach." In the gardens of Lord Burleigh, at Theo- 
 balds, he tells us are nine knots, artificially and 
 exquisitely made, one of which was set for the likeness 
 of the king's arms. One might walk two miles in 
 the walks before he came to the end. 
 
 In Hampton-Court, was a fountain with syrens and 
 other statues by Fanelli. At Kensington were bas- 
 tions and counterscarps of clipped yew and variegated 
 holly, being the objects of M'onder and admiration 
 under the name of the siege of Troy. At Chatsworth 
 the temporary cascade, the water-god, the copper- 
 tree, and the jets-d'eau, still remain in all their glory. 
 
 The hands of Bridgman, Kent and Brown, and the 
 pens of Addison, Pope and Walpole, have put all 
 this ancient glory of Roman style to the flight ; and 
 driven us, perhaps, into danger of going too far after 
 nature. The winding walks, the turfy lawns, the 
 bowery shrubberies, the green slopes to the margin 
 of waters, the retention of rocks and thickets where 
 they naturally stood, — all this is very beautiful, and 
 many a sweet elysian scene do they spread around 
 our English houses. But in imitating nature we are 
 apt to imitate her as she appears in her rudest places, 
 and not as she would modify herself in the vicinity of 
 human habitations. We are apt to make too little 
 difference between the garden and the field; between 
 the shrubbery and the wood. We are come to think 
 that all which differs from wild nature is artificial, and 
 therefore absurd. Something too much of this, I 
 think, we are beginning to feel we have had amongst 
 us. It has been the fashion to cry down all gardens as 
 ugly and tasteless, which are not shaped by our modern
 
 GARDENS. 101 
 
 notions. The formalities of the French and Dutch 
 have been sufficiently condemned. For my part, I 
 like even them in their place. One would no more 
 think of laying out grounds now in this manner, than 
 of wearing Elizabethan ruffs, or bag-wigs and basket- 
 hilted swords; yet the old French and Dutch gardens, 
 as the appendages of a quaint old house, are in my 
 opinion, beautiful. They are like many other things 
 — not so much beautiful in themselves, as beautiful 
 by association — as memorials of certain characters and 
 ages. A garden, after all, is an artificial thing; and 
 though formed from the materials of nature, may be 
 allowed to mould them into something very different 
 from nature. There is a wild beauty of nature, and 
 there is a beauty in nature linked to art ; one looks 
 for a very different kind of beauty in fields and 
 mountains, to what one does in a garden. The one 
 delights you by a certain rude freedom and untamed 
 magnificence ; the other, by smoothness and elegance 
 — by velvet lawns, bowery arbours, winding paths, 
 fair branching shrubs, fountains, and juxta-position of 
 many rare flowers. 
 
 It appears to me that it is an inestimable advantage 
 as it regards our gardens, that the former taste of the 
 nation has differed so much from its present one. 
 Without this, what a loss of variety we should have 
 sufi"ered ! If the taste of the present generation had 
 been that of all past ages, what could there have been 
 in the gardens of our past kings, nobles, and historical 
 characters to mark them as strongly and emphatically 
 as they arc now marked ? They now, indeed, seem 
 to belong to men and things gone by ; and I would as 
 soon almost see one of our venerable cathedrals rased
 
 102 GARDENS. 
 
 with the ground, as one of these old gardens rooted 
 up. There is something in them of a sombre and 
 becoming melancholy. They are in keeping with 
 the houses they surround, and the portraits in the 
 galleries of those houses. When we wander through 
 the pleached alleys, and by the time-stained fountains 
 of these old gardens, perished years indeed seem to 
 come back again to us. In the centre of some vast 
 avenue of majestic elms or limes, sweeping their 
 boughs to the ground, " the dial-stone aged and green" 
 arrests our attention, and points, not to the present 
 hour, but to the past. Our historic memories are in- 
 timately connected with such places. Our Howards, 
 Essexes, Surreys, and Wolseys, were the magnifi- 
 cent founders and creators of such places ; and in 
 such, Shakspeare and Spenser, Milton and Bacon and 
 Sidney mused. It is astonishing what numbers of 
 our poets, philosophers, and literati, are connected 
 with the history of our gardens by their writings, or 
 love of them. Sir Henry Wotton, Parkinson, Ray, 
 John Evelyn, Sir Walter Raleigh, Bacon, Addison, 
 Pope, Sir William Temple, who not only wrote " the 
 Garden of Epicurus," but so delighted in gardening 
 that he directed in his will that his heart should be 
 buried beneath the sun-dial in his garden at Moor- 
 Park in Surrey, where it accordingly was deposited 
 in a silver box : Horace Walpole, Locke, Cowley, 
 Shenstone, Charles Cotton, Waller, Bishop Fleet- 
 wood, Spence, the author of Polymetis, Gilpin of 
 the Forest Scenery, Mason, Dr. Darwin, Cowper, 
 and many others, have their fame linked to the history 
 or the love of gardens. 
 
 There is something very interesting too, in the
 
 GARDENS. 103 
 
 biography of our old patriarchs of English gardening. 
 There is scarcely one of those large nurseries and 
 gardens round London but is connected with them, 
 as their founders, or improvers — as the Tradescants 
 of Lambeth, — Londen and Wise of Brompton, — 
 Philip Miller of Chelsea, — Gray of Fulham, — Furber 
 of Kensington, — Lee of Hammersmith. It is cheer- 
 ing to observe how much our monarchs, from Henry 
 VIH. to George IH. were, with their principal nobi- 
 lity, almost to a man, whatever was their character in 
 other respects, not even excepting the dissipated 
 Charles H., munificent patrons of gardening, and 
 founders of grand gardens. It is interesting to read 
 of the giant labours, and now apparently curious loca- 
 tions of our early gardeners and herbalists. How 
 Dr. Turner imbibed botanical knowledge from Lucas 
 Ghinus at Bologna, and came and established a 
 "garden of rare plants" at Kew ; while Mrs. Gape 
 had another at Westminster, which furnished the first 
 specimens for Chelsea garden. How Ray, and 
 Lobel, and Penny roamed everywhere in search of 
 new plants. How Didymus Mountain published his 
 "Gardener's Labyrinth:" how Sir Hugh Piatt, of 
 Lincoln's-Inn, gentleman, wrote the Jewel House 
 of Art and Nature, the Paradise of Kew, and the 
 Garden of Eden, and had, moreover, a garden in St. 
 Martin's Lane. How the " Rei Rusticse" of Conrad 
 Heresbach, counsellor to the Duke of Cleve, was 
 translated by Barnaby Googe, and reprinted by 
 Gervase Markham, gentleman, of Gotham in Not- 
 tinghamshire. How old John Gerarde travelled, 
 when young, up the Baltic, and had his " Physick 
 Garden" in Holborn. How John Parkinson travelled
 
 104 GARDENS. 
 
 forty years before he wrote his " Paradisus," and was 
 appointed by Charles I. for his Theatre of Plants, 
 Botanicus Regius Primarius. How Gabriel Plattes, 
 though styled by his cotemporaries, "an excellent 
 genius," and "of an adventurous caste of mind," died 
 miserably in the streets. How Walter Blythe of 
 Oliver Cromwell's army wrote the " Survey of Hus- 
 bandry," which Professor Martyn pronounces " an 
 incomparable work." How Samuel Hartlib, the 
 son of a Polish merchant, the friend of Milton, of 
 Archbishop Usher and Joseph Meade, wrote his 
 " Legacy," and assisted in establishing the embryo 
 Royal Society; how John Tradescant was in Russia, 
 and accompanied the fleet sent against the Algerines 
 in 1620, and collected on that occasion plants in 
 Barbary, and in the isles of the Mediterranean ; and 
 how his son John, afterwards made a voyage in pur- 
 suit of plants to Virginia, " and brought many new 
 ones back with him." How their Museum, esta- 
 blished in South Lambeth, and called " Tradescant's 
 Ark," was the constant resort of the great and 
 learned ; how it fell into the hands of Elias Ashmole, 
 and became the Ashmolean Museum. 
 
 These and such facts, shew us by what labours and 
 steps our present garden-wealth has been raised ; and 
 diffuse an interest over a number of places familiar to 
 us. Go, indeed, into what part of the island we will, 
 we find some object of attraction and curiosity in the 
 gardens attached to our old houses. As the coach 
 passes the residence of Colonel Howard at Leven's 
 Bridge, in Westmoreland, it stops, the passengers 
 get out, and mount upon its top, and there behold a 
 fine old Elizabethan house, standing in the midst of
 
 GARDENS. 105 
 
 a garden of that age, with all its topiary-work, its 
 fountains, statues, and lawns. At Stony- Hurst in 
 Lancashire, now a Jesuit's College, I was delighted 
 to find a beautiful old garden of this description, 
 which 1 have elsewhere described; and at Margam 
 Abbey in South Wales, I found a fine assemblage of 
 OKuige trees, the very trees which Sir Henry Wotton 
 sent from Italy as a present to Queen Elizabeth. 
 These trees had been thrown ashore here by the 
 wreck of the vessel, and the owner of the place, by 
 the queen's permission, built a splendid orangery to 
 receive them, which stood in the centre of a garden 
 surrounded on three sides by woody hills; and in 
 which, fuchsias at least ten feet high, with stems 
 thick as a man's arm, were growing in the open 
 air, and tulip-trees large as the forest trees around. 
 But what gave a still greater charm to this 
 garden was, that the ruins of a fine old abbey stood 
 here and there on its lawn ; arches, overgrown with 
 bushes, and the graceful pillars of a noble chapter- 
 house, around whose feet lay stones of ancient tombs 
 and curious sculpture. These are the things which 
 give so delicious a variety to Our English gardens: 
 and when we bear in mind that many of those artifices 
 and figures which we have been accustomed to treat 
 with contempt as Dutch, are in reality Roman; that 
 such things once stood in the magnificent gardens of 
 Lucullus, and Sallust; that the Romans gathered 
 them again from the Eastern nations; that they are 
 not only classical, but that, like many of the rites of 
 our church and religious festivals, they are the re- 
 liques of the most ancient times, I think we shall be 
 inclined to regard them with a greater degree of in-
 
 106 GARDENS. 
 
 teres t — not as objects to imitate or to place in any 
 competition with our own more natural style, but as 
 things which are of the most remote antiquity, and 
 give a curious diversity to our country abodes. For 
 my part, when I see even a fantastic peacock spread- 
 ing its tail in yew in some old cottage or farm-house 
 garden, I think of Pliny and his admiration of such 
 topiary-work, and M'ould not have it cut down for 
 the world. Even those summer-houses built in trees, 
 such as that built by the King of Belgium in Winter- 
 Down wood, near Claremont; a sketch of which is 
 presented in the title-page — were Roman fancies; 
 were formed, Pliny tells us, amid the branches of any 
 monarch trees that grew Mathin their grounds, and that 
 even Caligula had one in a plane-tree near his villa 
 at Velilrse, which he called his Nest. 
 
 Here then to all the sweet nests of English gardens, 
 new or old, we bid adieu, with blessings on their 
 pleasantness.
 
 107 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 Before closing this department of my work, I must 
 just glance at a few occurrences which serve to give 
 an occasional variety to rural life, and may be classed 
 under the head of Country Excitements. These are 
 races, race-balls, county-balls, concerts, musical festi- 
 vals, elections, assizes, and confirmations. It will not 
 be requisite to do more than merely mention the 
 greater part of these, for to describe at length the 
 race-ball and county-balls, the winter concerts of the 
 county town and the musical festivals, would require 
 a separate volume, and they indeed, after all, belong 
 more to the town than to the country. Having, 
 therefore, simply pointed them out as sources of occa- 
 sional variety to wealthy families during their stay in 
 the country, I shall confine myself in these concluding 
 remarks, to those few particulars which belong more 
 entirely to my subject. Balls and musical exhibitions 
 are suflficiently alike everywhere, to need no distinct 
 details here. It is enough that they serve to break 
 the rural torpor of those who regard existence as only 
 genuine during the London season. The application 
 of the profits both of these balls, and of the musical 
 festivals that have of late years been held in different
 
 108 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 places, to the support of infirmaries, and to other pub- 
 lic objects of benevolence, deserves the highest com- 
 mendation. Thus dismissing these amusements, 
 neither I nor my readers, I am sure, would wish to 
 have the uproar and exasperation of the county elec- 
 tion introduced into this peaceful volume; enough 
 that when it does come to the country Hall, it comes, 
 often as a hurricane, and frequently shakes it to the 
 foundation, leaving in its track, debts and mortgages, 
 shyness between neighbours, and rancour amongst old 
 friends. 
 
 It would not be giving a faithful view of country 
 life, however, were we to keep out of sight all agi- 
 tating causes, and all existing drawbacks to the felicity 
 for which such ample materials exist in it. Sui'- 
 veying those splendid materials, as displayed in the 
 preceding chapters, — those abundant means and 
 opportunities, which the wealthy possess for enjoying 
 their lives in the country ; — it would be giving a most 
 one-sided view of the rural life of the rich, if we left 
 it to be inferred that " the trail of the serpent" was 
 not to be perceived at times in the fair lawns, and up 
 the marble steps of rural palaces; that the great 
 " Bubbly-Jock," (Turkey-Cock) which Scott con- 
 tended that every man found in his path, did not shew 
 himself there. The Serpent and the Bubbly-Jock 
 which disturb and poison the rural life of the educated 
 classes in England, are the very same which dash with 
 bitter all Englisli society in the same classes. They 
 are the pride of life, and the pride of the eye. They 
 are that continual struggle for precedence, and those 
 jealousies which are generated by a false social system. 
 Every man lives now~a-day for public observation.
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 109 
 
 He builds his house, and organizes his establishment, 
 so as to strike public opinion as much as possible. 
 Every man is at strife with his neighbour, in the mat- 
 ter of worldly greatness. The consequence is, that a 
 false standard of estimation, both of men and things, 
 is established — shew is substituted for real happiness ; 
 and no man is valued for his moral or intellectual 
 qualities, so much as for the grandeur of his house, 
 the style of his equipage, the richness of his dinner 
 service, and the heavy extravagance of his dinners. 
 The result of this is, that most are living to the full 
 extent of their means, many beyond it, and few are 
 findino- in the whole round of their life, that alone, 
 which better and higher natures seek — the inter- 
 change of heart and mind, which yields present delight, 
 creates permanent attachments, and fills the memory 
 with enduring satisfaction. 
 
 This, it must be confessed, is a wretched state of 
 things; but it is one which every person conversant with 
 society knows to exist, and which intelligent foreigners 
 witness with unfeigned surprise. The worst of it is 
 that this unnatural system of life becomes the most 
 sensibly felt in the country. In large towns every man 
 finds a sufficient circle after his own taste : there the 
 petty influences of locality are broken up by the mul- 
 titude of objects, and the ample choice in association. 
 But in small towns, and country neighbourhoods, 
 where wealthy or educated families are thinly scattered, 
 nothing can be more lamentable, and were it not 
 lamentable, nothing could be more ludicrous, than the 
 state of rivalry, heart-burning, jealousy, personal mor- 
 tification,or personal pride, from mere accidents of con- 
 dition or favour. The titled have a fixed rank, and are 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 110 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 comparatively at their ease, but in the great mass of 
 those who have wealth, more or less, without title, what 
 mighty and eating sore is the struggle for distinction. 
 In the little town, or thinly-scattered neighbourhood, 
 every one is measuring out his imaginary dignity to 
 see if it does not exceed, at least by some inches, that 
 of one or other of his neighbours. The lower you 
 descend in the scale, the more exacting becomes the 
 spirit of exclusiveness. The professions look down 
 upon the trades ; the trades on one another. Every- 
 where the same uneasy spirit shews itself. Nothing 
 can be more ludicrous, or amusing to the philosophic 
 spectator, than to observe how leadership is assumed 
 in every country neighbourhood, by certain wealthy 
 families ; how carefully that leadership is avoided and 
 opposed by other families. How the majority of 
 families aspire to move in one or the other circle ; 
 what wretched and anomolous animals those feel them- 
 selves that are not recognized by either. How the 
 man who drives his close carriage, looks down upon 
 him who only drives his barouche or phaeton; how 
 both contemn the poor occupier of a gig. I have 
 heard of a gentleman of large fortune who, for some 
 years after his residence in a particular neighbourhood, 
 did not set up his close carriage, but afterwards feeling- 
 it more agreeable to do so, was astonished to find 
 himself called upon by a host of carriage-keeping 
 people, who did not seem previously aware of his 
 existence ; and rightly deeming the calls to be made 
 upon his carriage, rather than himself, sent round his 
 empty carriage to deliver cards in return. It was a 
 biting satire on a melancholy condition of society, 
 the full force of which can only be perceived by such
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 1 I 1 
 
 as have heard the continual exultations of those who 
 have dined with such a great person on such a day, and 
 the equally eager complaints of others, of the pride 
 and exclusiveness they meet with ; who have listened 
 to the long catalogue of slights, dead cuts, and offences, 
 and witnessed the perpetual heart-burnings incident 
 to such a state of things. These are the follies that 
 press the charm of existence out of the hearts of thou- 
 sands, and make the country often a purgatory where 
 it might be a paradise. 
 
 There is another cause which diminishes in a great 
 degree the enjoyment that might be found in the 
 country, and that is, the almost total cessation of 
 walking amongst the wealthy. Since the universal 
 use of carriages, for anything I can see, thousands of 
 people might just as well be born without legs at all. 
 It would be easy to move them from the bed to the 
 carriage, — thence to the dinner-table, and again to 
 bed. In the country, and especially in the country 
 not far from towns, how rarely do you see the rich 
 except in their luxurious carriages ! How rarely do 
 you meet them walking, or even on horse-back, as 
 you used to do ! Sir Roger de Coverley rode on 
 horseback to the assizes in his day — were he living 
 now, he would roll there in his carriage — lest some 
 one should imagine that he had mortgaged his estate, 
 and laid down his carriage in retrenchment. During- 
 the twelve Tnonths that I have resided in this neigh- 
 bourhood — a neighbourhood studded all over with 
 wealthy houses, nothing has surprised me, and the 
 friends who have visited me here, so much as the 
 great rarity of seeing any of the wealthy classes on 
 their legs. \^'ith the exception of the Queen and her
 
 112 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 attendant ladies, who during the then Princess's abode 
 at Claremont, might be every day met in the winter, 
 walking in frost and snow, and facing the sharpest winds 
 of the sharpest weather, I scarcely remember to have 
 met half-a-dozen of the wealthy classes on foot a mile 
 from their residences. And yet what splendid, airy 
 heaths, what delicious woods, what nooks of bowery- 
 foliage, what views into far landscapes, are there 
 "all around ! It is true, as some of them have ob- 
 served, that they walk in their own grounds; but what 
 grounds, however beautiful, can compensate for the 
 fresh feelino- of the heath and the down; for the dim 
 solemnity of the wild wood ; for open, breezy hills, 
 the winding lane, the sight of rustic cottages by the 
 forest side, the tinkle of the herd or the sheep bell, 
 and all the wild sounds and aspects of earth and 
 heaven, to be met with only in the free regions of 
 nature? They who neglect to walk, or confine 
 their strolls merely to the lawn and the shrubbery, 
 lose nine-tenths of the enjoyment of the country. 
 Those young men, whom it is a pleasure to see with 
 their knapsacks on their backs ranging over moor and 
 mountain, by lakes or ocean, in Scotland or Wales, 
 taste more of the life of life in a few summer months 
 than many dwellers in the country ever dream of 
 through their whole existence. I speak advisedly, 
 for I traverse the country in all directions, let me be 
 where I will; and if any ladies think themselves too 
 delicate for walking, I can point them out delicate 
 ladies too that have made excursions on foot through 
 mountain regions of five hundred miles at a time, and 
 recur to those seasons as amongst the most delightful 
 of their lives.
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 113 
 
 But my desire that all should make their country 
 life as happy as it is capable of being made — which 
 must be by living more to nature and less to fashion — 
 by using both their physical and moral energies; by 
 respecting themselves, and leaving the respect of 
 others to follow as the natural result of a true and 
 pure tone of spirit — is detaining me too long. I must 
 hasten on ; and amongst the most prominent of the 
 country excitements, give a passing word to racing. 
 If any one wishes to know how far the turf influences 
 the course of country life, he has only to read the 
 following passage from Nimrod. " Deservedly higii 
 as Newmarket stands in the history of the British 
 turf, it is but as a speck on the ocean when compared 
 with the sum total of our provincial meetings, of 
 which there are about one hundred and twenty in 
 England, Scotland, and Wales — several of them twice 
 in the year. Epsom, Ascot, York, Doncaster, and 
 Goodwood stand first in respect of the value of the 
 prizes, the rank of the company, and the interest 
 attached to them in the sporting world; although 
 several other cities and towns have lately exhibited 
 very tempting bills of fare to owners of good race- 
 horses. In point of antiquity we believe the Roodee 
 of Chester claims pre-eminence of all country race- 
 meetings; — and certainly it has long been in high 
 repute. Falling early in the racing year — always 
 the first Monday in May — it is most numerously 
 attended by the families of the extensive and very 
 aristocratic neighbourhood in which it is placed ; and 
 always continues five days." — The Turf, p. 246. 
 
 Every one who has seen the crowds of wealthy 
 people who flock to a celebrated race-meeting, and
 
 114 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 throng the stand and the carriage stations, with 
 brilliant dresses and gay equipages, may imagine, 
 then, how much excitement is spread through that 
 class of society during their stay in the country; by 
 one hundred and twenty race-meetings in one quarter 
 or other of the island ; especially as the greater part 
 of these occur during the months that they are ab- 
 sent from town. So having read the passage quoted 
 from Nimrod, he has only to turn to the volume itself 
 — a volume written with great ability ; and, making 
 allowance for the author's sporting predilections, in 
 an excellent spirit, and he will thus find that course 
 described as such a horrible resort for black-legs and 
 desperadoes, of traitorous jockeys, and poisoning 
 trainers, as makes one at once recoil from the recital, 
 and wonder that our young nobles and gentlemen 
 should commit themselves and their fortunes to such 
 hands; or that the fair and the refined should con- 
 sent to gaze on such a scene of infamy. Hear 
 Nimrod's own words — " How many fine domains 
 have been shared amongst these hosts of rapacious 
 sharks, during the last two hundred years ! and unless 
 the system be altered — how many more are doomed 
 to fall into the same gulph ! For, we lament to say, 
 the evil has increased; all heretofore, indeed, has 
 been " tarts and cheesecakes" to the villanous pro- 
 ceedings of the last twenty years on the English 
 turf." Let us move on to less repulsive scenes. 
 
 Amongst these may be reckoned the periodical 
 arrivals of the bishops and the judges. The arrival of 
 the bishop to perform the ceremony of confirmation, 
 is but a triennial occurrence, but it is one of the most 
 imposing of the rites of the church. The flocking of
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 115 
 
 the clergy and their families to town ; the processions 
 of country children on foot, and led by the parish clerk, 
 or schoolmaster, or in carts and other rustic vehicles; 
 the gathering- of the children of the rich towards the 
 church in their white dresses, and in gay carriages ; 
 the assembling of all classes in the common temple 
 of their religion ; the solemnity of the address and 
 the imposition of hands by the prelate ; the stately 
 music of the organ ; and the silent looking on of the 
 congregated people, all combine to produce a very 
 striking spectacle — a spectacle which to those who 
 believe in its essentiality and efficacy, has something 
 in it touching and beautiful. 
 
 But perhaps the parade of the assize time, is the 
 most picturesque of this class of occurrences. There 
 is more of the old English ceremony, custom, and 
 costume about it. The judges who go thiough the 
 land as the representatives of majesty, certainly go 
 through it en j^rince. Nothing can be more unlike 
 than their progress to, and their state in, the courts 
 in town, and the same things in their provincial tour 
 of justice. In town you may see the Lord Chief 
 Justice mount his horse at his own door, and ride 
 quietly away towards Westminster Hall. You may 
 see Lord Abinger in the Court of Exchequer, 
 sitting very much at his ease in his black gown and 
 wig of modest dimensions, dispatching business in a 
 work-a-day manner; but in the country you find 
 these very men arrayed in their scarlet and ermine, 
 seated in much greater state, and dispensing justice 
 in a much fuller court than, except on extraordinary 
 occasions, attends them in town. 
 
 The high-sheriff of every county, selected from
 
 116 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 its best families, in preparation for the arrival of the 
 county judge, has put his equipage and train in order. 
 His carriage, his horses, his harness, all have under- 
 gone a rigid examination, and are all put into the 
 highest condition that paint, gilding, varnish, lining, 
 and plate can bestow ; or if he be a young man of some 
 spirit and ambition, he has purchased a new carriage for 
 the occasion. His tenants and household servants, 
 to the number of forty or fifty, have been put into a 
 new livery in the cut of the old yeoman, and gene- 
 rally of some bright or peculiar colour, green, blue, 
 white, or delicate drab, as indeed the livery of the 
 gentleman may be. Mounted on their horses, and 
 with their javelins or halberds, and preceded by two 
 trumpeters, who, old Aubrey can tell you, are a very 
 ancient essential on such occasions, they escort the 
 sheriff on his way to meet the judges. The sheriff 
 who has thus showily appointed what are provincially 
 termed his javelin-men, has not in the meantime 
 neglected himself. He has put on at least a court 
 dress, and in cases where he has happened to be a 
 man of taste, and a man of figure to boot, he has 
 put on a rich suit of the fashion of Sir Charles Gran- 
 dison, or of some one of his ancestors, as he stands in 
 full-length portraiture in his family gallery. He 
 issues from his hall, arrayed perhaps in a rich mul- 
 berry coloured coat with huge embroidered cuffs and 
 button-holes, huge gold buttons, and lining of prim- 
 rose serge; a splendid waistcoat of gold brocaded 
 satin, with ample pockets and flaps reaching half-way 
 to his knees ; satin breeches, and silk stockings with 
 immense clocks ; large gold buckles at his knees and 
 upon his shoes. Add to this his sword, his cocked
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 117 
 
 hat, and his cravat and ruffles of fine point lace, antl 
 you have the high sheriff in all his glory, just as we 
 saw him in one of our county assize courts not many 
 years ago, sitting on the right hand of the judge; 
 and it must be confessed in admirable keeping with 
 his old-world robes of scarlet and ermine. Well, 
 lie enters the county town with his troop of javelin- 
 men, his trumpeters blowing stoutly before him. He 
 takes up his lodgings there, and on the morning of the 
 judge's approach, he marches out in the same style, 
 followed by a long train of the gentlemen and trades- 
 men of the place, who are anxious to testify their 
 respect to the ancient forms of justice, and the repre- 
 sentative of the monarch. He advances some mile 
 or two on the way by which the judge is to arrive. 
 There the procession halts, generally in a position 
 which commands a view of the road by which the 
 judge is expected. Anon, there is a stir, a looking 
 out amongst them, your eye follows theirs, and you 
 see a carriage, dusty and travel-soiled, come driving 
 rapidly on. It is that of the judge. As they drive 
 up, the javelin-men and gentlemen uncover ; the 
 sheriff descends from his carriage ; his gowned and be- 
 wigged lordship descends from his; the sheriff makes 
 his bow and his compliments; the judge enters the 
 carriage of the sheriff with him, his own carriage falls 
 into the rear, and the procession now moves on towards 
 the town, with bannered trumpets blowing, and amid 
 a continually increasing crowd of spectators. There 
 is something very quaint and old English in the whole 
 affair ; and as I have seen the sheriff and his train 
 thus, waiting the approach of the judge on some 
 rising ground in the public road, the scene has 
 
 G 2
 
 118 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 brought back to my imagination a feeb'ng of the past 
 times — simpler in heart than the present, but more 
 formal in manner, and perhaps fonder of solemn 
 parade. But the bells are ringing merrily to welcome 
 the learned judge, and thousands are thronging to 
 see the sight of the sheriff and his men, and to catch 
 a glimpse of the judge's wig as the coach passes, and 
 many of them to wonder how the sheriff can seem so 
 much at his ease with such an awful man : while 
 within the strong walls of the prison, the sounds of 
 bells and the trampling feet of the crowds without, 
 are causing stout hearts and miserable hearts to 
 tremble and feel chill. 
 
 Well, the procession and the throng " go sound- 
 ing through the town," and the court being opened 
 in due form, they arrive at the judge's lodgings, 
 whence, after a suitable time allowed for the judge's 
 refreshment, they proceed to church. Whatever 
 may be the effect of this custom of the judge's 
 going to church before proceeding to discharge 
 his awful duties of deciding upon the destinies of 
 his fellow men, it is a beautiful one, and bespeaks 
 in those who instituted it, a just sense of the value of 
 human life, and of the true source whence all right 
 judgment must proceed. It was well, and more than 
 well, that the judge should be sent to hear from the 
 Christian minister, that the temper in which a judge 
 should sit to decide the fate of his fellow-mortals, 
 should be that of the Christian — the divine union of 
 justice and mercy. It was well that he should be 
 reminded that every act of his judgment in the court 
 about to open, must one day be rejudged, in a court 
 and before a judge, from which there can be no 
 appeal.
 
 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 110 
 
 As tliey move on towards the great motber-ehurch, 
 thousands on thousands throng to gaze. Every window 
 presents its quota of protruded heads ; every flight of 
 steps before the doors of houses, and every other 
 elevated spot, is occupied. Boys are hanging by lamp- 
 posts, and on iron pallisades, like bats. The pro- 
 cession used to be much enlivened by the presence 
 of the mayor and corporation in their robes, and with 
 the mace borne before them ; but the New Corpora- 
 tion Act has led to a woful stripping of this pageant. 
 The sheriff selects the clergyman to preach on the 
 occasion, who is generally some young friend or rela- 
 tive whom he wishes to bring into notice. This cere- 
 mony being over, the judge returns to the court; the 
 grand jury, selected from the gentlemen of the 
 county, present their bills, and the trials proceed. In 
 the sheriff's gallery may be seen some of his friends, 
 perhaps the ladies of his family and other acquaint- 
 ances, with others, all introduced by ticket; on the 
 bench by the judge, may often be seen seated with 
 the sheriff, some great man or lady of the neighbour- 
 hood, especially if some trial in which one of their 
 own body, some disputed will which involves a large 
 property, or similar cause of interest, draws them 
 from their homes, and fills the court to suffocation. 
 While the court continues, day by day you see the 
 train of javelin-men come marching on foot with the 
 state carriaoe of the sheriff, to conduct him from his 
 lodgings to those of the judge, and back again at the 
 close of the court in the evening, till the trials are 
 ended; and judge, sheriff, gay carriage, with its 
 splendid hammer-cloth, jolly coachman, and slim foot- 
 men, in their cocked hats and flaxen wigs, javelin-
 
 120 COUNTRY EXCITEMENTS. 
 
 men, and crowd, all meet and vanish away, and the 
 excitement of the assize is over for another half- 
 year. 
 
 Such are the principal country excitements; and 
 to these may be added those of another class, which 
 have sprung up of late years, and have done much 
 good — the floral and horticultural shews. These have 
 been warmly patronized by the aristocracy; and it 
 forms a striking feature in modern country life, to see 
 carriages and pedestrians hastening, on certain days 
 to certain places, where different flowers and fruits, 
 in their respective seasons, are displayed with great 
 taste, and with brilliant effect. The place of meeting 
 is sometimes at a country inn, where, on the bowling- 
 green tents are pitched, in which the flowers or fruits 
 are exhibited, and the whole scene is extremely gay. 
 Such a one I saw the other day at Kingston Hill, 
 near Richmond Park — a Dahlia shew : on the end of 
 the house an invitation to all England being gor- 
 geously emblazoned in dahlia-flowers, surmounted by 
 the crown royal, and the good English initials Q. V. ; 
 looking as though the worthy horticulturists meant 
 to set the rational example of using the English 
 language to English people.
 
 PART II. 
 
 LIFE OF THE AGRICULTURAL POPULATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 There are few things which give one such a feeling 
 of the prosperity of the country, as seeing the country 
 people pour into a large town on market-day. There 
 they come, streaming along all the roads that lead to it 
 from the wide country round. The foot-paths are filled 
 with a hardy and homely succession of pedestrians, 
 men and women, with their baskets on their arms, 
 containing their butter, eggs, apples, mushrooms, 
 walnuts, nuts, elderberries, blackberries, bundles of 
 herbs, young pigeons, fowls, or whatever happens to 
 be in season. There are boys and girls too, similarly 
 loaded, and also with baskets of birds' nests in spring, 
 cages of young birds, and old birds, baskets of tame 
 rabbits, and bunches of cowslips, primroses, and all 
 kinds of flowers, and country productions imaginable.
 
 122 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 The carriage-road is equally alive, with people riding 
 and driving along; farmers and coiuitry gentlemen, 
 country clergymen, parish overseers, and various other 
 personages, drawn to the market-town by some real or 
 imagined business, are rattling forward on horseback, 
 or in carriages of various kinds, gigs, and spring-carts, 
 and carts without springs. There are carriers' wagons, 
 and covered carts without end, many of them shewing 
 from their open fronts, whole troops of women snugly 
 seated; while their dogs chained beneath, go struggling 
 and barking along, pushing their heads forward in 
 their collars every minute as if they would hang 
 themselves. This is in the morning; and in the after- 
 noon, you see them pouring out again, and directing 
 their course to many a far-off hamlet and old-fashioned 
 abode. But there is a wide difference between com- 
 ing in and going out. The wagons and carts go 
 heavily and soberly, for they are laden with good solid 
 commodities, groceries and draperies, mops, brushes, 
 hardware and crockery, newspapers for the politicians, 
 and sundry parcels of teas, sugars, and soaps, and such 
 et ceteras for the village shops; but the farmers go 
 riding and driving out three times as fast as they came 
 in, for they are primed with good dinners, and strong 
 beer. They have chaffered, and smoked, and talked 
 with the great grazier, and the great corn-factor, and 
 their horses are full of corn too, and avv'ay they go, in 
 fours and fives, filling the whole width of the road, 
 and raising a dust, if there be the least dust to be 
 raised, or making the mud fly in all directions; away 
 they go, talking all together, while their horses are 
 trotting at such a pace as one would think would shake 
 the very teeth out of their heads. The sober foot-
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 1"23 
 
 people who are trudging- homeward more soberly than 
 they came, say, as they fly past, "One wouldn't 
 think times very bad neither." And the carriers hold 
 their horses' heads as they rush past, and smiling sig- 
 nificantly, say, just as they are gone past, — "Well 
 done my lads ! that 's it ; go it, my lads, go it ! Yo 
 riden, though your horses go a-foot !" 
 
 There is no class of men, if times are but tolerably 
 good, that enjoy themselves so highly as farmers. 
 Tliey are little kings. Their concerns are not huddled 
 into a corner, as those of the town tradesman are. In 
 town, many a man who turns thousands of pounds per 
 week, is hemmed in close by buildings, and cuts no 
 figure at all. A narrow shop, a contracted warehouse, 
 withont an inch of room besides to turn him, on any 
 hand ; without a yard, a stable, or outhouse of any 
 description ; perhaps hoisted aloft, up three or four 
 pair of dirty stairs, is all the room that the wealthy 
 tradesman often can bless himself with ; and there, 
 day after day, month after month, year after year, he 
 is to be found, like a bat in a hole of a wall, or a toad 
 in the heart of a stone, or of an oak tree. Spring, 
 and summer, and autumn go round ; sunshine and 
 flowers spread over the world ; the sweetest breezes 
 blow, the sweetest waters murmur along the vales, but 
 they are all lost upon him ; he is the doleful prisoner of 
 mammon, and so he lives and dies. The farmer would 
 not take the wealth of the world on such terms. His 
 concerns, however small, spread themselves out in a 
 pleasant amplitude both to his eye and heart. His 
 house stands in its own stately solitude; his offices 
 and outhouses stand round extensively, without any 
 stubborn and limiting contraction ; his acres stretch
 
 124 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 over hill and dale; there his flocks and herds are 
 feeding ; there his labourers are toiling,— he is king 
 and sole commander there. He lives amongst the 
 purest air, and the most delicious quiet. Often when 
 I see those healthy, hardy, full-grown sons of the soil 
 going out of town, I envy them the freshness and the 
 repose of the spots to which they are going. Ample 
 old-fashioned kitchens, with their chimney-corners of 
 the true, projecting, beamed and seated construction, 
 still remaining; blazing fires in winter, shining on 
 suspended hams and flitches, guns supported on hooks 
 above, dogs basking on the hearth below ; cool, shady 
 parlours in summer, with open windows, and odours 
 from garden and shrubbery blowing in ; gardens wet 
 with purest dews, and humming at noon-tide with 
 bees ; and green fields and verdurous trees, or deep 
 woodlands lying all round, where a hundred rejoicing 
 voices of birds or other creatures are heard, and winds 
 blow to and fro, full of health and life-enjoyment. How 
 enviable do such places seem to the fretted spirits of 
 towns, who are compelled not only to bear their burthen 
 of cares, but to enter daily into the public strife against 
 selfish, evil, and ever-spreading corruption. When 
 one calls to mind the simple abundance of farm-houses, 
 their rich cream and milk, and unadulterated butter, 
 and bread grown upon their own lands, sweet as that 
 which Christ broke, and blessed as he gave to his 
 disciples ; their fruits ripe and fresh-plucked from the 
 sunny wall, or the garden bed, or the pleasant old 
 orchard ; when one casts one's eyes upon, or calls to 
 one's memory the aspect of these houses, many of them 
 so antiquely picturesque, or so bright-looking and com- 
 fortable, in deep retired valleys, by beautiful streams,
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 125 
 
 or amongst fragrant woodlands, one cannot help saying 
 with King James of Scotland, when he met Johnny- 
 Armstrong : — 
 
 What want these knaves that a king should have? 
 
 But it is not its outward and surrounding advantages 
 merely, which gives its zest to the life of the farmer. 
 He is more proud of it, and more attached to it than 
 any other class of men, be they whom they may, are 
 of theirs. The whole heart, soul, and being of the 
 farmer are in his profession. The members of other 
 professions and trades, however full they may be of 
 their concerns, have their mouths tied up by the 
 etiquette of society. A man is not allowed to talk of 
 his trade concerns except at the risk of being laughed 
 at, and being set down as an egotistic ignoramus. But 
 who shall laugh at or scout the farmer for talking of 
 his concerns ? Of nothing else does he, in nine cases 
 out of ten, think, talk, or care. And though he may 
 be called a bore by all other classes, what concerns it 
 him ? for other classes are just as great bores to him, 
 and he seeks not their company. The farmers are a 
 large class, and they associate and converse principally 
 with each other. "Their talk is of bullocks," it is 
 true, but to them it is the most interesting talk of all. 
 What is so delightful to them as to meet at each 
 other's houses, and with bright glasses of nectarous 
 ale, or more potent spirit sparkling before them, and 
 pipe in mouth, to talk of markets, rents, tithes, new 
 improvements, and the promise of crops ? To walk 
 over their lands of a Sunday afternoon together, and 
 pronounce on the condition of growing corn, turnips, 
 and grass ; on this drainage, or that neighbour's odd 
 management; on the appearance of sheep, cattle, and
 
 1'26 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 horses. And tliis is to be excused, and in a great 
 degree to be admired. For those are no artificial 
 objects on which they expend their lives and souls; 
 they are the delightful things of nature on which they 
 operate; and nature operates with them in all their 
 labours, and sweetens them to their spirits. This is 
 the grand secret of their everlasting attachment to, 
 and enjoyment of agricultural life. They work with 
 nature, and only modulate and benefit by her func- 
 tions, as she takes up, quickens, and completes the 
 work of their hands. There is a living principle 
 in all their labours, which distinguishes them from 
 most other trades. The earth gives its strength to 
 the seed they throw into it — to the cattle that walk 
 upon it. The winds blow, the waters run for them ; 
 the very frosts and snows of winter give salutary 
 checks to the rankness of vegetation, and lighten the 
 soil, and destroy what is noxious for them ; and every 
 principle of animal and vegetable existence and 
 organization co-operates to support and enrich them. 
 There is a charm in this which must last, while the 
 spirit of man feels the stirrings of the spirit and power 
 of God around him. It may be said that rude farmers 
 do not reason on these things in this manner. No, in 
 many, too many instances I grant it; but they feel. 
 There is scarcely any bosom so cloddish but feels 
 more or less of this, and by no other cause can an 
 explanation be given of the enthusiasm of farmers for 
 their profession. It is not because they can sooner 
 enrich themselves by it — that they are more indepen- 
 dent in it — that they have greater social advantages in 
 it. In all these particulars the balance is in favour of 
 the active and enterprising tradesman ; but it is this
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 127 
 
 charm which has infused its sweetness into the bosoms 
 of all rural people in all ages of the world. From the 
 days of the patriarchs to the present, what expressions 
 of delight the greatest minds have uttered on behalf of 
 such a life. Think of Homer, Theocritus, Virgil, 
 and Horace ; of Cicero, whom I have elsewhere 
 quoted, and of the many great men of this country, 
 some of whom too I have noticed, who have devoted 
 themselves with such eagerness to it. 
 
 That farmers are as intelligent as a parallel grade 
 of society in large towns I do not mean to assert ; 
 that they are as truly aware of, and as united to 
 defend their real interests I will assert as little. Their 
 solitary and isolated mode of existence weighs against 
 them in these points ; but that they have generally a 
 sounder morality than a similar class of townsmen is 
 indisputable. They have a simplicity of mind as well 
 as manners that is more than an equivalent for the 
 polish and conventional customs of society, and with 
 this a cordiality that is very delightful, and very rarely 
 now to be found — the good, homely heartiness of Old 
 English days. 
 
 They, indeed, so vividly enjoy the common bless- 
 ings of life, from their vigorous health, and un- 
 vitiated appetites, as well as from the cravings of 
 their inner being, finding their food in the daily 
 communion with nature, instead of that book-know- 
 ledge which is so extensively diffused through all 
 classes of the city, and which, too commonly, while it 
 quickens the intellect, and widens the sphere of 
 observation, I am sorry to say, deadens the human 
 sympathies and distorts the heart — that they make so 
 much of their kindness appear in heaping upon you
 
 i28 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 bodily comforts and refreshments as is often truly- 
 ludicrous. They would have you eat and drink for 
 ever. One meal succeeds to another with a profusion 
 and an importunity of hospitality that are overwhelm- 
 ing. They eat their bread with a sweetness and a 
 capacity, generated by their active and laborious 
 habits, that we, who lead more sedentary lives, and 
 with minds and energies dissipated by a hundred 
 objects unknown to them, have no idea of. People of 
 all other classes place a great portion of their happiness 
 in giving and eating great feasts ; but a farmer seems 
 to think all the good things of life are involved in 
 feasting, and would feast you not once a year, but 
 every day, and all day long, if he could. 
 
 Let us just glance at the routine of one day of 
 good felloM^ship, such as is seen in farm-houses where 
 there is plenty, and yet no great pretence to gentility. 
 We have seen many such scenes. 
 
 The farmer invites his friends to dine with him. 
 He will have a party. Suppose it at some period of 
 the year when lie is least busy ; for his engagements 
 depending on the progress of the seasons, and his 
 whole wealth being at the mercy of the elements, he 
 cannot postpone his duties, but must take them as 
 they fall out. Suppose it then just before the com- 
 mencement of hay-harvest, for then he has a short 
 pause, between the putting in of his last crop of 
 potatoes or corn, shutting up his fields, and clearing 
 his green-corn lands, and that moment when the first 
 scythe enters his hay-fields, when a course of arduous 
 and anxious labours begins, that will not cease till all 
 his crops are safely housed, hay, corn, beans, pease, 
 and potatoes. Suppose at this pause in the growing
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 1'29 
 
 time of summer, or after harvest, or amid the festive 
 days of Christmas, he feels himself comparatively at 
 leisure, in good spirits, and disposed to enjoy himself. 
 He and his wife arrange their plans. Invitations are 
 sent. On market day he^ lays in all necessaries, — 
 tea, coffee, prime cuts of beef and other meat ; wine 
 and spirits ; sugar and spices. At home there is busy 
 preparation. His garden is cleaned up: an operation 
 of rare occurrence with a busy farmer, who thinks 
 so much of his fields that he thinks but little of his 
 garden. His stables and his rick-yard are put in 
 order. The very manes and tails of his horses are 
 trimmed, for all will have to pass under the critical 
 notice of his friends, and he feels his professional 
 character at stake. In the house there is equal 
 activity. There is a world of cleaning and setting in 
 order. Floors are scoured. The best carpets are 
 put down. This room is found to want fresh stain- 
 ing; painting wants doing here and there, both within 
 and without. Trees also want nailing and trimming 
 on the walls ; and it is probable there may want some 
 spout repairing, or tiles renewing, that have often 
 been talked of, but nevei- could have time found for 
 their doing. The house and all about it look fifty 
 per cent, the better. The neatly cleaned walks and 
 closely mown grass-plots ; the brightly-cleaned win- 
 dows, and the scarlet curtains, and the purely white 
 blinds seen within, give an air of completeness that is 
 very satisfactory. 
 
 And then within begin the mighty preparations for 
 the feast. Geese, turkeys, ducks and fowls are killed 
 and pulled, and part are cooked, and part are made 
 ready for cooking. If the farmer shoots, and it be
 
 130 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 the season, there are hares and rabbits, pheasants and 
 partridges, brought to the larder; if he do not, he 
 makes friends with the keeper, who occasionally takes 
 a social pipe and glass with him ; or he makes a direct 
 request to his landlord for this indulgence. Hams 
 are boiled ; pies are made ; puddings of the richest 
 composition are put together. If it be Christmas, 
 loud is the chopping of meat for minced- pies; busy 
 the mixing of spices ; and the washing and picking 
 of currants and raisins ; and pork-pies and sausages of 
 most savoury and approved manipulation are raised 
 into material existence. If the sucking-pig escapes 
 whipping — and we hope no honest farmer is now 
 cruel enough for this operation — creams and syllabubs 
 do not; they are whipped, not to death, but into life. 
 There are blanc-mange and jellies, crystalline and 
 fragrant; clouted creams, and cream of strawberries, 
 raspberries, and I know not what melting and 
 delicious things. And O ! such cheese-cakes, and 
 such patties, and such little cakes of various names 
 and natures, for tea and entre mefs, and dessert. I see 
 the oven-door open and shut, as the iron tray of nicely 
 laden patty-pans goes into the oven, or comes out 
 with a rich perfection, and with odours most delicious, 
 most mouth-melting, most inexpressible ! The good 
 and skilful dame, and the no less skilful and comely 
 daughters, if she have them, and they are grown up to 
 years of discretion in these delicate and culinary arts — 
 what is not their depth of occupation ! What glowing- 
 looks are theirs; what speculations ; what contrivances 
 and anticipations ! I would fain take an easy chair in 
 some cool corner of this milk-and-honey-flowing 
 kitchen, and watch all their sweet employment, and
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 131 
 
 hear all their sweet words in a grateful silence. But 
 they are far from the end of their labours. Nuts, 
 walnuts, apples and pears, and other fruit, according as 
 the season may be, are produced from their stores, or 
 from the sunny walls and trees, wiped from every 
 trace of mould or dust from the store-room, and 
 placed in their proper receivers of glass, or china, or 
 possibly of plate. Wine and spirit decanters are to 
 be washed and carefully dried, and to be charged 
 with their bright contents. The discovery of the 
 richest cheese in the whole cheese-room is to be m.ade 
 by tasting; butter is to be moulded in small cakes, 
 and imprinted with patterns of the deepest and most 
 elegant figure, and a thousand other things made, or 
 done, of which the tasting were to be desired rather 
 than the catalogue to be particularized, for, wonderful 
 and manifold are all thy works, O thou accomplished 
 spouse of a wealthy farmer ! 
 
 What dainties has that greater oven received into 
 its more capacious cavern. Bread of the most ex- 
 quisite fineness; and pies of varied character — fruit, 
 pork, beef-steak, and giblet— if in Devon or Corn- 
 wall, sweet giblet, a pie that all England besides 
 knows not of: figgy-bread, and saffron cake of tran- 
 scendant brilliance and taste. 
 
 And then comes the great day ! The guests are 
 invited to dinner; but they have been enjoined to 
 come early^ and they come early with a vengeance. 
 They will not come as the guests of night-loving 
 citizens and aristocrats come, at from six to nine in 
 the evening; — no, at ten and eleven in the morning 
 you shall see their faces, that never yet were ashamed 
 of day-light, and that tell of fresh air and early hours.
 
 132 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 Then come rattling in, sundry vehicles with their 
 cargoes of men and women ; lively salutations are 
 exchanged ; the horses are led away to the stables, 
 and the guests into the house to doff great coats and 
 cloaks, hats and bonnets, and sit down to lunch. 
 And there it is ready set out. " They '11 want some- 
 thing after their drive," says the host. " To be 
 sure," says the hostess ; and there is plenty in truth. 
 A boiled ham, a neat's tongue; a piece of cold beef; 
 fowls and beef-steak-pie ; tarts, and bread, cheese and 
 butter ; coffee for the ladies, and fine old ale for the 
 gentlemen. 
 
 " Now do help yourselves," exclaims the host from 
 one end of the table, " I am sure you must be very 
 hungry after such a ride." " I am sure you must 
 indeed," echoes the hostess from the other, while 
 a dozen voices cry all at once, " Oh, really I don't 
 think I can touch a bit. We got breakfast the mo- 
 ment before we set off;" and all the time deep are the 
 incisions made into the various viands : and plentifully 
 heaped are plates; and bright liquor is poured into 
 glasses, and a great deal of talk of this and that, and 
 inquiries after this and that person go on; a hearty 
 lunch is made, and the gentlemen are ready to set 
 out and look about them. They are warned by the 
 hostess to remember that dinner will be on table at 
 one o'clock — " exactly at one I " and assuming hats 
 and sticks, away they go. 
 
 While they perambulate the farm, and pass learned 
 judgments on land, cattle, and crops; and make 
 besides excursions into neighbouring lands, to some 
 particular experiment in management, or extraor- 
 dinary production of combined art and nature, our
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 133 
 
 hostess shews her female friends her dairy, her cheese - 
 room, her poultry-yard, and discussions as scientific 
 are going on, on the best modes of fattening calves, 
 rearing turkey broods, and on all the most approved 
 manipulations of cheese and butter. The quantities 
 produced from a certain number of cows are compared, 
 and many wonders expressed that lands of apparent 
 equality of richness should some yield little butter 
 and much cheese, and others little cheese and much 
 butter; facts well known to all such ladies, but not 
 easy of explanation by heads that pretend to see 
 further into the heart of a difficulty than they do. 
 A walk is probably proposed and undertaken through 
 the garden and orchard, and flowers and fruits are 
 descanted on ; and all this time in the house roasting, 
 and boiling, and baking are going on gloriously. 
 Savoury steams are rolling about under the ceilings ; 
 busy damsels with faces rosier than ever, are running 
 to and fro on the floors; stable-boys are turned into 
 knife-cleaners; and plough-lads into peelers of pota- 
 toes, and watchers of boiling pots, and turnspits. 
 
 The hour arrives ; and a sound of loud voices some- 
 where at hand announces that our agricultural friends 
 are returned punctually to their time, with many a 
 joke on their fears of the ladies' tongues. Not that 
 they seemed to want any dinner — no, they made such 
 a lunch ; but they had such a natural fear of being 
 scolded. Well, here they all are ; — and here are the 
 ladies all in full dress. Hands that have been hand- 
 ling prime stock, or rooting in the earth, or thrust 
 into hay-ricks and corn- heaps, are washed, and down 
 they sit to such a dinner as might satisfy a crew of 
 shipwrecked men. There are seldom any of your 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 134 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 " wishy-washy soups," except it be very cold weather, 
 and seldom more than two courses ; but then they are 
 courses ! All of the meat kind seems set on the table 
 at once. Off go the covers, and what a perplexing 
 but unconsumable variety ! Such pieces of roast 
 beef, veal, and lamb; such hams, and turkeys, and 
 geese; such game, and pies of pigeons or other things 
 equally good, with vegetables of all kinds in season — 
 peas, potatoes, cauliflowers, kidney-beans, lettuces, 
 and whatever the season can produce. The most 
 potent of ale and porter, the most crystalline and cool 
 water, are freely supplied, and wine for those that 
 will. When these things have had ample respect 
 paid to them, they vanish, and the table is covered 
 with plum-puddings and fruit tarts, cheesecakes, 
 syllabubs, and all the nicknackery of whipped creams 
 and jellies that female invention can produce. And 
 then, a dessert of equal profusion. Why should we 
 tantalize ourselves with the vision of all those nuts, 
 walnuts, almonds, raisins, fruits, and confections? 
 Enough that they are there ; that the wine circulates 
 — foreign and English — port and sherry — gooseberry 
 and damson — malt and birch— elderflower and cowslip, 
 — and loud is the clamour of voices male and famale. 
 If there be not quite so mucli refinement of tone and 
 manner, quite so much fastidiousness of phrase and 
 action, as in some other places, there is at least more 
 hearty laughter, more natural jocularity, and many a 
 
 Random shot of country wit, 
 
 as Burns calls it. A vast of talk there is of all the 
 country round ; every strange circumstance ; every 
 incident and change of condition, and new alliance
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 135 
 
 amongst their mutual friends, and acquaintances, 
 pass under review. The ladies withdraw; and the 
 gentlemen draw together; spirits take place of wine, 
 and pipes are lighted. We know what subjects will 
 interest them — farming improvements and politics — 
 and so it goes till tea-time. 
 
 When summoned to tea, there are additional faces. 
 The pastor and his wife, perhaps a son and daughter, 
 or daughters are there ; and there is the clerk too, — 
 the very model of respect and reverence towards his 
 clerical superior. Whatever that learned authority 
 asserts, this zealous and " dearly-beloved Moses" 
 testifies. He calls attention to what the vicar says ; 
 he repeats with great satisfaction his sayings. There 
 too, is the surgeon, and often the veterinary sur- 
 geon, especially as he also is often a farmer, and in 
 intercourse with all the farmers far and near. This 
 may seem an odd jumble of ranks, but it is no more 
 odd than true. Who that has seen anything of rural 
 life has not seen odder medleys ? Besides, money in 
 all grades of society can do miracles. There are 
 clergymen in many parishes who maintain their own 
 ideas of dignity, and seldom move out of the circle 
 of squires and dames ; but there are others, and in 
 perfectly rural districts there are abundance of others, 
 that know how to mix more freely with the yeomanry 
 of their flocks, and lose nothing neither. If they 
 respect themselves, they insure the respect, and what 
 is better, the attachment of their hearers. 
 
 But the vicar's presence on such a day is felt. 
 There is a more palpable approximation towards 
 silence; — a drawing tighter of the reins of conversa- 
 tional freedom. The great talkers of after-dinner
 
 136 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 are now become great listeners, and often on such 
 occasions I have seen a scene worthy of the sound 
 sense of English yeomen ; for the pastor addresses 
 his observations and inquiries now to this individual, 
 and now to that; and now converses in a tone of 
 pleasant humour with the ladies; so that you may 
 often hear as sober discussions on the passing topics 
 of the day, and on the prospects of the country, and 
 especially of that part of it to which they belong, 
 delivered in a homely manner perhaps, but with a 
 discrimination and practical knowledge that are very 
 gratifying. And on the part of the females you shall 
 see so many symptoms of good-heartedness and real 
 matronly mind as make you feel that sense, soul, and 
 true sympathies are of no particular grade, or parti- 
 cular style of life. 
 
 But there must be a dance for the young, and 
 there are cards for the more sedate; and then again, 
 to a supper as profuse, with its hot game, and fowls, 
 and fresh pastry, as if it had been the sole meal 
 cooked in the house that day. The pastor and his 
 company depart; the wine and spirits circulate; all 
 begin to talk of parting, and are loth to part, till it 
 grows late ; and they have some of them six or seven 
 miles to go, perhaps, on a pitch-dark night, through 
 bye-ways, and with roads not to be boasted of. All at 
 once however, up rise the men to go, for their wives, 
 who asked, and looked M'ith imploring eyes in vain, 
 now show themselves cloaked and bonneted, and 
 the carriages are heard with grinding wheels at the 
 door. There is a boisterous shaking of hands, a score 
 of invitations to come and do likewise, given to their 
 entertainers, and they mount and away ! When you
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. ' 137 
 
 see the blackness of the night, and consider that they 
 have not eschewed good liquor, and perceive at what 
 a rate they drive away, you expect nothing less than 
 to hear the next day, that they have dashed their 
 vehicles to atoms against some post, or precipitated 
 themselves into some quarry ; but all is right. They 
 best know their own capabilities, and are at home, 
 safe and sound. 
 
 Such is a specimen of the festivities of what may 
 be called the middle and substantial class of farmers; 
 and the same thing holds, in degree, to the very 
 lowest grade of them. The smallest farmer will 
 bring you out the very best he has; he will spare 
 nothing, on a holiday occasion; and his wife will 
 present you with her simple slice of cake, and a glass 
 of currant, or cowslip wine, with an empresseynent, and 
 a welcome that you feel to the heart is real, and a 
 bestowal of a real pleasure to the offerer.
 
 138 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER, AS OPERATED UPON BY 
 MODERN CAUSES AND THEORIES. 
 
 CoBBETT complains that the farmer has been spoiled 
 by the growth of luxurious habits and effeminacy in 
 the nation. That the simple old furniture is cast out 
 of their houses ; that carpets are laid on their floors ; 
 that there are sofas and pianos to be found where 
 there used to be wooden benches, and the spinning- 
 wheel ; that the daughters are sent to boarding- 
 school, instead of to market ; and the sons, instead of 
 growing up sturdy husbandmen, like their fathers, are 
 made clerks, shopkeepers, or some such " skimmy- 
 dish things." 
 
 It is true enough that the general style of living 
 and furnishing has progressed amongst the farmers 
 as amongst all other classes of the community. And 
 perhaps there has been too much of this. But it 
 should be recollected that Cobbett was opposed to 
 popular education altogether. He would have the 
 rural population physically well off, but it should be 
 physically only. He would have them feed and 
 work and sleep like their sturdy horses or oxen : but 
 is such a state desirable? Is it not far more noble,
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 139 
 
 far more truly human, to have all classes partaking, 
 as far as their circumstances will allow them, of the 
 pleasures of mind ? I would have real knowledge go 
 hand in hand with real religious principle and moral 
 feeling, and where they go, a certain and inseparable 
 degree of refinement of manner and embellishment of 
 abode will go with them. Would I have the follies 
 and affectations of the modern boarding-school go 
 into the farm-house? By no means. It is by the 
 circulation of heathful knowledge that all this is to 
 be rooted out, and the race of finiking and half- 
 genteel, and wholly ridiculous boarding-school misses 
 to be changed into usefully taught and really valu- 
 able and amiable women. We should avoid one 
 extreme as the other. 
 
 It should be recollected too, that amongst farmers 
 are to be found men of all ranks and grades. Farming 
 has been, and is, a fashionable pursuit. We have 
 ducal farmers, and from them all degrees downwards. 
 Gentlemen's stewards, educated men, are farmers; 
 and many farmers are persons whose capital em- 
 ployed in their extensive concerns, would purchase 
 the estates of nobles. All these, of course, live and 
 partake of the habits, general character, and refine- 
 ments of the classes to which they, by their wealth, 
 really belong: and amongst the medium class of 
 farmers we find as little aspiring of gentility, as 
 amongst the same grade of tradesmen. Nay, go into 
 the really rural and retired parts of the country, and 
 they are simple and rustic enough. Let those who 
 doubt it go into the dales of Yorkshire; into the 
 Peak, and retirements of Derbyshire ; into the vales 
 of Nottinghamshire, and midland counties ; let them
 
 140 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 traverse Buckinghamshire and Shropshire; let them 
 go into the wild valleys of Cornwall ; ay, into the 
 genuine country of almost any part of England, and 
 they will find stone floors and naked tables, and 
 pewter plates, and straw beds, and homely living 
 enough in all conscience. They may see oxen 
 ploughing in the fields with simple, heavy, wooden 
 yokes such as were used five hundred years ago; 
 and horses harnessed with collars of straw, and an 
 old rope or two, not altogether worth half-a-crown, 
 doing the tillage of large farms. They may eat a 
 turnip-pie in one place, and oatmeal cake, or an 
 oatmeal pudding in another, and bless their stars if 
 they see a bit of butcher's meat once a week. Yes, 
 there are primitive living and primitive habits left 
 over vast districts of England yet, which, we trust, 
 under a better view of thing% will receive no change, 
 except such as springs from the gradual and sound 
 growth of true knowledge. 
 
 But they bring up their sons to be clerks and such 
 " skimmy-dish things" in towns. Ay, there is the rub ; 
 and this we owe to the rage for large rentals inspired 
 by the war prices ; by false notions of improvement 
 generated during the heyday of farming prosperity; by 
 gentlemen making stewards of lawyers, who have no 
 real knowledge of farming interests, and can, there- 
 fore, have no sympathies with the small farmer, or 
 patience with him in the day of his difficulty, and 
 whose only object is to get the greatest rent at the 
 easiest rate. But above all, this we owe to the 
 detestable doctrine of political economy, by which a 
 dozen of moderate farms are swallowed up in one 
 overgrown one, — a desert, from which both small
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 141 
 
 farmers and labourers were compelled to depart, to 
 make way for machinery, and Irish labourers at four- 
 pence a day. Where were the farmers to put their 
 sons when they were brought up ? The small farms, 
 the natural resource for divided capitals and com- 
 mencements in agricultural life, were, in a great 
 measure, annihilated ; and a most useful race of men 
 as far as possible rooted out. Thank God ! this 
 abomination and worse than Egyptian plague, is now 
 seen through, and what is better, is felt. We shall 
 yet have farms from fifty to a hundred acres, where 
 men of small capitals may try their fortunes, and 
 have a chance of mounting up, instead of being thrust 
 down into the hopeless condition of serfs. We may 
 have humble homesteads, where a father and his sons 
 may work together ; where labour may await their 
 days, and an independent fireside their hours of rest. 
 Where a lowly, but a happy people may congregate 
 at Christmas and other festivals, and the old games 
 of blind-man's-buff, turn-trencher, and forfeits, may 
 long be pursued in the evening fire-light of rustic 
 rooms. 
 
 The farmer has had his ups and downs. During 
 the war he was too prosperous ; since then he has 
 been at times ground to the dust by low prices and 
 high rents. Heaven send him a better day ! We 
 would see him as he is, in a healthy state of the 
 country,— a rural king, sowing his corn and reaping 
 his harvest with a glad heart, and amid the rejoicings 
 of a numerous peasantry. 
 
 Of the great advance in the science of farming ; of 
 the various improved modes of management, and in- 
 genious machines invented for facilitating the farmer's 
 
 h2
 
 142 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 labours, I have spoken under the head of the country- 
 gentleman's pursuits and recreations. One or two 
 other observations on the farmer and his life, may as 
 well be given here. 
 
 One of the greatest drawbacks to the pleasantness 
 of their abodes, is to be found in their miry roads 
 and yards, and the stagnant pools and drainages that 
 in the greater number of instances stand somewhere 
 about them. One would think that the latter nui- 
 sances were intended by them to neutralize the effects 
 of so much good fresh air as they have ; to act as 
 a check, lest they should, surrounded as they are, 
 by every conducive to health and longevity, really 
 live too long. There is scarcely a farm-house but 
 has one of those drain pools, into which all the liquid 
 refuse of their yards runs, and into which dead dogs 
 and cats find their way as a matter of course. In 
 summer, these places are green over, and often stand 
 thick with the bubbles of a pestiferous fermentation ; 
 to all which they appear totally insensible, and must 
 be really so, or they would contrive to locate them 
 at a greater distance, or have them carried in a water- 
 cart, and dispersed over their grass lands, where they 
 would be of infinite service. 
 
 It is in winter that they are beset by miry roads ; 
 and have often yards so deep in dirt that you cannot 
 reach them on foot without getting over the shoes. 
 They and their men stalk to and fro through a six- 
 inch depth of mire as if they trod on a Turkey carpet ; 
 but I have often amused myself with imagining what 
 would be the consternation of a cockney, or indeed of 
 any townsman only accustomed to clean roads and 
 good pavements, to find himself set down in the
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 143 
 
 middle of one of those lanes that lead up to farm- 
 houses, or away into their fiekls, or even in one of 
 their fokl-yards. But to find himself in one of these, 
 as I have done many a time on a dark night, and 
 with a necessity of proceeding, — oh patience ! pa- 
 tience ; then it is really felt to be a virtue. To slip, 
 and plunge, and flounder on in such a darksome, deep- 
 rutted, slipping and stick-fast road — sometimes the 
 puddle soaking into your shoes, and sometimes sent 
 by the pressure of your tread as from a squirt into 
 your face : — " hie labor, hoc opus est." 
 
 A few hours' work now and then with an iron 
 scraper in the yard, and a spade to let off the water in 
 the lanes into the ditches, and the nuisance were 
 prevented. One would have thought that the uni- 
 versal excellence of all the highways now would have 
 made them sensible of the luxury of a good, dry 
 footing, but they seem really quite unaware of it, 
 except you point it out, and then they will tell you in 
 good humour that they have road-menders at work 
 regularly twice a-year — dry weather and frost ! 
 
 I must here too say a word on the subject of small 
 farms. Political economists, carrying out their the- 
 ories of the power of capital, and the division of 
 employments, have written many very plausible things 
 in recommendation of large farms. They tell you 
 that the men of capital, who alone can hold large 
 farms, can alone afford to avail themselves of the aid 
 of machinery for accelerating their operations; of 
 expensive manures, such as bones, the ashes of bog- 
 earth, such as are burnt in Berks and Wiltshire ; and 
 of new and improved breeds of sheep and cattle ; all 
 of which require long purses, that can pay, and wait
 
 144 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 for distant returns. These are all excellent reasons 
 for having such men and such farms in the country, 
 by which the march and spirit of improvement may 
 be kept up, and from which, as from reservoirs, may 
 in due course, overflow the advantages they introduce 
 to their less wealthy neighbours at a cheaper rate ; 
 but they are no arguments at all against the retention 
 of less farms. It is, in fact, a well-known circum- 
 stance, that the speculative and amateur farmers gene- 
 rally farm at a greater expense than their neighbours, 
 an expense, in most cases, never fully made up by 
 the returns, and often really ruinous. That en- 
 lightened, systematic views, the division of employ- 
 ments, and a judicious outlay of capital, not always in 
 every man's power, enable large farmers to sell at a 
 lower rate than smaller and poorer farmers, is to a 
 certain degree true, but by no means to the extent 
 supposed. No farm which exceeds the ready and 
 daily survey of the cultivator will be found to pro- 
 duce these advantages. Beyond that extent, there 
 must be overlookers employed, and these must be 
 maintained at a great and probably greater cost than 
 a small farmer lives at on his rented farm ; nor can 
 such a system be expected to carry the intentions of 
 the principal into effect with a success like that of his 
 personal surveillance. The small farmer has motives 
 to exertion which do not exist in a troop of hired 
 labourers. Slave labour is notoriously inferior to the 
 labour of freemen, because the freeman has internal 
 motives that the slave never can have; and in the 
 same manner a small farmer who labours on his own 
 rented farm has motives to exertion that the common 
 labourer, who labours for a daily sum, cannot have.
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 145 
 
 If the small farir er employ any of these, he employs 
 them under the influence of his own eye and example, 
 and thereby communicates a stimulus that is absent on 
 a larg-er scale of cultivation. The small farmer lives 
 economically; frequently, there is no question, more 
 economically and yet better than the labourer, because 
 he has all his faculties and energies at work to improve 
 his farm and better his condition ; circumstances that do 
 not operate on the labourer, who receives just a bare 
 sufficiency in his wage, and sees no possibility, and 
 therefore entertains no hope, of accumulation. The 
 small farmer works hard himself; his children, if he 
 have them, assist him, and his wife too, who also is a 
 manager and a worker. He looks round him, for his 
 eyes are sharpened by his interests, and observes the 
 plans, and measures, and improvements of his vt^ealthier 
 neighbour, adopts what he can of them, and often 
 makes cheap and ingenious substitutes for others. 
 Even if it were a fact, that the large farmer could 
 drive the small farmer out of the country, it would be 
 a circumstance most deeply to be deplored. It would 
 extinguish a class of men of hardy, homely, and in- 
 dependent habits — a serious loss to the nation. It 
 would break those steps out of the ladder of human 
 aspiration, and the improvement of condition, that 
 would have a most fatal influence on all society. 
 An impassable gulph would be placed between the 
 aristocracy of capital and the freedom of labour ; which 
 would produce, as its natural results, insolence, effemi- 
 nacy, and corruption of manners on the one side, and 
 perpetual poverty, hopeless poverty, abjectness of 
 spirit, or sullen and dangerous discontent on the other. 
 Even if, as Miss Martineau, in her interesting stories,
 
 146 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 has asserted, it were true that the labourer would be 
 better clothed and fed than the small farmer, would 
 the mere comfort of food and clothes make up, to men 
 living in a free and Christian country, and within the 
 daily reach of its influences, for the destruction of 
 that ascending path which hope alone can travel ? 
 There would soon, on such a system, either in agri- 
 culture or manufactures, be but two classes in the 
 country, — the great capitalist and the slave. The 
 great capitalist would stand, like Aaron armed with 
 his serpent rod, to eat up all the lesser serpents that 
 attempted to lift their heads above that level which 
 he had condemned them to. The mass would be 
 doomed to a perpetual despair of even advancing 
 one step out of the thraldom of labour and command, 
 and their spirits would die within them, or live only 
 to snatch and destroy what they could not legitimately 
 reach. 
 
 But such, happily, is not the case. Circumstances 
 place a limit to such things. The small farmer can 
 and does exist, and has existed, and in many cases, 
 flourished too, in the face of all changes, and sur- 
 rounded by large farms cultivated with all the skill of 
 modern art, and all the power of capital. I have seen 
 and known such, and happier and more comfortable 
 people do not exist. I do not mean by a small farm, 
 what Miss Martineau has called such, — some dozen 
 acres — mere cottage allotments — but farms of from 
 fifty to a hundred acres. There must be full employ- 
 ment for a pair of horses, or there is created by their 
 keep an undue charge for labour, which is a serious 
 preventive of success. But where there is that full 
 employment, a small farmer may live and prosper.
 
 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 147 
 
 The political economist generally reasons in straight 
 lines. He will not turn aside to calculate the force of 
 incidental circumstances ; and yet, these incidental 
 circumstances frequently alter a question entirely. 
 For instance, a small farm may lie near a large town, 
 and thereby furnish the tenant with a very lucrative 
 trade in milk; and such incidental circumstances, 
 owing to a location favourable for market, and other 
 causes, frequently exist. Small farmers often pay at- 
 tention to sources of profit nearly, if not altogether, 
 overlooked by larger ones. Who does not know what 
 sums are made by cottagers and small occupiers, of 
 the produce of their gardens and orchards, by care- 
 fully looking after it, and some one of the family 
 bringing it to market, and standing with it themselves ; 
 while the great farmer seldom looks very narrowly to 
 the growth or preservation of either, and therefore 
 incurs both badness of crop and waste; and if he sends 
 it to market, he sends it to the huckster at a whole- 
 sale price, to save the annoyance of standing with it. 
 Small concerns, having small establishments, and no 
 dignity to support, nor other cares to divert the atten- 
 tion, find in these sole resources frequently an income 
 itself nearly equal to their expenditure. 
 
 To determine questions of this kind there requires 
 a close examination into all their bearings, and into 
 the habits and feelings of those concerned. The 
 truth of the matter, as regards the most profitable size 
 of farms, and their general benefit to the public, seems 
 to be, that there should be some of various sizes, that 
 various degrees of capital and capacity of management 
 may be accommodated ; that there may be a chance 
 for those beginning who have little to begin with, and
 
 148 THE ENGLISH FARMER. 
 
 a chance of the active and enterprising rising, as 
 activity and enterprise should. This seems the only 
 system by which the healthful temperament of a com- 
 munity can be kept up ; and that just equilibrium of 
 interests, and that ascending scale of advantages 
 maintained, by which not merely the wealth, but the 
 real happiness of a state is promoted.
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 The clown, the child of nature, without guile, 
 Blessed with an infant's ignorance of all 
 But his own simple pleasures; now and then 
 A wrestling match, a foot-race, or a fair. — Cowper. 
 
 We have in a preceding chapter, taken a view of the 
 Eno-lish farmer. We have seen him at market — in 
 his fields, and in his house receiving his friends to a 
 holiday feast. If we were to go to the farm-house 
 on any other day, and at any season of the year, and 
 survey the farmer and his men in their daily and 
 ordinary course of life, we should always see some- 
 thing to interest us ; and we should have to contem- 
 plate a mode of existence forming a strong contrast 
 to that of townsmen ; and, notwithstanding the inno- 
 vation which the progress of modern habits has made 
 on life in the country, still presenting a picture of 
 simplicity, homeliness, and quiet which no other life 
 retains. Thousands, indeed, looking into a farm- 
 house, surveying its furniture, the apparatus and 
 supply of its table, the manners and the language of 
 its inhabitants, would wonder where, after all, was the
 
 150 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 vast change said to have taken place in the habits of 
 the agricultural population. O ! rude and antiquated 
 enough in all conscience, are hundreds of our farm- 
 houses and their inmates, in many an obscure district 
 of merry England yet. The spots are not difficult 
 to be found even now, where the old oak table, with 
 legs as thick and black as those of an elephant, is 
 spread in the homely house-place, for the farmer and 
 his family — wife, children, servants, male and female; 
 and is heaped with the rude plenty of beans and 
 bacon, beef and cabbage, fried potatoes and bacon, 
 huge puddings with « dip " as it is called, that is, 
 sauce of flour, butter, and water boiled, sharpened 
 with vinegar, or verjuice, and sweetened with brown 
 sugar or more economical molasses—" dip," so called, 
 no doubt, because all formerly dipped their morsel 
 into it; a table where bread and cheese and beer, 
 and good milk porridge and oatmeal porridge, or stir- 
 about, still resist the introduction of tea and coffee 
 and such trash, as the stout old husbandman terms it. 
 Let no one say that modern language and modern 
 habits have driven away the ancient rusticity, while 
 such dialogues between the farmer and guest as the fol- 
 lowing may be heard— and such may yet be heard in 
 the Peak of Derbyshire, where this really passed. 
 
 Farmer at table to his guest. — Ite mon, ite ! 
 
 Guest. — Au have iten, mon. Au've iten till I'm 
 weeliy brussen. 
 
 Farmer. — Then ite, and brust thee out mon: au 
 wooden we hadden to brussen thee wee.* 
 
 • This is tlie present genuine dialect of tlie Peali, and is nearly as 
 pure Saxon. It is curious to see in the southern agricultural coun- 
 ties, how the old Saxon terms are worn out by a greater intercourse 
 with London and towns-people, although the people themselves have
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 151 
 
 It is no rare sight to see the farmer himself, with 
 his clouted shoon and his fustian coat, ribbed blue or 
 black worsted stockings, and breeches of corduroy ; 
 to see him arousing his household, at five o'clock of a 
 morning, and his wife hurrying the servant-wenches, 
 as they call them, from their beds, crying, — " Up, up, 
 boulder-heads !" that is pebble-heads, or heavy-heads, 
 and asking them if they mean to lie till the sun burns 
 their eyes out ; having them up to light fires, sweep 
 the hearth, and get to milking, cheese-making, churn- 
 ing, and what not ; while he gets his men and boys to 
 their duties, — in winter, to fodder the horses and cows, 
 and prepare for ploughing, or leading out manure ; 
 to supply the " young beast," — young cattle, in the 
 straw-yard with food ; to chop turnips, carrots, man- 
 gel-wurzel, cut hay, boil potatoes for feeding pigs or 
 bullocks ; thrash, winnow, or sack corn. In summer, 
 to be off to the harvest-field. The wife is ready to 
 take a turn at the churn, or to turn up her gown- 
 sleeves to the shoulders, and kneeling down on a straw 
 cushion, to press the sweet curd to the bottom of the 
 
 a most Saxon look, with their fair complexions and light brown hair; 
 while, as you proceed northward, the Saxon becomes more and more 
 prevalent in the country dialects. In the midland counties bracken 
 is the common term for fern — in the south not a peasant ever heard it. 
 The dialects of Derbyshire, Nottinghamshire, and Staffordshire, are 
 so similar to that of the Sassenach of Scotland, the Lowland Scots, 
 that the language of Burns was nearly as familiar to me when I first 
 read his poems, as that of my village neighbours; and the Scotch read 
 that clever romance of low life, "Bilberry Tlmrland," with a great 
 relish, the dialogues of which are genuine Nottinghamshire, because 
 they said, it was such good Scotch. I have noticed that the plays of 
 the boys in Derbyshire and in the Scotch Lowlands have similar 
 names, differing from the English names in general; as the English 
 game of bandy, in Derbyshire is shinny, in Scotland shinty.
 
 152 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 cheese-pan. To boil the whey for making whey-butter, 
 to press the curd into the clieese-vats ; place the new 
 cheese in the press ; to salt and turn, and look after 
 those cheeses which are in the different staares of the 
 progress, from perfect newness and white softness, to 
 their investment with the unctuous coating of a goodly 
 age. He is ready to go with the men into the farm ; 
 she is ready to see that the calves are properly fed, 
 and to bargain with the butcher for the fat ones ; to 
 feed her geese, turkeys, guinea-fowls, and barn-door 
 fowls ; to see after the collection of eoffifs : how the 
 milk is going on in the dairy, the cream churning, 
 and moulding of butter for sale. In some counties, 
 especially in the west of England, numerous are those 
 homely and most useful dames that you see mounted 
 on their horses with nothing but a flat pad, or a stuffed 
 sack under them, jogging to market to dispose of the 
 products of their dairy and poultry yard, as fresh, hale 
 and independent as their grandmothers were. As to 
 the farmer himself, he can hold the plough as his 
 father did before him. He hates your newfangled 
 notions ; he despises your fine-fingered chaps, that are 
 brought up at boarding-schools till they are fit for 
 nothing but to ride on smart, whisk-tailed nags to mar- 
 ket, and carry a bit of a sample-bag in their pockets; 
 and had rather, ten times, be . off to the hunt, or the 
 race-course than to market at all; or to be runninP" after 
 a dog and gun, breaking down fences, and trampling 
 over turnip and potato crops, when they ought to be 
 watching that other idlers did not commit such depre- 
 dations. He sits with his men, and works with his 
 men ; and, while he does as much as the best of them 
 — follows the plough, the harrow, or the drill, empties
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 153 
 
 the manure-cart on his fallows, loads the hay or the 
 corn-wag-on, — he many a time says to himself that the 
 "master's eye does still more than his hand." The 
 celebrated Mr. Robinson of Cambridge, who was fond 
 of farming, gives in a letter to a friend, a most strik- 
 ing view of the perpetual recurrence of the little 
 occupations which present themselves to the practical 
 farmer, and however apparently trivial, are really im- 
 portant, and full of pleasure to those whose hearts are 
 in such pursuits. — "Rose at three o'clock; crawled 
 into tlie library, and met one who said, — ' work while 
 ye have the light ; the night cometh, when no man 
 can work : my father worketh hitherto, and 1 work.' 
 Rang the great bell, and roused the girls to milking, 
 went lip to the farm, roused the horse-keeper, fed the 
 horses while he was getting up ; called the boy to 
 suckle the calves, and clean out the cow-house ; lighted 
 the pipe, walked round the garden to see what was 
 wanted there ; went up to the paddock, to see if the 
 weaning calves were well ; went down to the ferry to 
 see if the boy had scooped and cleaned the boat ; re- 
 turned to the farm, examined the shoulders, heels, 
 traces, chaif and corn of eight horses going to plough, 
 mended the acre-staff, cut some thongs, whip- corded 
 the plough-boys' whips, pumped the troughs full, saw 
 the hogs fed, examined the swill-tubs, and then the 
 cellar ; ordered a quarter of malt, for the hogs want 
 grains, and the men want beer ; filled the pipe again, 
 returned to the river, and bought a lighter of turf for 
 dairy fires, and another of sedge for ovens ; hunted 
 out the wheel-barrows, and set them a trundling ; re- 
 turned to the farm, called the men to breakfast, and 
 cut the boys' bread and cheese, and saw the wooden
 
 .154 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 bottles filled; sent one plough to the three roods, 
 another to the three half-acres, and so on ; shut the 
 gates, and the clock struck five; breakfasted; set two 
 men to ditch the five roods, two men to chop sods, and 
 spread about the land, two more to throw up manure 
 in the yard, and three men and six women to weed 
 wheat; set on the carpenter to repair cow cribs, and 
 set them up till winter ; the wheeler, to mend the old 
 carts, cart-ladders, rakes, etc., preparatory to hay-time 
 and harvest ; walked to the six-acres, found hogs in 
 the grass, went back, and set a man to hedge and tliorn ; 
 sold the butcher a fat calf, and the suckler a lean one. 
 — The clock strikes nine ; — walked into the barley- 
 field ; barleys fine — picked off a few tiles and stones, 
 and cut a few thistles; — the peas fine, but foul; the 
 charlock must be topped ; the tares doubtful, the fly 
 seems to have taken them ; prayed for rain, but could 
 not see a cloud; came round to the wheat-field, wheats 
 rather thin, but the finest colour in the world ; sent 
 four women on to the shortest wheats; ordered one man 
 to weed along the ridge of the long wheats, and two 
 women to keep rank and file with him in the furrows ; 
 thistles many, blue-bottles no end ; traversed all the 
 wheat -field, came to the fallow field ; the ditchers 
 have run crooked, set them straight ; the flag-sods cut 
 too much, tiie rush sods too little, strength wasted, 
 shew the men how to three-corner them^ laid out more 
 work for the ditchers, went to the ploughs, set the 
 foot a little higher, cut a wedge, set the coulter deeper, 
 must go and get a new mould-board against tomorrow; 
 went to the other plough, gathered up some wood and 
 tied over the traces, mended a horse-tree, tied a thong 
 to the plough-hammer, went to see which lands wanted
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 155 
 
 ploughing first, sat down under a bush, wondered how 
 any man could be so silly as to call me reverend; read 
 two verses in the Bible of the lovingkindness of the 
 Lord in the midst of his temple, hummed a tune of 
 thankfulness, rose up, whistled, the dogs wagged their 
 tails, and away we went, dined, drunk some milk and 
 fell asleep, woke by the carpenter for some slats which 
 the sawyers must cut. Etc. etc." 
 
 So spends many a farmer of the old stamp his day, 
 and at night he takes his seat on the settle, under the 
 old wide chimney — his wife has her little work-table 
 set near — the " wenches" darning their stockings, or 
 making up a cap for Sunday, and the men sitting on 
 the other side of the hearth, with their shoes off. He 
 now enjoys of all things, to talk over his labours and 
 plans with the men, — they canvass the best method 
 of doing this and that — lay out the course of to- 
 morrow — what land is to be broke up, or laid down ; 
 where barley, wheat, oats, etc. shall be sown, or if 
 they be growing, when they shall be cut. In harvest- 
 time, lambing-time, in potato setting and gathering 
 time, in fact, almost all summer long, there is no 
 sitting on the hearth — it is out of bed with the sun, and 
 after the long hard day — supper, and to bed again. It is 
 only in winter that there is any sitting by the fire, which 
 is seldom diversified further than by the coming in of a 
 neighbouring farmer or the reading of the weekly news. 
 
 Such is the rustic, plodding life of many a farmer 
 in England, and there is no part of the population 
 for which so little has been done, and of which so 
 little is thought, as of their farm-servants. Scarcely 
 any of those got any education before the establish- 
 ment of Sunday schools — how few of them do yet.
 
 156 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 compared with the working population of towns? 
 The girls help their mothers — the labourers' wives — 
 in their cottages, as soon almost as they can waddle 
 about. They are scarcely more than infants them- 
 selves, when they are set to take care of other infants. 
 The little creatures go lugging about great, fat babies 
 that really seem as heavy as themselves. You may 
 see them on the commons, or little open green spots 
 in the lanes near their homes, congregating together, 
 two or three juvenile nurses, with their charges, 
 carrying them along, or letting them roll on the 
 swardj while they try to catch a few minutes of play 
 with one another, or with that tribe of bairns at their 
 heels — too old to need nursing, and too young to 
 begin nursing others. As they get bigger they are 
 found useful in the house — they mop and brush, and 
 feed the pig, and run to the town for things; and as 
 soon as they get to ten or twelve, out they go to 
 nurse at the farm-houses ; a little older, they " go to 
 service;" there they soon aspire to be dairy-maids, or 
 house-maids, whose ambition does not prompt them 
 to seek places in the towns, — and so they go on 
 scrubbing and scouring, and lending a hand in the 
 harvest-field, till they are married to some young 
 fellow, who takes a cottage and sets up day-labourer. 
 This is their life; and the men's is just similar. As 
 soon as they can run about, they are set to watch a 
 gate that stands at the end of the lane or the common 
 to stop cattle from straying, and there through long 
 solitary days they pick up a few halfpence by opening 
 it for travellers. They are sent to scare birds from 
 corn just sown, or just ripening, where 
 
 They stroll the lonely Crusoes of the fields —
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 157 
 
 as Bloomfield has beautifully described them from his 
 own experience. They help to glean, to gather 
 potatoes, to pop beans into holes in dibbling time, to 
 pick hops, to gather up apples for the cider-mill, to 
 gather mushrooms and blackberries for market, to 
 herd flocks of geese, or young turkeys, or lambs at 
 weaning time; they even help to drive sheep to market, 
 or to the wash at shearing time ; they can go to the town 
 with a huge pair of clouted ancle-boots to be mended, 
 as you may see them trudging along over the moors, 
 or along the foot-path of the fields, with the strings of 
 the boots tied together, and slung over the shoulder — • 
 one boot behind and the other before; and then, they 
 are very useful to lift and carry about the farm-yard, 
 to shred turnips, or beet-root — to hold a sack open — 
 to bring in wood for the fire, or to rear turfs for 
 drying on the moors, as the man cuts them with his 
 paring shovel, or to rear peat-bricks for drying. 
 They are mighty useful animals in their day and 
 generation, and as they get bigger, they successively 
 learn to drive plough, and then to hold it; to drive 
 the team, and finally to do all the labours of a man. 
 That is the growing up of a farm-servant. All this 
 time he is learning his business, but he is learning- 
 nothing else, — he is growing up into a tall, long, 
 smock-frocked, straw -hatted, ancle-booted fellow, with 
 a gait as graceful as one of his own plough-bullocks. 
 He has grown up, and gone to service ; and there he 
 is, as simple, as ignorant, and as laborious a creature 
 as one of the wagon -horses that he drives. The 
 mechanic sees his weekly newspaper over his pipe 
 and pot ; but the clod-hopper, the chopstick, the haw- 
 buck, the hind, the Johnny-raw, or by whatever name, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 158 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 in whatever district he may be called, is every where 
 the same, — he sees no newspaper, and if he did, he 
 could not read it; and if he hears his master reading 
 it, ten to one but he drops asleep over it. In fact, he 
 has no interest in it. He knows there is such a place 
 as the next town, for he goes there to statutes, and 
 to the fair, — and he has heard of Lunnon, and the 
 French, and Buonaparte, and of late years of America, 
 and he has some dreamy notion that he should like to 
 go there if he could raise the wind, and thought he 
 could find the way — and that is all that he knows of 
 the globe and its concerns, beyond his own fields. 
 The mechanic has his library, — and he reads, and 
 finds that he has a mind, and a hundred tastes and 
 pleasures that he never dreamed of before — the 
 clod-hopper has no library, and if he had, books 
 in his present state would be to him only so many 
 things set on end upon shelves. He is as much 
 of an animal as air and exercise, strong living and 
 sound sleeping can make him, and he is nothing- 
 more. Just see the daily course of his life. Harvest- 
 time is the jubilee of his year. It is a time of in- 
 cessant and hurrying occupation — but that is a benefit 
 to him — it is an excitement, and he wants exciting. 
 It rouses him out of that beclouded and unimaginative 
 dreamy state in which he stalks along the solitary 
 fields, or wields the flail in the barn ; digs the drain 
 or the ditch, or plashes the fence, from day to day 
 and week to week. The energies that he has, and 
 they are chiefly physical, are all called forth. He is 
 in a bustle. The weather is fine and warm — his 
 blood flows quicker. The gates are thrown open — 
 the hay rustles in the meadow, or the golden corn
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 159 
 
 Stands in shock amid the stubble: — the waggons are 
 rattling along the lanes and the fields. His neigh- 
 bours are all called out to assist. The labourers 
 leave everything else, and are all in the harvest-field. 
 The women leave their cottages, and are there too. 
 Young, middle-aged, and old, — all are there — to work 
 or to glean. The comely maiden with her rosy face, 
 her beaming eyes, and fair figure, brings with her 
 mirth and joke. The stout village matrons have 
 each drawn a pair of footless stockings on her arms 
 to protect them from the sun and stubble — they have 
 pinned up their bed-gowns behind, or doffed them- 
 selves to the brown stays and linsey-woolsey petticoat, 
 and are amongst the best hands in the field. Even 
 the old are feebly pulling at a rake, or putting hay 
 into wain-row, or looking on, and telling what they 
 have done in their time. The beer-keg is in the 
 field, and the horn often goes round. The lunch is 
 eaten under the tree, or amongst the sheaves. In the 
 house at noon, there is a great setting out of dinner ; 
 — beans and bacon, huge puddings and dumplings 
 are plentiful, — it is a joyous and a stirring time. 
 There is no other season of the year in which the 
 farm-servant enjoys himself so much as in harvest; not 
 even in his few other days of relaxation — on his visit to 
 the fair — to the statutes — to the ploughing match, or 
 on Mothering Sunday, when all the "servant-lads" 
 and "servant wenches" are, in some parts of the 
 country, set at liberty for a day, to go and see their 
 mothers. See him at any other time, and what a 
 plodding, simple, monotonous life he leads! He rises 
 at an early hour — we have seen in this chapter at 
 rchat an hour the Rev. Mr. Robinson had his men
 
 160 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 up; — if he be going to work in tlie farm -yard, he 
 goes out and gets to it till breakfast- time : but if he 
 be going to plough, or to do work at a distance, or to 
 carry corn home that has been sold at market by his 
 master, or to fetch bones, rape-dust, or other majiure 
 from the town, or coals from the pit, he is up whether 
 it be summer or winter, at at hour at which towns- 
 people are often not gone to bed. In early spring 
 and autumn he gets up to plough at five and six 
 o'clock in a morning. It is pitch dark, and dismally 
 cold. He strikes a light with his tinder, for lucifers 
 he never saw, and has only heard of, as a horrible in- 
 vention for setting ricks on fire. He slips on his 
 ancle-boots without lacing them, and out he goes to 
 fodder his horses, and rub them down. That done, 
 he comes in a^ain. 
 
 The " servant wench" has lit the fire and set out 
 his breakfast for him and his fellows, — huge basins of 
 milk porridge, and loaves as big as bee-hives, and 
 pretty much of the same shape, and as brown as the 
 back of their own hands. To this fare he betakes 
 himself with a capacity that only country air and 
 hard labour can give. Having made havoc with as 
 much of these as would serve a round family of 
 citizens to breakfast, he then stretches out his hand to 
 a capacious dish of cold fat bacon of about six inches 
 thick — nay, I once saw bacon on such a table actually 
 ten inches thick, and all one solid mass of fat. This 
 is set on the top of half a peck of cold boiled beans 
 that were left the day before, and however strange 
 such viands might seem to a townsman at six o' clock 
 or earlier, in a morning, they vanish as rapidly as if 
 they did not follow that mess of porridge, and those
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 161 
 
 huge hunches of bread. Well, to a certainty he has 
 now done. Nay, don't be in such haste — he has not 
 done; he has his eye on the great brown loaf again. 
 He must have a snack of bread and cheese ; so he 
 takes his knife out of his waistcoat pocket — a gigantic 
 clasp-knife, assuredly made by the knowing Sheffielder 
 to hew down such loaves, and lie in such pockets, and 
 fill such stomachs, and for no other earthly purpose. 
 See ! he cuts a massy fragment of the rich curly 
 kissing-crust, that hangs like a fretted cornice from 
 the upper half of the loaf, and places it between the 
 thumb and two fore-fingers of his left hand — he cuts 
 a corresponding piece of cheese, and places it between 
 the little finger and the thick of his hand, and alter- 
 nately cutting his bread and cheese with his clasp- 
 knife, (for he would not use another for that purpose 
 on any account), as Betty sets a mug of ale before 
 him, he wipes his mouth and says, as he lifts the mug, 
 to his younger companion, who has all this time been 
 faithfully and valiantly imitating him, — " Well, Jack, 
 we must be oif, lad, — take a draught, then get the 
 horses out, and I'll be with thee." 
 
 This is pretty well for five or six o'clock in a 
 morning; but it is quite as likely that it is only one 
 or two in the morning, as it certainly is, if he be 
 going to a distance with a load, or for a load of any- 
 thing. The breakfast is as liberally handled, and 
 Betty mean-time has put up their "luncheons" or 
 " ten-o' clocks" — huge masses of bread and cheese, or 
 cold bacon, or cold meat, and a bottle of ale if they 
 are going to plough. Having now breakfasted, he 
 has only to lace his boots, which he generally does in 
 the most inconvenient posture, and not before he has
 
 16"2 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 filled himself till it is tenfold additionally inconvenient 
 — so with a face into which all the blood in his body- 
 seems to rush, and with many a grunt, he accom- 
 plishes his task, and away he goes ; — his whip cracks, 
 his gears jingle, his wagon rumbles, and he is gone, 
 If, however, he be going to plough, he will duly about 
 eleven o'clock lunch under a tree, while his horses 
 rest and eat their hay; and then, at three or four 
 o'clock, he will loose them from the plough, and 
 return home to a dinner as plentiful as his breakfast ; 
 his horses are fed, and he goes to bed. If he be going 
 out with corn, or for coals, he is off, as I have said, 
 probably by two o 'clock, and in his wagon he duly 
 takes with him a truss of hay and a truss of straw. 
 The hay is for his horses to eat at some way-side 
 public-house, and the straw is for payment for their 
 standing in the stable. The straw is worth a shilling, 
 and in some places, at certain seasons, eighteen-pence. 
 If he does not take straw, he takes a shilling in money. 
 He carries his lunch and eats it in the ale-house, and 
 he has a shilling for himself and companion to drink, 
 and treat the hostler. This is a custom as old as farms 
 and corn-mills themselves. If it be winter weather, 
 you shall meet him, probably, with straw-bands 
 wrapped round his legs, or even round his hat for 
 warmth ; and in heavy rain his Macintosh is a sack- 
 bag, which he throws over his shoulders, and goes on 
 defying the weather for a whole day. In sudden 
 squalls and thunder showers in summer, you may see 
 him, and frequently a whole cluster of harvesters, take 
 shelter under his wagon till the storm is over. By 
 the evening fire, in some farm-houses, they mend 
 their shoes, or shape and polish the heads of flails
 
 FARM-SERVANTS. 163 
 
 which they have cut from the black-thorn bush, and 
 have had in a loft or under their bed seasoning for 
 the last six months, or they get into some horse-play, 
 or they doze 
 
 Till chilblains wake them, or the snapping fire. 
 
 And on Sundays they go to church in the morning 
 to get a quiet nod. Perhaps it is to them that the 
 apostle alludes when he says — " And your young 
 men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream 
 dreams." For the only chance of their worship seems 
 to be in their dreams — the daily exposure to the air 
 on the six days making them as drowsy as bats on the 
 seventh. In the afternoon they lean over gates, or 
 play at quoits : — and there is the life of a farmer man- 
 servant, till he is metamorphosed into a labourer by 
 marrying and setting up his cottage, finding himself, 
 and receiving weekly instead of yearly wages. Such 
 is the farm-servant, whether you see him in his white, 
 his blue, his tawny, or his olive-green smock-frock, in 
 his straw-hat, or his wide-awake, according to the 
 prevailing fashion of different parts of the country — 
 and truly, seeing him and his fellows, we may ask 
 with Wordsworth — 
 
 What kindly warmth from touch of fostering hand. 
 
 What penetrating power of sun or breeze 
 
 Shall e'er dissolve the crust wlierein his soul 
 
 Sleeps, like a caterpillar sheathed in ice? 
 
 Tliis torpor is no pitiable work 
 
 Of modern ingenuity : no town 
 
 Or crowded city may be taxed with aught 
 
 Of sottish vice, or desperate breach of law, 
 
 To which in after years he may be roused. 
 
 This boy the fields produce : — his spade and hoe — 
 
 The carter's whip that on liis shoulder rests. 
 
 In air high-towering with a boorish pomp,
 
 164 FARM-SERVANTS. 
 
 The sceptre of his sway: his country's name, 
 Her equal rights, her churches and her schools — 
 What have they done for him ? And, let me ask, 
 For tens of thousands, uninformed as he?* 
 
 • Who would believe it, that such is the profound ignorance 
 amongst the peasantry even of the Cumberland hills—amongst that 
 peasantry where Wordsworth himself has found his Michaels, his 
 Matthews, and many another man and woman that in his hands have 
 become classical and enduring specimens of rustic heart and mind, 
 that such facts as the following could occur, and yet this did occur 
 there not very long ago. The "statesmen," that is, small proprietors 
 there, are a people very little susceptible of religious excitement ; and 
 we may believe, have in past years, been very much neglected by 
 their natural instructors. You hear of no "revivals" amongst them, 
 and the Methodists have little success amongst them. Some person, 
 speaking with the wife of one of these " statesmen" on religious 
 subjects, found that she had not even heard of such a person as Jesus 
 Christ ! Astonished at the discovery, he began to tell her of his 
 liistory ; of his coming to save the world, and of his being put to 
 death. Having listened to all this very attentively, she inquired 
 where this occurred ; and that being answered, she asked, "and when 
 was it?" this being also told her, she very gravely observed — " Well, 
 its sae far off, and sae lang since, we'll fain believe that it isna true !"
 
 165 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 
 
 A person from the south or midland counties of Eng- 
 land journeying northward, is struck when he enters 
 Durham, or Northumberland, with the sight of bands 
 of women working in the fields under the surveillance 
 of one man. One or two such bands, of from half a 
 dozen to a dozen women, generally young, might be 
 passed over ; but when they recur again and again, 
 and you observe them wherever you go, they become 
 a marked feature of the agricultural system of the 
 country, and you naturally inquire how it is, that 
 such regular bands of female labourers prevail there. 
 The answer, in the provincial tongue, is — " O they 
 are the Bone- ditches," ^. e. Bondages. Bondages ! 
 that is an odd sound, you think, in England. What 
 have we bondage, a rural serfdom, still existing in free 
 and fair England ? Even so. The thing is astound- 
 ing enough, but it is a fact. As I cast my eyes for 
 the first time on these female bands in the fields, 
 working under their drivers, I was, before making 
 any inquiry respecting them, irresistibly reminded of 
 the slave-gangs of the West Indies : turnip-hoeing, 
 somehow, associated itself strangely in my brain with 
 
 I '2
 
 166 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 sugar-cane dressing ; but when I heard these women 
 called Bondages, the association became tenfold strong. 
 On all the large estates in these counties, and in the 
 south of Scotland, the bondage system prevails. No 
 married labourer is permitted to dwell on these estates 
 unless he enters into bond to comply with this system. 
 These labourers are termed hinds. Small houses are 
 built for them on the farms, and on some of the estates 
 — as those of the Duke of Northumberland — all these 
 cottages are numbered, and the number is painted on 
 the door. A hind, therefore, engaging to work on 
 one of the farms belonging to the estate, has a house 
 assigned him. He has Al. a year in money; the keep 
 of a cow; his fuel found him; a prescribed quantity 
 of coal, wood, or peat to each cottage ; he is allowed 
 to plant a certain quantity of land with potatoes; and 
 has thirteen boles of corn furnished him for his family 
 consumption ; one-third being oats, one-third barley, 
 and one- third peas. In return for these advantages, 
 he is bound to give his labour the year round, and 
 also to furnish a woman labourer at \s. per day, 
 during harvest, and Q>d. per day for the rest of the year. 
 Now it appears, at once, that this is no hereditary 
 serfdom — such a thing could not exist in this country; 
 but it is the next thing to it, and no doubt has 
 descended from it; being serfdom in its mitigated 
 form, in which alone modern notions and feelings 
 would tolerate it. It may even be said that it is a 
 voluntary system ; that it is merely married hinds 
 doing that which unmarried farm servants do every- 
 where else — hire themselves on certain conditions 
 from year to year. The great question is, whether 
 these conditions are just, and favourable to the social
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 167 
 
 and moral improvement of the labouring class. Whe- 
 ther, indeed, it be quite of so voluntary a nature as, 
 at first sight, appears ; whether it be favourable to the 
 onward movement of the community in knowledge, 
 v-irtue, and active and enterprising habits. These 
 are questions which concern the public ; and these I 
 shall endeavour to answer in that candid and dis- 
 passionate spirit which public good requires. 
 
 In the first place, then, it is only just to say that 
 their cottages, though they vary a good deal on 
 different estates, are in themselves, in some cases, not 
 bad. Indeed, some of those which we entered on the 
 estates of the Duke of Northumberland, were much 
 more comfortable than labourers' cottages often are. 
 Each has its number painted on the door, within 
 a crescent, — the crest of the Northumberland family ; 
 and though this has a look rather savouring too 
 much of a badge of servitude, yet within, many of 
 them are very comfortable. They are all built pretty 
 much on one principle, and that very different to the 
 labourers' houses of the south. They are copied, in 
 fact, from the Scotch cottages. They are of one 
 story, and generally of one room. On one side, is 
 the fire-place, with an oven on one hand, and a 
 boiler on the other; on the opposite side of the 
 cottage, is the great partition for the beds, which are 
 two in number, with sliding doors or curtains. The 
 ceiling is formed by poles nailed across from one side 
 of the roof to the other, about half a yard above 
 wdiere it begins to slope, and covered with matting. 
 From the matting to the wall, the slope is covered 
 with a piece of chintz in the best cottages; in others, 
 with some showy calico print, with ordinary wall-
 
 168 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 paper, or even with paper daubed with various colours 
 arid patterns. This is the regular style of the hind's 
 cottage ; varying in neatness and comfort, it must be 
 confessed, however, from one another by many de- 
 grees. Many are very naked, dirty, and squalid. 
 Where they happen to stand separate, on open 
 heaths, and in glens of the hills, nature throws around 
 them so much of wild freedom and picturesqueness 
 as makes them very agreeable. The cottages of the 
 shepherds are often very snug and curious. We 
 went into the cottage of the herd of Middleton, at 
 the foot of the Cheviots, an estate formerly belonging 
 to Greenwich Hospital. This hut was of more than 
 ordinary size, as it was required to accommodate 
 several shepherds. The part of the house on your 
 left as you entered was divided into two rooms. The 
 one was a sort of entrance lobby, where stood the 
 cheese-press, and the pails, and where hung up 
 various shepherds' plaids, great coats, and strong 
 shoes. In one place hung a mass of little caps with 
 strings to them, ready to tie upon the sheeps' heads 
 when they became galled by the fly in summer ; in 
 another were suspended wool-shears, and crooks. 
 The other little room was the dairy, with the oddest 
 assemblage of wooden quaighs or little pails imagin- 
 able. Over these rooms, a step-ladder led to an 
 open attic in the roof, which formed at once the 
 sleeping apartment of the shepherds, and a store- 
 room. Here were three or four beds, some of them 
 woollen mattresses on rude stump bedsteads ; others 
 pieces of wicker-work, like the lower half of a pot- 
 crate cut off, about half a yard high, filled with straw, 
 and a few blankets laid upon it. There were lots of
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 169 
 
 fleeces of wool stowed away ; and lasts and awls stuck 
 into the spars, shewed that the herds occasionally 
 amused their leisure in winter and bad weather by 
 cobbling their shoes. The half of the house on your 
 right hand on entering, was at all points such as I 
 have before described, with its coved and matted 
 ceiling, its chintz cornice, and its two beds with 
 sliding doors. But the bulk of the cottages of the 
 hinds about the great farm-houses, are dismal abodes. 
 They are generally built in a low, and sometimes in 
 a dreary quadrangle, without those additions of gar- 
 dens, piggeries, etc., which so much enrich and 
 embellish the cottages of the labourers in many parts 
 of the kingdom. And what is the state of feeling 
 within? is it that of contentment or acquiescence? 
 I am bound to say that many inquiries made in 
 various places, discovered one general sentiment of 
 discontent with the system. But in the first place, 
 let us take a view of the general aspect of the country 
 under this system as it appears to a stranger from the 
 south, and here we have at hand the graphic descrip- 
 tions of Cobbett, from his tour in Scotland and the 
 northern counties of England, in 1832. 
 
 He does not seem to have become aware of the 
 existence of the system while in Durham and North- 
 umberland. He perceived, what no man can pass 
 through those counties without seeing, the large-farm 
 system in full operation, and with all its consequences 
 in its face. " From Morpeth to within four miles of 
 Hexham the land is very indifferent ; the farms of an 
 enormous extent. I saw in one place more than a 
 hundred corn stacks in one yard, each having from six 
 to seven Surrey wagon-loads of sheaves in one stack ;
 
 170 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 and not another house to be seen within a mile or two 
 of the farm-house. There appears to be no such 
 thing as barns, but merely a place to take in a stack 
 at a time, and thrash it out by a machine. The 
 country seems to be almost wholly destitute of people: 
 immense tracts of corn land, but neither cottages nor 
 churches." p. 56. This was the first glimpse of the 
 thing; it had not yet broken fully upon him ; but he 
 had not gone much further before the vast solitude of 
 the depopulative system began to press upon his brain, 
 and to set those indignant feelings and theorizings 
 at work in him, which belonged so peculiarly to his 
 nature. " From Morpeth to Alnwick, the country, 
 generally speaking, is very poor as to land, scarcely 
 any trees at all ; the farms enormously extensive : 
 only two churches, I think, in the whole of the twenty 
 miles, i. e. from Newcastle to Alnwick. Scarcely 
 anything worthy the name of a tree, and not one 
 single dwelling having the appearance of a labourer's 
 house. Here appears to be neither hedging nor 
 ditching; no such thing as a sheep-fold or a hurdle 
 to be seen ; the cattle and sheep very few in number; 
 the farm-servants living in the farm-houses, and very 
 few of* them; the thrashing done by machinery and 
 horses ; a country without people. This is a pretty 
 country to take a minister from, to govern the south 
 of England ! a pretty country to take a Lord Chan- 
 cellor from, to prattle about poor-laics, and about 
 surplus population! My Lord Grey, has, in fact, 
 spent his life here, and Brougham has spent his life 
 in the inns of court, or in the botheration of specula- 
 tive books. How should either of them know any- 
 thing about the eastern, southern, or western coun-
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 171 
 
 ties ? I wish I had my dignitary, Dr. Black, here ; 
 I would soon make him see that he has all these 
 number of years been talking about the bull's horns 
 instead of his tail and buttocks. Besides the inde- 
 scribable pleasure of having seen Newcastle, the 
 Shieldses, Sunderland, Durham, and Hexham, 
 I have now discovered the true ground of all the 
 errors of the Scotch feelosojihers, with regard to 
 population, and with regard to poor-laws. The two 
 countries are as different as any things of the same 
 nature can possibly be ; that which applies to the one 
 does not at all apply to the other. The agricultural 
 counties are covered all over with parish churches, 
 and with people thinly distributed here and there. 
 Only look at the two counties of Dorset and Durham. 
 Dorset contains 1005 square miles; Durham contains 
 1061 square miles. Dorset has 271 parishes; Dur- 
 ham has 75 parishes. The population of Dorset is 
 scattered all over the whole of the county ; there 
 being no town of any magnitude in it. The popula- 
 tion of Durham, though larger than that of Dorset, 
 is almost all gathered together at the mouths of the 
 Tyne, the Wear, and the Tees. Northumberland 
 has 1871 square miles; and Suffolk has 1512 square 
 miles. Northumberland has eighty-eight parishes ; and 
 Suffolk has j^ue hundred and ten parishes. So here is 
 a country one-third part smaller than that of Northum- 
 berland, with six times as many villages in it ! What 
 comparison is there to be made between states of 
 society so essentially different ? What rule is there, 
 with regard to population and poor-laws, which can 
 apply to both cases ? * * * * Blind and 
 thoughtless must that man be, who imagines that all
 
 172 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 but farms in the south are unproductive. I much 
 question whether, takings a strip three miles each way 
 from the road, coming from Newcastle to Alnwick, 
 an equal quantity of what is called wante ground in 
 Surrey, together with the cottages that skirt it, do not 
 exceed such strip of ground in point of produce. Yes, 
 the cows, pigs, geese, poultry, gardens, bees, and 
 fuel that arise from these wastes, far exceed, even in 
 the capacity of sustaining people, similar breadths of 
 ground, distributed into these large farms, in the 
 poorer parts of Northumberland. I have seen not 
 lest than ten thousand geese in one tract of common^ 
 in about six miles, going from Chobham towards 
 Farnham in Surrey. I believe these geese alone, 
 raised entirely by care and the common, to be worth 
 more than the clear profit that can be drawn from 
 any similar breadth of land between Morpeth and 
 Alnwick," 
 
 There are two important particulars connected with 
 this statement: one regards the sustenance of life, and 
 the other morals. Much has been said of the morals 
 of the hinds of Northumberland under this system, 
 and in the main their morals may be good; but one 
 or two facts I can state, as it regards the morals 
 of the common people in general in both counties. 
 In going over this very ground, of which Cobbett 
 has been speaking, we witnessed such a scene as 
 we never witnessed in any other part of England. 
 We had taken our places in an afternoon coach, 
 going from Newcastle to Morpeth. It was market- 
 day, and we had not proceeded far out of New- 
 castle when we found that the coach in which we 
 were, had actually txco-and-thirty passengers. They
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 173 
 
 consisted of country-people, returning from market, 
 who were taken up principally on the road. There 
 were niiie inside, and twenty-three outside ; six of whom 
 sat piled on each other^s knees, on the driving-hex ! The 
 greater part of them were drunk; and the number of 
 tipsy fellows staggering- along the road, exceeded 
 what we ever saw in any other quarter. We happened 
 to be too at Alnwick fair, and we never saw the 
 farmers and drovers more freely indulge in drink and 
 noise. Moreover, from Alnwick to Belford we had 
 a wealthy farmer in the coach, who was raving drunk, 
 shouted out of the windows, chafed like a wild-beast 
 in a cage, and presented a spectacle such as I have 
 never seen in a coach elsewhere. So much for the 
 morals of that region. We are now living amongst 
 the very scenes Cobbett alludes to in Surrey, and 
 we never saw a country more abounding with pea- 
 santry, who are ignorant from neglect it is true, but 
 appear neither unusually sottish nor disorderly. And 
 as to the sustenance of life, nothing so much sur- 
 prised us on settling here, as the quantity of open 
 lands extending in all directions, though only fourteen 
 miles from London ; and the number of cottages 
 everywhere skirting them, with their walls covered 
 with vines, and gardens and orchards which half bury 
 them in abundance. The quantities of pigs, geese, 
 ponies, and cattle reared on the greens and wastes are 
 immense. 
 
 But Cobbett had not yet seen the finest lands, 
 or got a glimpse of the Bondage System. He still 
 goes on expressing his astonishment at the solitude, 
 the vast farms with their steam thrashing-machines, 
 "so that the elements seem to be pressed into the
 
 174 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 amiable service of sweeping the people from the earth, 
 in order that the whole amount may go into the hands 
 of a small number of persons, that they may squander 
 it at London, Paris, or Rome." It was only after he 
 had traversed the Lothians that the full discovery broke 
 upon him ; so that after all, he never seems to have 
 perceived that the Bondage system was prevalent in 
 England, but speaks of it as exclusively a Scotch 
 system. There is every reason to believe it a relic 
 of ancient feudalism ; but it is certain that but for the 
 doctrines of the Edinburgh Economists it would have 
 long ago vanished from our soil. When Cobbett 
 arrived at Edinburgh, there he seemed to take breath, 
 and clear his lungs for a good tirade against the 
 system ; which he does thus, in his first letter to the 
 Chopsticks of the south. " This city is fifty-six miles 
 from the Tweed, which separates England from Scot- 
 land. I have come through the country in a post- 
 chaise, stopped one night upon the road, and have 
 made every inquiry, in order that I might be able to 
 ascertain the exact state of the labourers on the land. 
 With the exception of about seven miles, the land is 
 the finest that I ever saw in my life, though I have 
 seen every fine vale in every county in England, and 
 in the United States of America. I never saw any 
 land a tenth-part so good. You will know what the 
 land is, when I tell you that it is by no means uncom- 
 mon for it to produce seven English quarters of wheat 
 upon one English acre ; and forty tons of turnips upon 
 one English acre ; and that there are, almost in every 
 half mile, from fifty to a hundred acres of turnips in 
 one piece, sometimes white turnips, and sometimes 
 Swedes; all in rows, as straight as a line, and without 
 a weed to be seen in any of these beautiful fields.
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 175 
 
 "Oh ! how you will wish to be here ! ' Lord,' you 
 will say to yourselves, ' what pretty villages there 
 must be; what nice churches and churchyards. Oh ! 
 and what preciously nice ale-houses ! Come, Jack, 
 let us set off to Scotland ! What nice gardens we 
 shall have to our cottages there ! What beautiful 
 flowers our wives will have, climbing up about the 
 windows, and on both sides of the paths leading from 
 the wicket up to the door ! And what prancing and 
 barking pigs we shall have running out upon the 
 common, and what a flock of geese grazing upon the 
 green !' 
 
 " Stop ! stop ! I have not come to listen to you, but 
 to make you listen to me. Let me tell you, then, 
 that there is neither village, nor church, nor ale-house, 
 nor garden, nor cottage, nor flowers, nor pig, nor 
 goose, nor common, nor green; but the thing is thus: 
 ]. The farms of a whole country are, generally speak- 
 ing, the property of one lord. 2. They are so large, 
 that the corn-stacks frequently amount to more than 
 a hundred upon one farm, each stack having in it, on 
 an average, from fifteen to twenty English quarters of 
 corn. 3. The farmer's house is a house big enough 
 and fine enough for a gentleman to live in ; the farm- 
 yard is a square, with buildings on the sides of it for 
 horses, cattle, and implements ; the stack-yard is on 
 one side of this, the stacks all in rows, and the place 
 as bisr as a little town. 4. On the side of the farm- 
 yard next to the stack-yard, there is a place to thrash 
 the corn in; and there is, close by this, always a 
 thrashing-machine, sometimes worked by horses, 
 sometimes by water, sometimes by wind, and some- 
 times by steam, there being no such thing as a barn 
 or a flail in the whole country.
 
 176 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 " ' Well,' say you, ' but out of such a quantity of 
 corn, and of beef, and of mutton, there must some 
 come to the share of the chopsticks to be sure !' 
 Don't be too sure yet ; but hold your tongue, and 
 hear my story. The single labourers are kept in this 
 manner: about four of them are put into a shed, quite 
 away from the farm-house, and out of the farm-yard ; 
 which shed. Dr. Jameson, in his Dictionary, calls a 
 ' boothie,' a place, says he, where labouring servants 
 are lodged. A boothie means a little booth; and 
 here these men live and sleep, having a certain allow- 
 ance of oat, barley, and pea meal, upon which they 
 live, mixing it with water, or with milk when they 
 are allowed the use of a cow, which they have to milk 
 themselves. They are allowed some little matter of 
 money besides, to buy clothes with, but never dream 
 of being allowed to set foot within the walls of the 
 farm-house. They hire for the year, under very 
 severe punishment in case of misbehaviour, or quit- 
 ting service ; and cannot have fresh service, without a 
 character from the last master, and also from the 
 viinister of the parish ! 
 
 " Pretty well that, for a knife and fork chopstick 
 of Sussex, who has been used to sit round the fire 
 with the master and mistress, and pull about and 
 tickle the laughing maids! Pretty welW/ia^ / But 
 it is the life of the married labourer that will delight 
 you. Upon a steam-engine farm, there are perhaps 
 eight or ten of these. There is, at a considerable 
 distance from the farm-yard, a sort of barrack erected 
 for these to live in. It is a long shed, stone walls 
 and pantile roof, and divided into a certain number of 
 boothies, eacii having a door and one little window, all
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 177 
 
 the doors being on one side of tlie shed, and there 
 being no hack-doors ; no such thing, for them, ap- 
 pears ever to be thought of. The ground in front 
 of the shed is wide or narrow according to cir- 
 cumstances, but quite smooth ; merely a place to 
 walk upon. Each distinct boothie is about seven- 
 teen feet one way, and fifteen feet the other way, 
 as nearly as my eye could determine. There is 
 no ceiling, and no floor but the earth. In this 
 place, a man and his wife and family have to live. 
 When they go into it, there is nothing but the four 
 bare walls, and the tiles over their head, and a small 
 fire-place. To make the most of the room, they at 
 their own cost erect berths^ like those in a barrack- 
 room, which they get up into when they go to bed; 
 and here they are, a man, and his wife, and a parcel 
 of children, squeezed up in this miserable hole, with 
 their meal and their "washing tackle, and all their 
 other things ; and yet it is quite surprising how 
 decent the women endeavour to keep the place. 
 These women, for I found all the men out at work, 
 appeared to be most industrious creatures, to be ex- 
 tremely obliging, and of good disposition; and the 
 shame is, that they are permitted to enjoy so small a 
 portion of the fruit of all their labours, of all their 
 cares. 
 
 " But if their dwelling-places be bad, their food is 
 worse, being fed upon exactly that which we feed hogs 
 and horses upon. The married man receives in money 
 about four pounds for the whole year : and he has be- 
 sides sixty bushels of oats, thirty bushels of barley, 
 twelve bushels of peas, and three bushels of potatoes, 
 with ground allowed him to plant the potatoes. The
 
 178 TPIE BONDAGE SYSTEM OP 
 
 master gives him the keep of a cow the year round ; 
 but he must find the cow himself; he pays for his own 
 fuel; he must find a woman to reap for twenty whole 
 days in the harvest, as payment for the rent of his 
 boothie. He has no wheat, — the meal altogether 
 amounts to about six pounds for every day in the year; 
 the oat-meal is eaten in porridge ; the barley-meal 
 and pea-meal are mixed together, and baked into a 
 sort of cakes, upon an iron plate put over the fire; 
 they sometimes get a pig, and feed it upon the 
 potatoes. 
 
 " Thus they never have one bit of M^heaten bread, 
 or of wheaten flour, nor of beef nor mutton, though 
 the land is covered with wheat and with cattle. The 
 hiring is for a year, beginning on the 26th of May, 
 and not at Michaelmas. The farmer takes the man, 
 just at the season to get the sweat out of him ; and if 
 he dies, he dies when the main work is done. The 
 labourer is wholly at the mercy of the master, who, if 
 he will not keep him beyond the year, can totally 
 ruin him, by refusing him a character. The cow is a 
 thing more in name than reality; she may be about to 
 calve when the 26th of May comes : the wife may be 
 in such a situation as to make removal perilous to her 
 life. This family has no home; and no home can any 
 man be said to have, who can thus be dislodged every 
 year of his life at the will of his master. It frequently 
 happens, that the poor creatures are compelled to sell 
 their cow for next to nothing ; and indeed the necessity 
 of character from the last employer, makes the man a 
 real slave, worse oif than the negro by many degrees ; 
 for here there is neither law to ensure him relief, nor 
 motive in the master to attend to his health, or to pre- 
 serve his life.
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 179 
 
 " Six days from day-light to dark these good, and 
 laborious, and patient, and kind people labour. On 
 an average they have six English miles to go to 
 church. Here are therefore twelve miles to walk on 
 Sunday ; and the consequence is, that they very 
 seldom go. But, say you, what do they do with all 
 the wheat, and all the beef, and all the mutton ? and 
 what becomes of all the money that they are sold for? 
 Why, the cattle and sheep walk into England upon 
 their legs ; the wheat is put into ships to be sent to 
 London or elsewhere ; and as to the money, the 
 farmer is allowed to have a little of it, but almost the 
 whole of it is sent to the landlord, to be gambled, or 
 otherwise squandered away at London^ at Paris, or at 
 Home. The rent of the land is enormous ; four, five, 
 six, or seven pounds for an English acre. The 
 farmer is not allowed to get much ; almost the whole 
 goes into the pockets of the lords; the labourers are 
 their slaves, and the farmers their slave-drivers. The 
 farm-yards are, in fact, factories for making corn and 
 meat, carried on principally by the means of horses 
 and machinery. There are no people ; and these 
 men seem to think that people are not necessary to 
 a state. I came over a tract of country a great deal 
 bigger than the county of Suffolk, with only three 
 towns in it, and a couple of villages, while the county 
 of Suffolk has 29 market-towns and 491 villages. 
 Yet our precious government seem to wish to reduce 
 England to the state of this part of Scotland; and 
 you are abused and reproached, and called ignorant, 
 because you will not reside in a boothie, and live 
 upon the food which we give to horses and hogs." 
 pp. 102—7.
 
 180 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 This is the description of one of the most accurate 
 observers of all that related to the working man that 
 ever lived. Such is the comparison which he draws 
 between the condition of the hinds, and of the southern 
 chopsticks. Such is his opinion of the superior con- 
 dition of the southern peasantry, that he says he 
 would not be the man who should propose to one 
 of them to adopt the condition of a hind, especially 
 if the fellow should have a bill-hook in his hand. 
 Cobbett's description is as accurate as it is graphic. 
 Let any one compare it with my own in the early 
 part of this paper, made from personal observation this 
 very last summer. Such was the painful impression 
 left upon Cobbett's mind, that he reverts to it again 
 and again. He tells us of a visit made to a farm 
 near Dunfermline; and of the wretched abodes and 
 food of the men he found there ; but the last extract 
 contains the substance of the Bondage System. 
 
 Let it be understood that the system to the Bond- 
 ages, so called, is no hardship. They are principally 
 girls from sixteen to twenty years of age. Full of 
 health and spirits, and glad enough to range over the 
 farm fields in a troop, with a stout young fellow, 
 laughing and gossiping, — the grievance is none of 
 theirs; but the poor hind's, who has to maintain 
 them. Just when his family becomes large, and he 
 has need of all his earnings to feed, and clothe, and 
 educate his troop of children, then he is compelled to 
 hire and maintain a woman to eat up his children's 
 food ; and to take away in her wages that little pit- 
 tance of cash that is allowed him, as many a wife 
 with tears in her eyes has said, to clothe the puir 
 bairns and put them to school. But the system is not
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 181 
 
 without its injurious effect on the Bondage herself. 
 It has been said that the Bondages are of service in 
 the hind's cottage, but the wives over the whole space 
 where the bondage system prevails tell you that the 
 Bondages are of little or no use in the house. They 
 look upon themselves as hired to work on the farm, 
 and they neither are very willing to work in the 
 house, nor very capable. They get out-of-door tastes 
 and habits: they loathe the confinement of the house; 
 they dislike its duties. " They are fit only," say the 
 women, " to mind the bairns a bit about the door." 
 And this is one of the evils of the system. Instead of 
 women brought up to manage a house, to care for 
 children, to make a fireside comfortable, and to 
 manage the domestic resources well, they come to 
 housekeeping ignorant, unprepared, and in a great 
 measure disqualified for it. They can hoe turnips and 
 potatoes to a miracle, but know very little about the 
 most approved methods of cooking them. They can 
 rake hay better than comb children's hair: drive a 
 cart or a harrow with a better grace than rock a cradle, 
 and help more nimbly in the barn than in the ingle. 
 
 The two points of most importance are those of the 
 hind's being compelled to have a character from the 
 last master, and of being at his mercy, to turn him not 
 only out of employ, but out of house and home. I 
 think little of their having no wheaten flour. Many 
 a hardy race of peasants, and even farmers, both in 
 Scotland and England, in mountain districts, never 
 see anything in the shape of bread but oat-cake. In 
 Lancashire, Yorkshire, Cumberland, and the Peak 
 of Derbyshire, there are thousands that would not 
 thank you for wheaten bread. The girdle-cakes, 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 182 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 as they call them, which the wives of the hinds 
 make, of mixed barley and pea meal, I frequently ate 
 of and enjoyed. They are about an inch thick, and 
 eight or ten inches in diameter, and taste perceptibly 
 of the pea. These, and milk, are a simple, but not a 
 despicable food ; but the fact, that these poor people 
 must bring a character from the last master before 
 they can be employed again, is one which may seem 
 at first sight a reasonable demand, but is in fact 
 the binding link of a most subtle and consummate 
 slavery. I have seen the effect of this system in the 
 Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire collieries., There, 
 amongst the master colliers a combination was entered 
 into, and for aught I know still exists, to regulate the 
 price of coal, and the quantity each master shoukl 
 relatively get. This rule, that no man should be 
 employed except he brought a character from his last 
 master was adopted ; and what was the consequence ? 
 That every man was the bounden slave of him in 
 whose employment he was; and that soon the price 
 of coals was raised to three times their actual value, 
 and the labour of the men restricted to about three 
 half-days, or a day and a half per week. 
 
 Let any one imagine a body of men bound by one 
 common interest, holding in their possession all the 
 population of several counties, and subjecting their 
 men to this rule. Can there be a more positive 
 despotism ? The hind is at the mercy of the caprice, 
 the anger, or the cupidity of the man in whose hand 
 he is ; and if he dismiss him, as I said in the early 
 part of this paper, where is he to go? As Cobbett 
 justly remarks, he has No Home; and nothing but 
 utter and irretrievable ruin is before him. Such a
 
 THE NORTH OF ENGLAND. 183 
 
 condition is unfit for any Englishman ; such powder as 
 that of the master no man ought to hold. A con- 
 dition like this, must generate a slavish character. 
 Can that noble independence of feeling belong to a 
 hind, which is the boast of the humblest Englishman, 
 while he holds employment, home, character, every- 
 thing at the utter mercy of another? I have now 
 laid before the reader the combined evidence of ray 
 own observation and that of a great observer of the 
 working classes, both in town and country, in the 
 north and the south, and I leave it to the judgment of 
 any man whether such a system is good or bad : but 
 I cannot help picturing to myself what would be the 
 consequence of the spread of this system of large farm 
 and bondage all over England. Let us suppose, as 
 we must in that case, almost all our working popula- 
 tion cooped up in large towns in shops and factories, 
 and all the country thrown into large farms to provide 
 them with corn — what an Eno^land would it then be ! 
 The poetry and the picturesque of rural life would be 
 annihilated ; the delicious cottages and gardens, the 
 open common, and the shouting of children would 
 vanish ; the scores of sweet old-fashioned hamlets, 
 where an humble sociality and primitive simplicity 
 yet remain, would no more be found; all those charms 
 and amenities of country life, which have inspired 
 poets and patriots with strains and with deeds that 
 have crowned England with half her glory, would 
 have perished; all that series of gradations of rank 
 and character, from the plough-boy and the milk-maid, 
 the free labourer, the yeoman, the small farmer, the 
 substantial farmer, up to the gentleman, would have 
 gone too; 
 
 And a bold peasantry, its country's pride,
 
 184 THE BONDAGE SYSTEM OF 
 
 would be replaced by a race of stupid and sequacious 
 slaves, tilling the solitary lands of vast land-holders, 
 who must become selfish and hardened in their 
 natures, from the want of all those claims upon their 
 better sympathies which the more varied state of 
 society at present presents. The question therefore 
 does not merely involve the comforts of the hind, but 
 the welfare and character of the country at large ; and 
 I think no man who desires England not merely to 
 maintain its noble reputation, but to advance in social 
 wisdom and benevolence, can wish for the wider 
 spread, or even the continuance, of the Bondage 
 System. I think all must unite with me in saying, 
 let the very name perish from the plains of England, 
 where it sounds like a Siberian word. Let labour be 
 free ; and this Truck System of the agriculturists be 
 abolished, not by Act of Parliament, but by public 
 principle and sound policy. It is a system which 
 wrongs all parties. It wrongs the hind, for it robs 
 his children of comfort and knowledge ; it wrongs the 
 farmer, for what he saves in labour he pays in rent, 
 while he gains only the character of a task-master; 
 and it wrongs the land-holder, for it puts his petty 
 pecuniary interest into the balance against his honour 
 and integrity; and causes him to be regarded as a 
 tyrant, in hearts where he might be honoured as a 
 natural protector, and revered as a father.
 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE TERRORS OF A SOLITARY HOUSE. 
 
 The citizen who lives in a compact house in the 
 centre of a great city ; whose doors and windows are 
 secured at night by bars, bolts, shutters, locks, and 
 liinges of the most approved and patented construc- 
 tion ; who, if he look out of doors, looks upon splen- 
 did rows of lamps ; upon human habitations all about 
 him; whose house can only be assailed behind by 
 climbing over the tops of other houses ; or before, by 
 eluding troops of passengers and watchmen, whom 
 the smallest alarm would hurry to the spot : I say, if 
 such a man could be suddenly set down in one of our 
 many thousand country houses, what a feeling of 
 unprotected solitude would fall upon him. To sit by 
 the fire of many a farm-house, or cottage, and hear 
 VOL. \. 
 
 K-2
 
 186 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 the unopposed wind come sighing and howling about 
 it ; to hear the trees swaying and rustling in the gale, 
 infusing a most forlorn sense of the absence of all 
 neighbouring abodes; to look on the simple case- 
 ments, and the okl-fashioned locks and bolts, and to 
 think what would their resistance be to the deter- 
 mined attack of bold thieves ; — I imagine it would 
 give many such worthy citizen a new and not very 
 enviable feeling. But if he were to step out before 
 the door of such a house at nine or ten o'clock of 
 a winter or autumnal night, what a state of naked 
 jeopardy it would seem to stand in ! Perhaps all 
 solitary darkness; — nothing to be heard but the sound 
 of neighbouring woods; or the roar of distant waters; 
 or the baying of the ban-dogs at the scattered and far- 
 off farm-houses; the wind coming puffing upon him 
 with a wild freshness, as from the face of vast and 
 solitary moors; or perhaps some gleam of moonlight, 
 or the wild, lurid light which hovers in the horizon of 
 a winter-night sky, revealing to him desolate wastes, 
 or gloomy surrounding woods. In truth, there is 
 many a sweet spot that, in summer weather, and by 
 fair daylight, do seem very paradises; of which we 
 exclaim, in passing, " Ay ! there could I live and die, 
 and never desire to leave it!" There are thousands 
 of such sweet places which, when night drops down, 
 assume strasge horrors, and make us wish for towers 
 and towns, watchmen, walkers of streets, and gaslight. 
 One seems to have no security in any thing. A single 
 house five or six miles from a neighbour. Mercy ! why 
 it is the very place for a murder ! What would it 
 avail there to cry help ! murder ! Murder might be 
 perpetrated a dozen times before help could come !
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 187 
 
 Just one such fancy as that, and what a prison ! 
 a trap ! does such a place become to a fearful heart. 
 We look on the walls, and think them slight as card- 
 board ; on the roof, and it becomes in our eyes no 
 better than a layer of rushes. If we were attacked 
 here, it M^ere all over ! This gimcrack-tenement 
 would be crushed in before the brawny hand of a 
 thief. And to think of out-of-doors ! Yes ! of that 
 pleasant out-of-doors, which in the day we glorified 
 ourselves in. Those forest tracts of heath, and gorse, 
 and flowering broom, where the trout hid themselve'i 
 beneath the overhanging banks of the most transpa- 
 rent streams — ugh ! they are now the very lurking- 
 places of danger ! What admirable concealment for 
 liers-in-wait, are the deep beds of heather. How 
 black do those bushes of broom and gorse look to a 
 suspicious fancy ! They are just the very things for 
 lurking assassins to crouch behind. And what is 
 worse, those woods ! those woods that come straggling 
 up to the very doors ; putting forward a single tree 
 here and there, as advanced guards of picturesque 
 beauty in the glowing summer noon, or in the spring, 
 when their leaves are all delicately new. Beauty ! 
 how could we ever think them beautiful, though we 
 saw them stand in their assembled majesty; though 
 they did tower aloft, with their rugged, gashed, and 
 deeply-indented stems, and make a sound as of many 
 waters in their tops, and cast down pleasant shadows 
 on the mossy turf beneath; and though the thrush 
 and the nightingale did sing triumphantly in their 
 thickets. Beautiful ! they are horrible ! Their black- 
 ness of darkness now makes us shudder. Their 
 breezy roar is fearful beyond description. Let day-
 
 188 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 light, and summer sunshine come, and make them 
 look as pleasant as they will, we would not have a 
 wood henceforward within a mile of us. Why, up 
 to the walls of your house, under your very windows, 
 may evil eyes now be glaring from behind those 
 sturdy boles : — they seem to have grown there just to 
 suit the purposes of robbery and murder. We look 
 now to the dogs and guns for assistance, but they 
 give us but cold comfort : for the guns only remind 
 us that at this moment the muzzle of one may be at 
 that chink in the shutter, at that hole out of which a 
 knot has dropped, and in another moment we are in 
 eternity ! And the dogs ! — see, they rise ! they set 
 up the bristles on their backs ! they growl ! they 
 bark ! our fears are true ! the place is beset ! 
 
 This may seem rather exaggerated, read by good 
 day-light, or by the fire of a city hearth ; but this is 
 the natural spirit of the solitary house. It is that 
 which many a one has felt. It has cured many a one 
 of longing to live in a " sweet sequestered cot ;" 
 nay, it is a spirit felt by the naturalized inhabitants 
 of such solitary places. I look upon such places 
 to generate fears and superstitions too, in no ordi- 
 nary degree. The inhabitants of solitary houses are 
 often most arrant cowards; and for this there are 
 many causes. A sense of exposure to danger, if it be 
 not lost by time, is more likely to generate timidity 
 of disposition than courage. Then, the sound of 
 woods and waters ; the mysterious sighings and moan- 
 ings, and lumberings, that winds and other causes 
 occasion amongst the old walls and decayed roofs, and 
 ill-fastened doors and casements of large, old country 
 houses, have a wonderful influence on the minds of
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 189 
 
 the ignorant and simple who pass their lives in the 
 solitude of fields ; and go to and fro between their 
 homes and the scene of their duties, often through 
 deep and lonesome dells, through deep, o'ershadowed 
 lanes, by night ; by the cross-road, and over the 
 dreary moor : all places of no good character. Super- 
 stitious legends hang all about such neighbourhoods ; 
 and traditions, enough to freeze the blood of the 
 ignorant, taint a dozen spots round every such place. 
 In this field a girl was killed by her jealous, or only 
 too-favoured lover : to the boughs of that old oak, a 
 man was found hanging: in that deep, dark pool, 
 the poor blind fiddler was found drowned : in that old 
 stone-quarry, and under that high cliff, deeds were 
 done that have mingled a blackness with their name. 
 Nay, in one such locality, the head of a woodman was 
 found by some mowers returning in the evening from 
 their work. There it lay, in the green path of a 
 narrow dingle, horrid and blackening in the sun. It 
 was supposed to have been severed from the wretched 
 man's body with his own axe, by a band of poachers, 
 who charged him with being a spy upon them. The 
 body was found cast into a neighbouring marsh. 
 
 What lonely country but has these petrifying hor- 
 rors ? And is it wonderful that they have their effect 
 on the simple peasantry? especially as they are the 
 constant topics round the evening fire, along with a 
 thousand haunted-house and church-yard stories; 
 ghosts, and highway-robberies, and 
 
 Horrid stabs in groves forlorn, 
 And murders done in caves. — Hood. 
 
 The very means of defence sometimes become the 
 aggravators of their evils. The dogs and guns have
 
 190 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 added to the catalogue of their tales of horror. The 
 dogs, as conscious of their solitary station as their 
 masters, and with true canine instinct, feeling a great 
 charge and responsibility upon them, set up the most 
 clamorous barkings at the least noise in the night, and 
 often seem to take a melancholy pleasure, a whole 
 night through, in uttering such awful and long-spun 
 howls as are seldom heard in more secure and cheer- 
 ful situations. These are often looked upon as prog- 
 nostics of family troubles, and occasion great fears. 
 Who has not heard these dismal bowlings at old halls, 
 and been witness to the anxiety they occasioned ? 
 And, if a branch blown by the wind, do but scrape 
 against a pane, or an unlucky pig get into the garden, 
 the dogs are all barking outrageously, and the family 
 is up, in the certain belief that they are beset with 
 thieves ; and it has been no unfrequent circumstance, 
 on retiring to rest again, that loaded pistols have been 
 left about on tables, and the servants on coming down 
 next morning, with that fatal propensity to sport with 
 fire-arms, have playfully menaced, and actually shot 
 one another in their rashness. Such a catastrophe 
 occurred in the family of a relative of mine, on just 
 such an occasion. But truly, the horrors and depre- 
 dations which formerly were perpetrated in such places, 
 were enough to make a solitary house a terrible so- 
 journ in the night. A single cottage on a great heath; 
 a toll-bar on a wild road, far from a town ; a wealthy 
 farm-house in a retired region ; an old hall or grange, 
 amongst gloomy woods. These were places in which 
 such outrages were committed in former years as filled 
 the newspapers of the time with continual details of 
 terror ; and would furnish volumes of the most dread-
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 191 
 
 ful Stories. It is said that the diminution of highway- 
 robberies and stopping of mails, once so frequent, 
 has been in a gieat measure occasioned by the system 
 of banking and paper-money. Instead of travellers, 
 carrying with them large bags of gold, a letter by 
 post transmits a bill to any amount, which, if inter- 
 cepted is of no use to the thief, because the fact is 
 immediately notified to the bank, and payment pre- 
 vented ; and notes being numbered, makes it a matter 
 of the highest risk to ofler them, lest the public be 
 apprised of the numbers, and the offender be secured. 
 But the M^onderful improvement of all our roads since 
 the days of M'Adam, the consequently increased speed 
 of travelling — the increased population and cultivation 
 of the country, all have combined to spoil the trade 
 of the public plunderer. And the press, as in other 
 respects so in this, has added a marvellous influence. 
 Scarcely has a crime of any sort against society been 
 committed, but it raises a hue and cry ; handbills and 
 paragraphs in newspapers are flying far and wide, and 
 dexterous must be the offender who escapes. The 
 house of a friend of mine was entered on a Sunday 
 night, and by means of handbills four of the thieves 
 were secured on the Monday, and tried and transported 
 on the Tuesday. But fifty years ago this could not 
 have been done in a country place. The traveller had 
 to wade through mud and deep ruts, along our well- 
 frequented roads; and if assailed, it was impossible to 
 fly. Desperate bands of thieves made nocturnal as- 
 saults upon solitary houses ; and, long ere a hue and 
 cry could be raised, they had vanished into woods and 
 heaths, or had fled beyond the slow flight of lumbering 
 mails, and newspapers that did not reach their readers 
 
 k3
 
 192 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 sometimes for a fortnight. Those were the times for 
 fearful tragedies in lonely dwellings, which even yet 
 furnish thrilling themes for winter fire-sides. 
 
 There is an account of the attack of the house of 
 Colonel Purcell, which appeared in the newspapers at 
 the time, and was twice reprinted in the Kaliedoscope, 
 a Liverpool literary paper ; the last time soon after the 
 gallant Colonel's death, in 1822, which, although it 
 belongs to Ireland, a country whence not volumes, 
 but whole libraries of such recitals might be imported, 
 I shall insert here, because it so well illustrates the 
 sort of horrors to which lonely houses were, in this 
 country, formerly very much exposed ; and from which 
 they are not now entirely exempt : and because per- 
 haps no greater instance of manly courage is upon 
 record. A similar one, of female intrepidity, in a 
 young woman who defended a toll-bar, in which she 
 was alone, against a band of thieves, and shot several 
 of them, I recollect seeing some years ago in the 
 newspapers. 
 
 EXTRAORDINARY INTREPIDITY OF SIR JOHN PURCELL. 
 
 At the Cork Assizes, Maurice Noonan stood in- 
 dicted for a burglary, and attempting to rob the house 
 of Sir John Purcell, at Highfort, on the night of the 
 11th of March, 1812. 
 
 Sir John Purcell said, that, on the night of the 
 eleventh of March last, after he had retired to bed, 
 he heard some noise outside the window of his par- 
 lour. He slept on the ground-floor, in a room imme- 
 diately adjoining the parlour. There was a door 
 from one room into the other; but this having been 
 found inconvenient, and there being another passage
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 193 
 
 from the bed-chamber more accommodating, it was 
 nailed up, and some of the furniture of the parlour 
 placed against it. Shortly after Sir John heard the 
 noise in the front of his house, the windows of the 
 parlour were dashed in, and the noise, occasioned by 
 the feet of the robbers in leaping from the windows 
 down upon the floor, appeared to denote a gang 
 not less than fourteen in number, as it struck him. 
 He immediately got out of bed ; and the first resolu- 
 tion he took being to make resistance, it was with 
 no small mortification that he reflected upon the un- 
 armed condition in which he was placed, being desti- 
 tute of a single weapon of the ordinary sort. In this 
 state he spent little time in deliberation, as it almost 
 immediately occurred to him, that, having supped in 
 the bed-chamber on that night, a knife had been left 
 behind by accident, and he instantly proceeded to grope 
 in the dark for this weapon, which happily he found, 
 before the door leading from the parlour into the bed- 
 chamber had been broken. While he stood in calm 
 but resolute expectation that the progress of the 
 robbers would soon lead them to the bed-chamber, 
 he heard the furniture which had been placed against 
 the nailed-up door, expeditiously displaced, and im- 
 mediately afterwards the door was burst open. The 
 moon shone with great brightness, and when the door 
 was thrown open, the light streaming in through three 
 large windows in the parlour, afforded Sir John a 
 view that might have made an intrepid spirit not a 
 little apprehensive. His bed-room was darkened to 
 excess, in consequence of the shutters of the windows, 
 as well as the curtains being closed ; and thus while 
 he stood enveloped in darkness, he saw standing be-
 
 194 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 fore him, by the brightness of the moonlight, a body 
 of men well armed ; and of those who were in the van 
 of the gang, he observed that a few were blackened. 
 Armed only with this case knife, and aided only by a 
 dauntless heart, he took his station by the side of the 
 door, and in a moment after one of the villains entered 
 from the parlour into the dark room. Instantly upon 
 advancing, Sir John plunged the knife at him, the 
 point of which entered under the right arm, and in a 
 line with the nipple, and so home was the blow sent, 
 that the knife passed into the robber's body, until Sir 
 John's hand stopped its further progress. Upon receiv- 
 ing this thrust, the villain reeled back into the parlour, 
 crying out blasphemously that he was killed; and 
 shortly after another advanced, who was received in a 
 similar manner, and who also staggered back into the 
 parlour crying out that he was wounded. A voice 
 from the outside gave orders to fire into the dark 
 room. Upon which, a man stept forward with a short 
 gun in his hand, which had the butt broke off at the 
 small, and which had a piece of cord tied round the 
 barrel and stock near the swell. As this fellow stood 
 in the act to fire. Sir John had the amazing coolness 
 to look at his intended murderer, and without be- 
 traying any audible emotion whatever, which might 
 point out the exact spot which he was standing in, he 
 calmly calculated his own safety from the shot which 
 was preparing for him. He saw that the contents of 
 the piece were likely to pass closely to his breast 
 without menacing him with, at least, any serious 
 wound, and in this state of pain and manly expecta- 
 tion, he stood without flinching until the piece was 
 fired, and its contents harmlessly lodged in the wall.
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 195 
 
 It was loaded with a brace of bullets and three slugs. 
 As soon as the robber fired, Sir John made a pass at 
 him with the knife, and wounded him in the arm, 
 which he repeated again in a moment with similar 
 effect; and as the others had done, the villain after 
 being wounded, retired, exclaiming that he was 
 wounded. The robbers immediately rushed forward 
 from the parlour into the dark room, and then it was 
 that Sir John's mind recognized the deepest sense of 
 danger, not to be oppressed by it, however, but to 
 surmount it. He thought that all chance of pre- 
 serving his own life was over ; and he resolved to sell 
 that life still dearer to his intended murderers, than 
 even what they had already paid for the attempt to 
 deprive him of it. He did not lose a moment after 
 the villains had entered the room, to act with the de- 
 termination he had so instantaneously adopted. He 
 struck at the fourth fellow with his knife, and wounded 
 him, and at the same instant he received a blow on 
 the head, and found himself grappled with. He 
 shortened his hold of the knife, and stabbed re- 
 peatedly at the fellow with whom he found himself 
 engaged. The floor being slippery with the blood of 
 the wounded men. Sir John and his adversary both 
 fell, and while they were on the ground. Sir John 
 thinking that his thrusts with his knife, though made 
 with all his force, did not seem to produce the deci- 
 sive effect, which they had in the beginning of the 
 conflict, he examined the point of his weapon with his 
 finger, and found that the blade of it had bent near 
 the point. As he lay struggling on the ground, he 
 endeavoured, but unsuccessfully, to straighten the 
 curvature of the knife ; but while one hand was em-
 
 196 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 ployed in this attempt, he perceived that the grasp 
 of his adversary was losing its constraint and pressure, 
 and in a moment or two after, he found himself re- 
 leased from it ; the limbs of the robber were, in fact, 
 by this time unnerved by death. Sir John found that 
 this fellow had a sword in his hand, and this he imme- 
 diately seized and gave several blows with it, his 
 knife being no longer serviceable. At length the 
 robbers, finding so many of their party had been 
 killed or wounded, employed themselves in removing 
 the bodies ; and Sir John took this opportunity of re- 
 tiring to a place a little apart from the house, where 
 he remained a short time. They dragged their com- 
 panions into the parlour, and having placed chairs 
 with the backs upwards, by means of these they lifted 
 the bodies out of the windows, and afterwards took 
 them away. When the robbers retired, Sir John re- 
 turned to the house, and called up a man-servant 
 from his bed, who, during this long and bloody con- 
 flict, had not appeared, and had consequently re- 
 ceived from his master warm and loud upbraiding for 
 his cowardice. Sir John then placed his daughter-in- 
 law, and grandchild, who were his only inmates, in 
 places of safety, and took such precautions as circum- 
 stances pointed out, till the day-light appeared. The 
 next day, the alarm having been given, search was 
 made after the robbers, and Sir John, having gone to 
 the house of the prisoner Noonan, upon searching, he 
 found concealed under his bed, the identical short 
 gun with which one of the robbers had fired at him. 
 Noonan was immediately secured and sent to gaol, and 
 upon being visited by Sir John Purcell, he acknow- 
 lediJ^ed that Sir John " had like to do for him," and
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 197 
 
 was proceeding to show, until Sir John prevented 
 him, the wounds he had received from the knife in 
 his arm. 
 
 An accomplice of the name of John Daniel Sullivan 
 was produced, who deposed to the same effect. The 
 party met at Noonan's house ; that they were nine 
 in number, and had arms ; that the prisoner was one 
 of the number, and that he carried a small gun. 
 Upon the gun, which was in the court, being pro- 
 duced, with which Sir John had been fired at, the 
 witness said it was that with which the prisoner was 
 armed the night of the attack ; that two men were 
 killed, and three dreadfully wounded. The witness 
 stood a long and rigorous examination by Mr. Coun- 
 sellor O'Connell ; but none of the facts seemed to 
 be shaken, though every use was made of the guilty 
 character of the witness. The prisoner made no 
 defence, and Judge Mayne then proceeded to charge 
 the jury, and commended with approbation the 
 bravery and presence of mind displayed throughout a 
 conflict so very unequal and bloody, by Sir John 
 Purcell. The jury, after a few minutes, returned 
 their verdict — guilty. 
 
 But it was not only plunder which excited these 
 fearful attacks ; party and family feuds were prose- 
 cuted in the same savage spirit, even by the light of 
 day. I have heard my wife's mother relate the 
 following incident, which occurred in her own neigh- 
 bourhood. About sixty-five years ago there lived at 
 Llanelwth Hall, midway between Llandilo and Llan- 
 dovery, a gentleman of considerable fortune of the 
 name of Powell. He had separated from his wife, 
 by whom he had two daughters, — and his brother.
 
 198 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 Captain Bowen, inflamed by the animosity which 
 naturally arises out of such family divisions, and sup- 
 posed to be instigated by a paramour of the lady's of 
 the name of Williams, engaged, in concert with this 
 Williams, a band of men to accompany him on a 
 pretended smuggling expedition ; and having plied 
 them well with promises of ample payment and 
 plenty of liquor — a bottle of brandy and a pair of 
 new shoes for the day — marched up to Powell's house 
 at twelve o'clock at noon, and at the time of Llandilo 
 fair, when the conspirators knew that Powell's servants 
 would be absent. The only persons actually left in 
 the house with him, were an old woman, and a 
 daughter of this very Bowen's. The conspirators 
 advanced to the front door, and entered the hall, 
 where the old woman met them. Her they seized, and 
 bound to the leg of an old massy oak table. Powell, 
 attracted to the hall by the noise, was immediately 
 seized and literally hewn to pieces in the most horri- 
 ble manner in the presence of the old woman, and of 
 the murderer's own daughter, who alarmed at the 
 entrance of so grim a band, had concealed herself 
 under this table. The girl from that hour lost her 
 senses, and wandered about the country, a confirmed 
 maniac. My informant often saw this girl at her 
 mother's, who was kind to her, and where she often 
 therefore came, having a particular seat by the fire 
 always left for her. In a lucid interval, they once 
 ventured to ask her what she recollected of this 
 shocking event. She said that she believed she had 
 fainted, and on coming to herself, saw her father 
 stand with a hatchet over her uncle in the act to give 
 him another blow, and that she actually saw her
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 199 
 
 uncle's face hanging over bis shoulder. At this point 
 of the recital, the recollection of the horrors of it 
 came upon her so strongly, that she fell into one of 
 her most violent fits of madness, and they never dared 
 to mention the subject afterM'ards in her presence. 
 
 A fall of snow happening while the murderers 
 were in the house, caused them to be tracked and 
 secured, and Bowen and several, if not all, of his 
 accomplices were executed. Williams made his 
 escape, and was afterwards taken as a sailor on board 
 an American vessel during the war, where he was 
 recognised by some of his countrymen. He made, 
 however, a second escape, as is supposed through the 
 connivance of some relenting neighbour, and never 
 was heard of afterwards. My informant well recol- 
 lects two of these murderers comino; to her mother's 
 house at Cyfarthfa, a few days after the perpetration 
 of the outrage, having so long managed to elude their 
 pursuers. They were equipped as travelling tinkers; 
 but they had new knapsacks, and what was more pro- 
 vocative of notice at that moment, very downcast and 
 melancholy aspects. They felt by the looks M^iich the 
 mistress of the house fixed on them, that they were 
 suspected, and immediately hastened away over the 
 hills towards Aberdare, where they were secured the 
 next day. 
 
 A fact, related by a minister of the Society of 
 Friends, shews at once the primitive simplicity which 
 still prevails in some retired districts, and the evident 
 power of faith in Providence over the spirit of evil. 
 In one of the thinly peopled dales of that very beauti- 
 ful, and yet by parts, very bleak and dreary region — 
 the Peak of Derbyshire, stood a single house far
 
 200 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 from neighbours. It was inhabited by a farmer and 
 his familj'^, who lived in such a slate of isolation, so 
 unmolested by intruders, and unapprehensive of dan- 
 ger, that they were hardly in the habit of fastening 
 their door at night. The farmer, who had a great 
 distance to go to market, was sometimes late before 
 he got back, — late it may be supposed according to 
 their habits : for in such old-fashioned places, where 
 there is nothing to excite and keep alive the attention 
 but their daily labour, the good people when the day's 
 duties are at an end, drop into bed almost before the 
 sun himself; and are all up, and pursuing their 
 several occupations, almost before the sun too. On 
 these occasions, the good woman used to retire to rest 
 at the usual time, and her husband returning found no 
 latch nor bolt to obstruct his entrance. But one time 
 the wife hearing some one come up to the door, and 
 enter the house, supposed it was her husband ; but, 
 after the usual time had elapsed, and he did not come 
 to bed, she got up and went down stairs, when her 
 terror and astonishment may be imagined, for she saw 
 a great sturdy fellow in the act of reconnoitring for 
 plunder. At the first view of him, she afterwards 
 said, she felt ready to drop ; but being naturally 
 courageous, and of a deeply religious disposition, she 
 immediately recovered sufficient self-possession to 
 avoid any outcry, and to walk with apparent firmness 
 to a chair which stood on one side of the fire-place. 
 The marauder immediately seated himself in another 
 chair which stood opposite, and fixed his eyes upon her 
 with a most savage expression. Her courage was 
 now almost spent; but recollecting herself, she put 
 up an inward prayer to the Almighty for protection,
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 201 
 
 and threw herself upon his providence. She imme- 
 diately felt her internal strength revive, and looked 
 steadfastly at the man, who now had drawn from his 
 pocket a large clasp-knife, opened it, and Math a 
 murderous expression in his eyes, appeared ready 
 to spring upon her. She however evinced no visible 
 emotion ; she said not a word ; but continued to pray 
 for deliverance, or resignation ; and to look on the 
 fearful man with a calm seriousness. He rose up, 
 looked at her, then at the knife ; then wiped it across 
 his hand; then again eagerly glanced at her; when, 
 at once, a sudden damp seemed to fall upon him ; 
 his eyes seemed to blench before her still, fixed gaze; 
 he closed his knife, and went out At a single spring 
 she reached the door ; shot the bolt with a convulsive 
 rapidity, and fell senseless on the floor. When she 
 recovered from her swoon, she was filled with the 
 utmost anxiety on account of her husband, lest the 
 villain should meet him by the way. But presently, 
 she heard his well-known step ; his well-known voice 
 on finding the door fastened ; and let him in with a 
 heart trembling with mingled agitation and thankful- 
 ness. Great as had been her faith on this occasion, 
 and great the interposition of Providence, we may be 
 sure that she would not risk the exercise of the one, or 
 tempt the other, by neglecting in future to shoot the 
 bolt of the door; and her husband, at once taught the 
 danger of his house and of his own passage home, 
 made it a rule to leave the market-town at least 
 an hour earlier after the winter markets. 
 
 The unwelcome visitant in this anecdote is one of 
 that class of offenders called "sturdy rogues." Of 
 the real "sturdy rogue" the city, amongst all its
 
 202 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 numerous varieties of rogues, knows nothing. He 
 forms one of the terrors of the solitary house. They 
 are such places that he haunts, because he there finds 
 opportunities in the absence of the men to frighten 
 and bully the women. If he finds only a single 
 woman left, as is often the case in harvest time, or at 
 fair or market time, when all the family that can leave 
 have left, he then makes the terror of his presence a 
 means of extorting large booty. What can be more 
 fearful than for a single individual, but especially 
 for a woman, at a lonely house, while all the men are 
 absent in the fields, or elsewhere, to see a huge 
 brawny fellow of ill looks come to the door, peering 
 about with a suspicious inquisitiveness, armed with a 
 sturdy staff, followed, perhaps, by a strong sullen 
 bull-dog, professing himself a tinker, a rag-gatherer, 
 a rat-catcher, — anything, under which to hide evil 
 designs? Nothing, truly, can be more appalling, 
 except when, under the garb of a woman, you feel 
 assured that you have a man before you; or a troop 
 of fellows acting the distressed tradesmen, or sailors 
 with nothing on their bodies, perhaps, but a pair of 
 trowsers, and on their heads a handkerchief tied. 
 When such sturdy vagabonds come, and first cringe 
 and beg in a piteous tone, till, having spied out the 
 real nakedness of the place, as to physical strength, 
 they rise in their demands, hint strange things; 
 instead of going away when desired, walk into the 
 house, grow insolent, and at length downright thievish 
 and outrageous, — these are circumstances of peculiar 
 terror not to be exceeded in human experience, and 
 which yet have been often experienced by the dwellers 
 in solitary houses.
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 203 
 
 I have heard a lady describe her sensations in such 
 a situation. A figure in a man's hat, tied down with 
 an India silk handkerchief, blue cloak and stuff petti- 
 coat, suddenly appeared before her, and demanded a 
 supply of articles of female attire. She offered half- 
 a-crown to be rid of this unpleasant guest, for there 
 was something about her which filled the lady with 
 apprehension; but the money was refused, and with 
 a gesture that threw open the cloak, and revealed the 
 real figure of a man, with naked arms, and in a white 
 Marseilles waistcoat. The demand for women's gar- 
 ments was complied with as speedily as possible, and 
 the person hastily went away. The next day, the 
 lady on going to the neighbouring town, beheld a 
 large handbill in the post-office window, offering a 
 reward of lOOZ. for the apprehension of a delinquent 
 charged with high crimes and misdemeanours, and 
 described as " a Dane well known to the nobility and 
 gentry, having been master of the ceremonies at 
 Brighton and Tunbridge Wells," It was the very 
 description of her yesterday's guest. 
 
 But when night is added to such a situation, how 
 much is its fearfulness increased ! Imagine one or 
 two unprotected women sitting by the fire of a lone 
 house, on a winter's evening, with a consciousness of 
 the insecurity of their situation upon them. How 
 instinct with danger becomes every thing, every move- 
 ment, every sound ! — the stirring of the trees — the 
 whispering of the wind — the rustling of a leaf — the 
 cry of a bird. They are not wishing to listen, but 
 cannot help it ; they are all sense ; all eye and ear. 
 A foot is heard without, and is lost again ! A face is 
 suddenly placed against a pane in the window ! the
 
 204 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 latch of the door is slowly raised in their sight, or the 
 click of one is heard where it is not seen. Imagine 
 this, and you imagine what has thrilled through the 
 heart, and frozen the blood of many a tenant of a 
 solitary house. 
 
 These are not the least of the causes that contribute 
 to produce that timidity of disposition which, in an 
 early part of the chapter, I have said to belong to 
 many country people. My grandfather's house was 
 such a place. It stood in a solitary valley, with a 
 great wood flanking the northern side. It had all 
 sorts of legends and superstitions hanging about it. 
 This field, and that lane, and one chamber or out- 
 building or another, had a character that made them 
 all hermetically sealed to a human foot after dark-hour, 
 as it is there called. My grandmother was a bold 
 woman in some respects, but these fears were perfectly 
 triumphant over her; and she had, on one occasion, 
 met with an incident which did not make her feel very 
 comfortable alone in her house, in the daytime. An 
 Ajax of a woman once besieged her when left entirely 
 by herself; who finding the doors secured against her, 
 began smashing the windows with her fists, as with 
 two sledge-hammers ; and declared she would wash 
 her hands in her heart's blood. My grandfather too, 
 had had a little adventure which just served to shew 
 what courage he had, or rather had not. In that pri- 
 mitive time and place, if a tailor were wanted, he did 
 not do his work at his own house, but came to that of 
 his employer, and there worked, day after day, till 
 the job was finished ; that is, till all making and mend- 
 ing that could possibly be found about the house by 
 a general examination of garments, was completed.
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 205 
 
 He then adjourned to another house, and so went the 
 round of the parish. I know not whether the tailors 
 of those primitive times were as philosophical as 
 Heinrich Johann Jung Stilling, and his fellows of 
 Germany, who thus went from house to house, and 
 both there with their employers, and on Sundays when 
 they wandered into the woods, held the most interest- 
 ing conversations on religion, philosophy, and litera- 
 ture : if this were the case, our country tailors have 
 very much retrograded ; and yet it would almost seem 
 so, for my grandfather was passionately fond of Para- 
 dise Lost, and on a terrible snowy-day had been 
 reading it all day to the tailor, who had established 
 himself by the parlour fire, with all his implements 
 and work before him. He had been thus employed ; 
 but the tailor was gone, and the old gentleman having 
 supped, dropped asleep on the sofa. When he awoke 
 it was late in the night; no one had ventured to dis- 
 turb him, but all had gone to bed. The house was 
 still ; the fire burning low ; but he had scarcely become 
 aware of his situation before he was aware also of the 
 presence of some one. As he lay, he saw a man step 
 out of the next room into the one in which he was. 
 The man immediately caught sight of the old gentle- 
 man, and suddenly stopped, fixing his eyes upon him; 
 and perhaps to ascertain whether he were asleep, he 
 stepped back and drew himself up in the shadow of 
 the clock-case. The old gentleman slowly raised him- 
 self up without a word, keeping his eyes fixed on the 
 shadow of the clock-case, till he had gained his feet, 
 when with a hop, stride, and jump, he cleared the floor, 
 and flew up stairs at three steps at a time. Here he 
 raised a fierce alarm, crying — " there is a sturdy rogue
 
 206 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 in the house ! there is a sturdy rogue in the house !" 
 But this alarm, instead of getting anybody up, only 
 kept them faster in bed. Neither man, woman, nor 
 child would stir; neither son nor servant, except to 
 bolt every one his own chamber door. In the morn- 
 ing they found the thief had taken himself off through 
 a window, with the modest loan of a piece of bacon. 
 
 This house, however, was not quite out of hearing 
 of neighbours. Beyond the wood was a village, 
 thence called Wood-end ; and a large horn was hung 
 in the kitchen at the Fall, — so this house was named, 
 which was blown on any occasion of alarm, and 
 brought the inhabitants of the Wood-end thither 
 speedily. The cowardice which had grown upon this 
 family in such matters, — for in others they were bold 
 as lions, and one son was actually killed in a duel, — 
 was become so notorious, that it once broudit a ffood 
 joke upon them. The farm-servants were sitting, 
 after their day's labour, by the kitchen fire at the 
 close of a winter's day. Preparation was making for 
 tea, and there were some of those rich tea-cakes 
 which wealthy country ladies know so well how to 
 make, in the act of buttering. Now I dare say that 
 the sight of those delicious cakes set the mouths of all 
 those hearty working men a-watering ; but there was 
 a cunning rogue of a lad amongst them, who imme- 
 diately conceived the felicitous design of gettino- 
 possession of them. It is only necessary to say that 
 his name was Jack; for all Jacks have a spice of 
 roguery in them. Jack was just cogitating on this 
 enterprise, when his mistress said, " Jack, those sheep 
 in the Hard-meadow have not been seen to-day. 
 Your legs are younger than anybody else's ; so up
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 207 
 
 and count tliem before you go to bed ; — it is moon- 
 light." Jack, wiiose blood after tlie chill of the day- 
 was circulating most luxuriously in his veins before 
 that M'arm hearth, felt inwardly chagrined that so 
 many great lubberly fellows should be passed over, 
 and this unwelcome business be put upon him. 
 " Ay," thought he, " they may talk of young legs, 
 but mistress knows very well that none of those 
 burly fellows dare go all the way to the Hard- meadow 
 to-night, — through the dingle ; over the brook ; and 
 past the hovel where old Chalkings was found dead 
 last August, with his hand still holding fast his tramp- 
 basket, though his clothes were rotten on his back! 
 No ! Jack must trudge, though the old gentleman 
 himself were in the way !" This persuasion fur- 
 nished him at once with a scheme of revenge, and of 
 coming at the tea-cakes. He therefore rose slowly, 
 and with well-feigned reluctance ; put on his clouted 
 shoes, which he had put off to indulge his feet with 
 their accustomed portion of liberty and warmth before 
 he went to bed; and folding round him a sack-bag, 
 the common mantle and dread-naujjht of carters and 
 farmers in wet or cold weather, he went out. Instead 
 of marching off to the Hard-meadow, however, of 
 which he had not the most remote intention, he went 
 leisurely round to the front door, which he knew 
 would be unfastened ; for what inhabitants of an old 
 country-house would think of fastening doors till bed- 
 time ? He entered quietly ; ascended the front 
 stairs ; and reaching a large, old oaken chest v/hich 
 stood on the landing-place, all carved and adorned 
 with minster-work, he struck three bold strokes on the 
 lid with a pebble which he had picked up in the yard 
 for the purpose.
 
 208 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 At tlie sound, up started every soul in the kitchen. 
 "What is that?" said every one at once in conster- 
 nation. The mistress ordered the maid to run and 
 see ; but the maid declared that she would not go for 
 the world. " Go you then, Betty cook — go Joe — go 
 Harry !" No, neither Betty, Joe, Harry, nor any 
 body else would stir a foot. They all stood together 
 aghast, when a strange rumbling and grinding sound 
 assailed their ears. It was Jack rubbing the pebble 
 a few times over the carved lid of the chest. This 
 was too much for endurance. A great fellow in a 
 paroxysm of terror, snatched down the horn from its 
 nail, and blew a tremendous blast. It was not long 
 neither before its effect was seen. The people of 
 Wood-end came running in a wild troop, armed with 
 brooms, pitch-forks, spits, scythes, and rusty swords. 
 They were already assured by the dismal blast of the 
 horn that something fearful had occurred, but the 
 sight of the white faces of the family made them 
 grow white too. " What is the matter ! What is 
 the matter in heaven's name ? " " O ! such sounds, 
 such rumblings, somewhere upstairs !" In the heat of 
 the moment, if heat it could be called, it was resolved 
 to move in a body to the mysterious spot. Swords, 
 scythes, pitch -forks fell into due rank ; candles were 
 held by trembling hands; and in a truly fearful 
 phalanx they marched across the sitting-room and 
 reached the stair-foot. Here was a sudden pause; for 
 there seemed to be heavy footsteps actually descend- 
 ing. They listened — tramp ! tramp ! it was true ; 
 and back fled the whole armed and alarmed troop 
 into the kitchen, and banged the door after them. 
 What was now to be done ? Everything which fear
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 209 
 
 could suggest or terror could enact was done. They 
 were on the crisis of flying out of the house, and 
 taking refuge at Wood-end, when Jack was heard 
 cheerfully whistling as if returning from the field. 
 Jack had made the tramp upon the stairs; for, hear- 
 ing the sound of the horn, and the approach of many 
 feet below, he thought it was time to be going; and 
 had the armed troop been courageous enough, they 
 M^ould have taken him in the fact. But their fears 
 saved both him and his joke. He came up with a 
 well-affected astonishment at seeing such a body of 
 wild and strangely armed folk. " What is the 
 matter?" exclaimed Jack; and the matter was de- 
 tailed by a dozen voices, and with a dozen embellish- 
 ments. "Pshaw!" said Jack, "it is all nonsense, I 
 know. It is a horse kicking in the stable ; or a cat 
 that has chucked a tile out of the gutter, or some- 
 thing. Give me a candle; I durst go!" A candle 
 was readily put into his hands, and he marched off, 
 all followinof him to the foot of the staircase, but not 
 a soul daring to mount a single step after him. Up 
 Jack went — " Why," he shouted, "here's nothing!" 
 " O !" they cried from below, "look under the beds; 
 look into the closets," and look into every imaginable 
 place. Jack went very obediently, and duly and 
 successively returned a shout, that there was nothing ; 
 it was all nonsense ! At this there was more fear 
 and consternation than ever. A thief might have 
 been tolerated; but these supernatural noises! Who 
 was to sleep in such a house ? There was nothing 
 for it, however, but for them to adjourn and move to 
 the kitchen, and talk it all over ; and torture it into 
 a thousand forms ; and exaggerate it into something 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 210 THE TERRORS OF 
 
 unprecedentedly awful and ominous. The Wood- 
 endians were regaled with a good portion of brown- 
 stout ; thanked for their valuable services, and they set 
 off. The family was left alone. " Mistress," said Jack, 
 "now you'd better get your tea; I am sure you 
 must want it." " Nay Jack," said she, " I have had 
 my tea : no tea for me to night. I haven't a heart 
 like thee Jack ; take my share and welcome." 
 
 Jack sate down with the servant maids, and talked 
 of this strange affair, which he persisted in calling 
 " all nonsense ;" and devoured the cakes which he had 
 determined to win. Many a time did he laugh in his 
 sleeve as he heard this " great fright," as it came to 
 be called, talked over, and painted in many new 
 colours by the fireside ; but he kept his counsel 
 strictly while he continued to live there ; for he knew 
 a terrible castigation would be the sure consequence 
 of a disclosure ; but after he quitted the place, he 
 made a full and merry confession to his new comrades, 
 and occasioned one long laughter to run all the 
 country round. The people of the Fall, backed by 
 the Wood-endians, persisted that the noises were 
 something supernatural, and that this was an after- 
 invention of Jack's to disgrace them ; but Jack and 
 the public continued to have the laugh on their side. 
 
 After all, I know not whether the world of sprites 
 and hobgoblins may not assume a greater latitude of 
 action and revelation in these out-of-the-world places 
 than in populous ones ; whether the Lars and 
 Lemures, the Fairies, Robin-goodfellows, Hobthrushes 
 and Barguests may not linger about the regions 
 where there is a certain quietness, a simplicity of 
 heart and faith, and ample old rooms, attics, galleries
 
 A SOLITARY HOUSE. 211 
 
 and grim halls to range over, seeing that they hate 
 cities, and knowledge, and the conceit that attends 
 upon them ; for certainly, I myself have seen such 
 sights, and heard such sounds as would puzzle Dr. 
 Brewster himself, with all his natural magic, to account 
 for. In an old house in which my father lived when 
 I was a boy, we had such a capering of the chairs, or 
 what seemed such in the rooms over our heads ; such 
 aerial music in a certain chimney corner, as if Puck 
 himself were playing on the bag-pipes ; such running 
 of black cats up the bed-curtains and down again, and 
 disappearing, no one knew how ; and such a variety 
 of similar supernatural exhibitions, as was truly 
 amusing. And a friend of mine, having suffered a 
 joiner to lay a quantity of elm boards in a little room 
 near a kitchen chimney to dry, was so annoyed by 
 their tumbling and jumbling about, that when the 
 man came the next day to fetch part of them, he 
 desired him to take the whole, giving him the reason 
 for it. "O!" said the man, "you need not be 
 alarmed at that — that is always the way before a 
 coffin is wanted !" As if the ghost of the deceased 
 came and selected the boards for the coffin af its old- 
 world-mate the body. 
 
 But enough of the terrors of solitary houses with- 
 out those of superstition. I close my chapter ; and 
 yet I expect, dear readers, that in every place where 
 you peruse this, you will say, " O, these are nothing 
 to what I could have told. If Mr. Howitt had but 
 heard so and so." Thank you, my kind and fair 
 friends in a thousand places — I wish I had.
 
 212 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MIDSUMMER IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 I never see a clear stream running through the fields 
 at this beautiful time of the year but I wish, like old 
 Izaak Walton, to take rod and line, and pleasant 
 book, and wander away into some sylvan, or romantic 
 region, and give myself up wholly to the influence of 
 the season; to angle, and read, and dream by the 
 ever-lapsing water, in green and flowery meadows, 
 for days and weeks, caring no more for all that is 
 going on in this great and many-coloured world, than 
 if there was no world at all beyond these happy 
 meadows so full of sun-shine and quietness. Truly 
 that good old man had hit on one of the ways to true 
 enjoyment of life. He knew that simple habits and 
 desires were mighty ingredients in genuine happi- 
 ness ; that to enjoy ourselves, we must first cast the 
 world and all its cares out of our hearts ; we must 
 actually renounce its pomps and vanities ; and then 
 how sweet becomes every summer bank ; how bright 
 every summer stream ; what a delicious tranquillity 
 falls upon our hearts; what a self-enjoyment reigns 
 all through it ; what a love of God kindles in it from
 
 MIDSUMMER IN THE FIELDS. 213 
 
 all the fair things around. They may say what they 
 will of the old prince of anglers, of his cruelty and 
 inconsistency; from those charges I have vindicated 
 him in another place, — we know that he was pious 
 and humane. We know that in the stillness of his 
 haunts, and the leisure of his latter days, wise and 
 kind thoughts flowed in upon his soul, and that the 
 beauty and sweetness of nature which surrounded 
 him, inspired him with feelings of joy and admiration, 
 that streamed up towards the clear heavens above him 
 in grateful thanksgiving. It is these things which 
 have given to his volume an everlasting charm ; and 
 that aifect me, at this particular time of the year, 
 with a desire to haunt like places. It may be the 
 green banks of the beautiful streams of Derbyshire — 
 the Wye, or the Dove ; for now are they most lovely, 
 running on amongst the verdant hills and bosky 
 dales of the Peak, surrounded by summer's richest 
 charms. Their banks are overhung with deep grass, 
 and many a fair flower droops over them ; the foliage 
 of the trees that shroud their many windings, is most 
 delicate ; and above them, grey rocks lift their heads, 
 or greenest hills swell away to the blue sky. And as 
 evening falls over them, what a softness clothes those 
 verdant mountains ! what a depth of shadow fills 
 those hollows ! what a voice of waters rises on the 
 hushed landscape ! But even here, in the vale of 
 Trent, it is beautiful. There are a thousand charms 
 gathered about one of these little streams that are 
 hastening towards our fair river. They are charms 
 that belong to this point of time, and that in a week 
 or two will be gone. The spring is gone, with all 
 her long anticipated pleasures. The snow-drop, the
 
 214 MIDSUMMER IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 crocus, the blue-bell, the primrose, and the cowslip, 
 where are they ? They are all buried children of a 
 delicate time, too soon hurried by. 
 
 But see ! here are delights that will presently be as 
 irrevocably gone. It is evening. What a calm and 
 basking sunshine lies on the green landscape. Look 
 round, — all is richness, and beauty, and glory. Those 
 tall elms which surround the churchyard, letting the 
 grey tower get but a passing glimpse of the river, 
 and that other magnificent arcade of similar trees 
 which stretch up the side of the same fair stream, — 
 how they hang in the most verdant and luxuriant 
 masses of foliage ! What a soft, hazy twilight floats 
 about them ! What a slumberous calm rests on them! 
 Slumberous did I say ? no, it is not slumberous ; it 
 has nothing of sleep in its profound repose. It is the 
 depth of a contemplative trance ; as if every tree were 
 a living, thinking spirit, lost in the vastness of some 
 absorbing thought. It is the hush of a dream-land ; 
 the motionless majesty of an enchanted forest, bearing 
 the spell of an infrangible silence. And see, over 
 those wide meadows, what an affluence of vegetation ! 
 See how that herd of cattle, in colour and form, and 
 grouping, worthy of the pencil of Cuyp or Ruysdael, 
 graces the plenty of that field of most lustrous gold; 
 and all round, the grass growing for the scythe almost 
 overtops the hedges in its abundance. As we track 
 the narrow footpath through them, we cannot avoid a 
 lively admiration of the rich mosaic of colours that 
 are woven all through them — the yellow rattle — the 
 crimson stems and heads of the burnet, that plant 
 of beautiful leaves— the golden trifolium — the light 
 quake-grass — the azure milkwort, and clover scenting
 
 MIDSUMMER IN THE FIELDS. 215 
 
 all the air. Hark ! the cuckoo sends her voice from 
 the distance, clear and continuous: — 
 
 Hail to thee, shouting Cuckoo ! in my youth 
 Thou wert long time, the Ariel of my hope, 
 
 The marvel of a summer ! it did soothe 
 To listen to thee on some sunny slope, 
 Where the high oaks forbade an ampler scope. 
 
 Than of the blue skies upward — and to sit. 
 Canopied, in the gladdening horoscope 
 
 Which thou, my planet, flung — a pleasant fit, 
 Long time my hours endeared, my kindling fancy smit. 
 
 And thus I love thee still — thy monotone, 
 
 The selfsame transport flashes through my frame. 
 
 And when tliy voice, sweet sybil, all is flown 
 My eager ear, I cannot choose but blame. 
 
 may the world these feelings never tame I 
 If age o'er me her silver tresses spread, 
 
 1 still would call thee by a lover's name, 
 And deem the spirit of delight unfled, 
 
 Nor bear, though grey without, a heart to Nature dead ! 
 
 Wiff'en's Aoiiian Hours. 
 
 And lo ! there are the mowers at work ! there are 
 the hay-makers ! Green swaths of mown grass — hay- 
 cocks, and wagons ready to bear them away — it is 
 summer, indeed ! What a fragrance comes floating 
 on the gale from the clover in the standing grass; 
 from the new-mown hay; and from those sycamore 
 trees, with all their pendant flowers. It is delicious ; 
 and yet one cannot help regretting that the year has 
 advanced so far. There, the wild rose is putting out; 
 the elder is already in flower ; they are all beautiful, 
 but saddening signs of the swift-winged time. Let 
 us sit down by this little stream, and enjoy the plea- 
 santness that it presents, without a thought of the 
 future. Ah! this sweet place is just in its pride.
 
 216 MIDSUMMER IN THE EIELDS. 
 
 The flags have sprung thickly in the bed of the brook, 
 and their yellow flowers are beginning to shew them- 
 selves. The green locks of the water-ranunculuses 
 are lifted by the stream, and their flowers form snowy 
 islands on the surface; the water-lilies spread out 
 their leaves upon it, like the pallets of fairy painters ; 
 and that opposite bank, what a prodigal scene of vigo- 
 rous and abundant vegetation it is. There are the 
 blue geraniums as lovely as ever ; the meadow-sweet 
 is hastening to put out its foam-like flowers, that 
 species of golden-flowered mustard occupies the con- 
 necting space between the land and water; and hare- 
 bells, the jagged pink lychnis, and flowering grass of 
 various kinds, make the whole bank beautiful. P>ery 
 plant that is wont to shew itself at this season, is in 
 its place, to give its quota of the accustomed character 
 to the spot; every insect, to beautify it with its hues, 
 and enliven it with its peculiar sound : — 
 
 There is the grashopper, my summer friend, — 
 The minute sound of many a sunny hour 
 Passed on a thymy hill, wiien I could send 
 My soul in search thereof by bank and bower, 
 Till lured far from it by a foxglove flower, 
 Nodding too dangerously above the crag, 
 Not to excite the passion and the power 
 To climb the steep, and down the blossom drag : — 
 Them the marsh-crocus joined, and yellow water-flag. 
 
 Shrill sings the drowsy wassailer in his dome. 
 Yon grassy wilderness, where curls the fern, 
 And creeps the ivy ; with the wish to ream 
 He spreads his sails, and bright is his sojourn, 
 'Mid chalices with dews in every urn : 
 All flying things a like delight have found — 
 Where'er I gaze, to what new region turn, 
 Ten thousand insects in the air abound, 
 Flitting on glancing wings that yield a summer's sound. 
 
 Wiffen^s Aonian Hours.
 
 MIDSUMMER IN THE FIELDS. 217 
 
 The may-flies, in thousands, are come forth to their 
 little day of life, and are flying up, and dropping 
 again in their own peculiar way. The stone-fly is 
 found head downwards on the bole of that tree. The 
 midges are celebrating their airy and labyrinthine 
 dances with an amazing^ adroitness. These little crea- 
 tures pass through a metamorphosis, as they settle on 
 you in your summer walks by river sides, that must 
 strike the careful observer with admiration. You 
 may sometimes see a column of them by the margin 
 of the river, like a column of smoke j and when you 
 come near, numbers of them will settle upon your 
 clothes — small, white, and fleecy creatures. Observe 
 them carefully, and you will see them shake their 
 wings, as in a little convulsive agony, press them to 
 the sides of their body, and fairly creep out of their 
 skins. These skins, fine white films, drawn like a 
 glove from their bodies, and from their very legs, 
 which are but like fine hairs themselves, they leave 
 behind, and dart oif into the air as to a new life, and 
 with an accession of new beauty. Dragon-flies of 
 all sizes and colours are hovering, and skimming, and 
 settling amongst the water-plants, or on some natural 
 twig, evidently full of enjoyment. The great azure- 
 bodied one, with its large filmy wings, darts past with 
 reckless speed; and slender ones — blue, and purple, 
 and dun, and black, with long jointed bodies, made 
 as of shining silk by the fingers of some fair lady, 
 and animated for a week or two of summer sunshine 
 by some frolic spell, now pursue each other, and now 
 rest as in sleep. The whitethroat goes flying with a 
 curious cowering motion over the top of the tall grass 
 from one bush to another, where it hops unseen, and 
 
 L 2
 
 218 
 
 MIDSUMMER IN THE FIELDS. 
 
 repeats its favourite " chaw-chaw." The willow- 
 warbler, the mocking-bird of England, maintains its 
 incessant imitations of the swallow, the sparrow, the 
 chaffinch, and the whitethroat, flitting and chattering 
 in the bushes that overhang the stream. The landrail 
 repeats its continuous " crake-crake" from the meadow 
 grass, and the water itself ripples on, clear and 
 musical, and chequered with small shadows from many 
 a leaf and bent and moving bough. We lift up our 
 heads — and in the west what a ruby sun — what a 
 gorgeous assemblage of sunset clouds ! 
 
 Readers and friends, are these not the characters of 
 June fields and June brook-sides ? Do they not recal 
 to your memory many a pleasant walk, many a plea- 
 sant place, and many pleasant friends ? They must : 
 for there is nothing gives us so vivid a sense of the 
 careering of time as the passing of spring and summer.
 
 PART III. 
 
 CHAPTER I.— GIPSIES. 
 
 All hail ! ye British Buccaneers ! 
 
 Ye English Ishmaelites, all hail ! 
 A jovial and marauding band, 
 Against the goodliest of the land 
 
 Ye go, and ye prevail. 
 
 Man's cultured Eden casts ye forth. 
 
 Where'er ye list to wander wide. 
 Wild heaths and wilder glens to tread, 
 The spacious earth before you spread. 
 
 Your hearts your only guide. 
 
 The Gipsy King. By Richard Howitt. 
 
 The picture of the Rural Life of England must be 
 wofully defective which should omit those singular and 
 most picturesque squatters on heaths and in lanes, 
 the Gipsies. They make part and parcel of the land- 
 scape scenery of England. They are an essential 
 portion of our poetry and literature. They are 
 moulded into our memories, and all our associations 
 VOL. 1 L 3
 
 2'20 GIPSIES. 
 
 of the country by the surprise of our first seeing 
 them, by the stories of their cunning, their petty lar- 
 cenies, their fortune-tellings, and by the writings of 
 almost all our best poets and essayists. The poets 
 being vividly impressed by anything picturesque, and 
 partaking of some mystery and romance, univer- 
 sally talk of them with an unction of enjoyment. 
 Romance writers have found them more profitable 
 subjects than his Majesty does — Scott and Victor 
 Hugo especially. But the first introduction to them, 
 which most of us had in print, and to which the mind 
 of every man of taste must instantly revert on seeing 
 or hearing of them, is that most admirable and racy 
 one in the Spectator, — that gipsy adventure of our 
 truly beloved and honoured friend. Sir Roger de 
 Coverley — that perfect model of an old English gen- 
 tleman. Who does not think of this scene with a 
 peculiar delight, especially since it has received so 
 exquisite a representation from the pencil of Leslie ? 
 " As I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my 
 friend Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us 
 a troop of gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, 
 my friend was in some doubt whether he should not 
 exert the Justice of the Peace upon a band of lawless 
 vagrants ; but not having his clerk with him, who is a 
 necessary counsellor on these occasions, and fearing 
 that his poultry might fare the worse for it, he let the 
 thought drop, but at the same time gave me a par- 
 ticular account of the mischiefs they do in the country 
 in stealing peoples' goods, and spoiling their servants. 
 If a stray piece of linen hangs upon a hedge, says Sir 
 Roger, they are sure to have it : if the hog loses its 
 way in the fields, it is ten to one but it becomes their 
 prey. Our geese cannot lie in peace for them.
 
 GIPSIES. 221 
 
 " ' If a man prosecutes them with severity, his hen- 
 roost is sure to pay for it. They generally straggle 
 into this part of the country about this time of the year, 
 and set the heads of our servant-maids so agog for 
 husbands, that we do not expect to have any business 
 done as it should be while they are in the country. 
 I have an honest dairy-maid who crosses their hands 
 with a piece of silver every summer, and never fails 
 being promised the handsomest young fellow in the 
 parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has 
 been fool enough to be seduced by them ; and though 
 he is sure to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon every 
 time his fortune is told him, generally shuts himself 
 up in the pantry with an old gipsy for above half an 
 hour once a twelvemonth. Sweethearts are the things 
 which they live upon, which they bestow very plenti- 
 fully upon all those that apply themselves to them. 
 You see now and then some handsome young jades 
 amongst them, — the sluts have very often white teeth 
 and black eyes.' 
 
 " Sir Roger observing that I listened with great 
 attention to his account of a people who were so 
 entirely new to me, told me that if I would, they 
 should tell us our fortunes. As I was very well 
 pleased with the knight's proposal, we rid up and 
 communicated our hands to them. A Cassandra of 
 the race, after having examined my lines very dili- 
 gently, told me that I loved a pretty maid in a 
 corner ; that I was a good woman's man ; with some 
 other particulars which I do not think proper to 
 relate. My friend Sir Roger alighted from his horse, 
 and exposing his palm to two or three that stood by 
 him, they crumpled it into all shapes, and diligently
 
 222 GIPSIES. 
 
 scanned every wrinkle that could be made in it ; 
 when one of them, vAio was older and more sunburnt 
 than the rest, told him that he had a widow in his 
 line of life. Upon which the knight cried, ' go, go, 
 you are an idle baggage,' and at the same time 
 smiled upon me. The gipsy, finding that he was not 
 displeased in his heart, told him, after a further 
 inquiry into his hand, that his true-love was constant, 
 and that he should dream of her to night. My old 
 friend cried ' Pish,' and bid her go on. The gipsy 
 told him that he was a bachelor, but would not be so 
 long ; and that he was dearer to somebody than he 
 thought. The knight still repeated that she was an 
 idle baggage, and bid her go on. ' Ah, master,' 
 says the gipsy, ' that roguish leer of yours makes a 
 woman's heart ache. You have not that simper about 
 the mouth for nothing.' The uncouth gibberish with 
 which all this was uttered, like the darkness of an 
 oracle, made us the more attentive to it. To be 
 short, the knight left the money with her that he had 
 crossed the hand with, and got up again on his horse. 
 
 " As M^e were riding away, Sir Roger told me, that 
 he knew several sensible people who believed these 
 gipsies now and then foretold very strange things ; 
 and for half an hour together appeared more jocund 
 than ordinary. In the height of his good-humour, 
 meeting a common beggar upon the road who was 
 no conjurer, as he went to relieve him, he found his 
 pocket picked ; that being a kind of palmistry at 
 which this race of vermin are very dexterous." 
 
 This is a perfect piece of gipsyism. Wordsworth, 
 Cowper, Crabbe, and others of our poets, have given 
 very graphic sketches of them ; but in all these
 
 GIPSIES. 2*23 
 
 descriptions you have the same characteristics, those 
 of a strange, vagabond, out-of-door, artful and fortune- 
 telling people. This was for a long time the only- 
 point of view in which they were regarded. That 
 they were a thievish and uncivilizable race everybody 
 knew, but what was their real origin, or what their 
 real country, few cared to inquire. It, in fact, quite 
 satisfied the public to consider them as what they 
 pretended to be, Egyptians. In all the descriptions 
 I have alluded to, no reference whatever is made to 
 their origin. Addison alone hints that he could give 
 some historical lemarks on this idle people, but he 
 does not think it worth while. But a more inquisitive 
 age came. It began to strike the minds of intelligent 
 men, as the love of the picturesque, the love of what- 
 ever was quiet, ancient, singular, or poetic in the 
 features of the country grew into a strong public feel- 
 ing, that there was something far more curious and 
 mysterious about these people than merely met the 
 eye. That they were a peculiar variety of the human 
 species, and had hereditary causes, whether prejudices 
 or traditions, which stamped them, as distinctly and 
 as stubbornly, a separate portion of humanity as the 
 Jews, became obvious enough. That which had been 
 supposed a mere gibberish in their mouths, was found 
 to be true Eastern language, and it was discovered 
 that they not merely " infested all Europe," as 
 Addison remarked, but all the world. In every 
 quarter of it they were found, exhibiting the same 
 strange and unchangeable lineaments, manners, and 
 habits ; in Egypt, as separate from the Egyptians in 
 speech and custom, as they are separate from the 
 English in England. Great curiosity was now ex-
 
 224 GIPSIES. 
 
 cited concerning tliem, and we get a glimpse, in the 
 following verses of the Ettrick Shepherd's, of the 
 speculations which arose out of the consequent in- 
 quiries. 
 
 Hast thou not noted on the by-way side, 
 
 Where England's loanings stretch unsoiledand wide, 
 
 Or by the brook that through the valley pours, 
 
 Where mimic waves play lightly through the flowers, 
 
 A noisy crew far straggling through the glade, 
 
 Busied with trifles, or in slumber laid. 
 
 Their children lolling round them on the grass. 
 
 Or pestering with their sports the patient ass? 
 
 The wrinkled grandam there you may espy, 
 
 The ripe young maiden with her glossy eye ; 
 
 Men in their prime — the striplings dark and dun, 
 
 Scathed by the storms, and freckled by the sun ; 
 
 O mark them well when next the group you see, 
 
 In vacant barn, or resting on the lea; 
 
 They are the remnant of a race of old — 
 
 Spare not the trifle for your fortune told ! 
 
 For there shalt thou behold with nature blent 
 
 A tint of mind in every lineament, 
 
 A mould of soul distinct, but hard to trace. 
 
 Unknown except to Israel's wandering race ; 
 
 For thence, as sages say, their line they drew — 
 
 O mark them well ! the tales of old are true ! 
 
 In these verses, which seem intended by Hogg as 
 the commencement of a poem on the Gipsy history, 
 he goes on to tell us that they were a tribe of Arabs 
 that during the Crusades were induced to act as 
 guides and allies of the Crusaders against Jerusalem, 
 and were therefore compelled, on the retreat of the 
 Christians, to flee too. It was not at all surprising 
 that they should be regarded as the real descendants 
 of Ishmael, for they have all the characteristics of his 
 race, — an Eastern people, retaining all their features 
 of mind or body in unchangeable fixedness — neither
 
 GIPSIES. 2'25 
 
 growing fairer in the temperate latitudes, nor darker 
 in the sultry ones; perpetual wanderers and dwellers 
 in tents ; active, fond of horses, often herdsmen, 
 artful, thievish, restrained by no principle but that of 
 a cunning policy from laying hands on any man's 
 possessions; fond to enthusiasm of the chase after 
 game, though obliged to follow it at midnight; as 
 everlastingly isolated by their organic or moral con- 
 formation from the people amongst whom they dwell 
 as the Jews themselves. The very prophecy seemed 
 fulfilled in them, beyond what it could be in Araby 
 itself, where jhey have been repeatedly subdued to 
 the dominion of some conqueror, while this tribe 
 seems in all countries to maintain its nature as the 
 genuine posterity of him who was to be a wild hunter 
 in perpetual independence. 
 
 The Germans, however, who pursue every subject 
 of curious inquiry with the same searching perse- 
 verance, look up this gipsy mystery ; and the result of 
 their researches, founded principally on their lan- 
 guage, at present leads to the adoption of the theory 
 that they are a Hindu tribe. For a full view of the 
 subject, I must refer my readers to the works of 
 Grellman and Buttner, who have pursued this inquiry 
 with great learning and zeal — to a very able summary 
 in Malte Brun's Geography: my limits will compel 
 me to take a more rapid notice of it. The sum and 
 substance of their case is this. They find occupa- 
 tion in some countries as smiths and tinkers; they 
 mend broken plates, and sell wooden ware. A class 
 of them in Moldavia and Wallachia lead a settled life, 
 and gain a subsistence by working and searching for 
 gold in the beds of rivers. Those in the Bannat of
 
 2-26 GIPSIES. 
 
 Hungary are horse-dealers, and are gradually obeying 
 the enactments of Joseph II., by which they are com- 
 pelled to cultivate the land; but the great majority in 
 Europe abhor a permanent residence and stated hours 
 of labour. The women abuse the credulity of the 
 German and Polish peasants, who imagine that they 
 cure their cattle by witchcraft, and predict fortunate 
 events by inspecting the lineaments of the hand. It 
 is lawful for the wives of the Tchinganes in Turkey 
 to commit adultery with impunity. Many individuals 
 of both sexes, particularly throughout Hungary, are 
 passionately fond of music, the only science in which 
 they have, as yet, attained any degree of perfection. 
 They are the favourite minstrels of the country 
 people : some have arrived at eminence in cathedrals 
 and the choirs of princes. Their guitar is heard in 
 the romantic woods of Spain ; and many gipsies, less 
 indolent than the indolent Spaniards, exercise in that 
 country the trade of publicans. They follow willingly 
 whatever occupations most men hate and condemn. 
 In Hungary and Transylvania, they are the flayers of 
 dead horses, and executioners of criminals; the mass 
 of the nation is composed of thieves and mendicants. 
 The total number of these savages in Europe has 
 never been considered less than 300,000 ; Grellman 
 says 700,000; of these, 150,000 are in Turkey; 70,000 
 in Wallachia and Moldavia ; 40,000 in Hungary and 
 Transylvania ; the rest are scattered through Russia, 
 Prussia, Poland, Germany, Jutland, Spain, and other 
 countries. Persia and Egypt are infested with them. 
 They have appeared in Spanish America. 
 
 Who then are these people ? Grellman and 
 Buttner do not hesitate to pronounce them to be one
 
 GIPSIES. 227 
 
 of the low Indian castes, Soudras or Correvas, expelled 
 from their country during one of its great revolutions, 
 probably that of Tamerlane, about the year 1400. 
 Their habits as tinkers, musicians, horse-dealers, etc., 
 already alluded to, are exactly in keeping with this 
 supposition ; but what is far stronger evidence is, that 
 their language, formerly supposed to be the gibberish 
 of thieves and pick-pockets, is really Indostanee. In 
 the tents of these wanderers is spoken the dialects 
 of the Vedas, the Puranas, the Brachmans, and the 
 Budahs. This, in different tribes, is in some degree 
 dashed with words of Sclavonic, Persic, Permiac, 
 Finnic, Wogoul, and Hungarian. The structure of 
 the auxiliary verb is the same as others in the Indo- 
 Pelasgic tongues, but the pronouns have a remarkable 
 analogy with the Persic, and the declension of nouns 
 with the Turkish. Pallas infers from their dialect 
 that their ancient country was Moultan, and their 
 origin the same as that of the Hindu merchants at 
 present at Astrakhan. Bartolomeo believes they 
 come from Guzerat, perhaps from the neighbourhood 
 of Tatta, where a horde of pirates called Tchinganes 
 still reside. Lastly, Richardson boasts of having 
 found them among the Bazigurs, a wandering tribe of 
 minstrels and dancers. No caste, however, bears so 
 strong a resemblance to them as that of the Soudras, 
 who have no fixed abodes, but live in tents, and sell 
 baskets, mend kettles, and tell fortunes. 
 
 The names by which they have been, or are 
 known in diiferent countries are various. They call 
 themselves Romi, Manusch, and Gadzi, each of these 
 appellatives being connected with a different lan- 
 guage — the Copt, the Sanscrit, and the Celtic. In
 
 228 GIPSIES. 
 
 Poland and Wallachia they are Zingani; in Italy 
 and Hungary, Zingari ; in Lithuania, Zigonas ; Zi- 
 guene in Germany ; Tehinganes in Turkey ; the 
 Atehinganes of the middle ages ; in Spain they are 
 Gitanos; in France, Bohemians, from their having 
 passed out of Bohemia into that country. By the 
 Persians they are called Sisech Hindou, or Black 
 Indians. But the most ancient and general name is 
 that of Sinte, or inhabitants of the banks of the Sinda 
 or Indus. The celebrated M. Hasse, has indeed 
 proved that for the last 3000 years there have been 
 in Europe wandering tribes bearing the name of Se- 
 gynes, or Sinte. He considers the modern gipsies as 
 the descendants of these ancient hordes. Herodotus 
 points out the Sygines on the north side of the Ister. 
 Strabo describes a people called Siginii, inhabiting 
 the Hyrcanian mountains, near the Caspian sea. 
 Pliny speaks of the Caucasian Singi, and of the 
 Indian Singse. Hesychius reconciles the opinions of 
 the ancients, and calls the SInde an Indian people. 
 They were noted for their cowardice ; for submitting 
 to the lash of Scythian masters, the prostitution of 
 their women, whose name became a term of reproach. 
 Different branches of the same people were scattered 
 through Macedonia, in which was a Sinti district, and 
 in Lemnos, where the Sinties were the workmen of 
 Vulcan. 
 
 It will now be sufficiently obvious to the reader 
 what a singular, ancient, and mysterious people are 
 these gipsies that haunt our lanes and commons, and 
 form so striking and poetical a feature in our country 
 scenery. After all the zealous and learned researches 
 into their history and origin, nothing appears already
 
 GIPSIES. '229 
 
 established beyond the fact, that they are ohler than 
 Herodotus, the most ancient of profane historians ; 
 that for more than 3000 years they have been wander- 
 ing through the workl as they do at present ; and 
 that their language exhibits incontestable evidence of 
 an oriental origin. The ravages of Tamerlane may 
 perhaps help to account for the circumstance of their 
 pressing upon Western Europe in 1400 in such 
 unusual numbers; but they were wanderers long 
 before Tamerlane's days. Were they enemies of 
 Krishna? for they boast of having formerly rejected 
 Christ. They pretend that they were once a happy 
 people, under kings of their own ; but their tradi- 
 tionary knowledge seems nearly extinct. Perhaps 
 an increasing acquaintance with the East and Eastern 
 literature may cast some light on the origin of this 
 peculiar variety of the human race. In the mean 
 time we may proceed to take a close view of them as 
 they now appear in this kingdom. From the first 
 moment of their attracting the public attention in this 
 part of Europe, they have always exhibited the same 
 artful character, — a character above the trammels of 
 either superstition or religion. They have therefore 
 adopted the most plausible pretences to effect their 
 purposes ; and for a long time triumphed over the 
 credulity of the christian princes, at all times over 
 that of the common people. Their first appearance 
 in France, as related by Pasquin is curious enough. 
 "On August 27th, 1427, came to Paris twelve peni- 
 tents, Penanciers, as they called themselves, viz : a 
 duke, an earl, and ten men, all on horse-back, and 
 calling themselves good christians. They were of 
 Lower Egypt, and gave out, that not long before,
 
 230 GIPSIES. 
 
 the christians had subdued their country, and obliged 
 them to embrace Christianity on pain of death. Those 
 who were baptized were great lords in their own 
 country, and had a king and queen there. Soon 
 after their conversion, the Saracens overrun the 
 country, and obliged them to renounce Christianity. 
 When the emperor of Germany, the king of Poland, 
 and the christian princes heard of this, they fell upon 
 them, and obliged the whole of them, both great and 
 small, to quit the country, and go to the Pope at 
 Rome, who enjoined them seven years' penance, to 
 wander over the world without lying in a bed. 
 
 " They had been wandering five years when they 
 came to Paris. First the principal people, and soon 
 after the commonalty, about 100, or 120 — reduced, ac- 
 cording to their account, from 1000 or 1200, when 
 they went from home ; the rest, with their king and 
 queen, being dead. They were lodged by the police 
 at some distance from the city, at Chapel St. Denis. 
 
 " Nearly all of them had their ears bored, and wore 
 two silver rings in each, which they said were es- 
 teemed ornaments in their country. The men were 
 black; their hair curled; the women, remarkably 
 black ; their only clothes a large old duffle garment, 
 tied over their shoulders with a cloth or cord, and 
 under it a miserable rocket. In fact, they were the 
 most poor, miserable creatures that ever had been 
 seen in France; and, notwithstanding their poverty, 
 there were amongst them women who, by looking 
 into people's hands, told their fortunes, and what was 
 worse, they picked people's pockets of their money, 
 and got it into their own, by telling these things 
 through art magic, etc."
 
 GIPSIES. 231 
 
 The subtlety of these modern Gibeonites cannot be 
 sufficiently admired. They did not venture to alarm 
 the country by coming at once in full strength into it, 
 but sent a detachment, mounted on horseback as 
 princes, to pave the way by their tale of sufferings ; 
 then came a larger troop, in true Gibeonitish condi- 
 tion, to excite the popular commiseration ; and that 
 being done, their numbers gradually increased; and 
 under these and similar pretences, they rambled over 
 France for a whole century, when their real character 
 being sufficiently obvious, and their numbers daily 
 increasing, they were banished by proclamation. 
 The same policy was pursued towards them in all the 
 countries of Europe, if we except Hungary and 
 Wallachia. In Spain, sentence of banishment being 
 found ineffectual, in 1492 an edict of extermination 
 was published ; but they only slunk into the moun- 
 tains and woods, and reappeared in a while as nume- 
 rously as before. The order of banishment not suc- 
 ceeding in France, in 1561 all governors of cities 
 were commanded to drive them away with fire and 
 sword; and in 1612 a new order for their extermina- 
 tion came out. In 1572, they were expelled from 
 the territories of Milan and Parma, as they had before 
 been driven from the Venetian boundaries. In Den- 
 mark, Sweden, and the Netherlands, repeated enact- 
 ments were made for their expulsion. In Germany 
 from 1500 to 1577, various similar decrees were 
 promulgated against them. Under these laws they 
 suffered incredible miseries. They were imprisoned; 
 chased about like wild beasts, and put to death with- 
 out mercy: but, as the European states did not act in 
 concert, when they were driven from one they found
 
 232 GIPSIES. 
 
 an asylum in another; and whenever the storm blew 
 over, they again gradually reappeared in their old 
 haunts. The Empress Theresa, and afterwards the 
 Emperor Joseph II., seem to have been the only 
 sovereigns who set themselves in earnest to reclaim 
 and civilize this singular people ; and we have seen 
 that in Hungary some of them are gradually sub- 
 mitting to the regulations made by these wise mo- 
 narchs. 
 
 Their introduction to this kingdom, and their after 
 treatment were similar. At first they were received as 
 princes and kings, and excited commiseration by the 
 tale of their inj uries. They had royal and parliamen- 
 tary passes granted them, to go through the country 
 seeking relief, as many of the parish records yet bear 
 testimony. So late as 1647 there appears an entry in 
 the constable's accounts at Uttoxeter, in Staft'ordshire, 
 of four shillings being given to forty-six Egyptians, 
 travelling with a pass from parliament, to seek relief 
 by the space of six months. But when this delusion 
 was past, and it was seen that they had no intention of 
 quitting the country, they became persecuted by jus- 
 tices of the peace and parish constables, as thieves 
 and vagrants ; and the rapid enclosures of waste lands 
 during the war, tended greatly to break up their 
 haunts, and put them into great straits. 
 
 About twenty years ago John Hoyland, a minister 
 of the Society of Friends, being struck with commi- 
 seration for their condition, began to inquire into their 
 real character; and the researches of Grellman being 
 made known to him, he visited their encampments in 
 various places in Northamptonshire, Hainault Forest, 
 and Norwood near London. He also sought them out
 
 GIPSIES. 233 
 
 in their winter-quarters in London ; and the result of 
 his inquiries satisfied him that the English gipsies were 
 a genuine portion of the great tribe described by 
 Grellman ; that they possessed the same Oriental lan- 
 guage, specimens of which he has given in his history. 
 Mr. Hoyland could not ascertain what were the actual 
 numbers of these people in England. They had been 
 stated in parliament to be not less than 30,000, but on 
 what authority did not appear ; but it was very evident 
 that enclosures, and the severity of the magistrates 
 had reduced their numbers. Probably many of them 
 had emigrated. Norwood used to be their great 
 resort, but its enclosure had broken up that rendezvous, 
 yet it nevertheless appeared, that considerable num- 
 bers wintered in London, and at the earliest approach 
 of spring set out on their summer progress through 
 various parts of the country, especially in the counties 
 of Surrey, Bedford, Buckingham, Hereford, Mon- 
 mouth, Somerset, Wilts, Southampton, Cambridge, 
 and Huntingdon. 
 
 Mr. Hoyland extended his researches to Scotland, 
 and the most prompt assistance was offered him in his 
 inquiries in that country. A circular was dispatched 
 to the sheriff of every county, soliciting, through the 
 medium of an official organ, all the intelligence which 
 could be obtained on the subject. It was found that 
 there were very few gipsies in Scotland at all. From 
 thirteen counties the reports were — " No gipsies resi- 
 dent in them." From most others the answer was, that 
 they appeared there only as occasional passengers. The 
 Border appeared to be their chief resort, and respect- 
 ing those Sir Walter Scott, then plain Walter Scott, 
 addressed a very characteristic letter to the author. His
 
 234 GIPSIES. 
 
 account of them tallies exactly with that he has given 
 in his celebrated novels. He and Mr. Smith, the 
 Baillie of Kelso, agree in describing them as a single 
 colony at Yetholm, and one family removed thence to 
 Kelso. This colony appears to have acquired a cha- 
 racter more daring and impetuous than the gipsies of 
 England ; in fact, to have exhibited the true old Bor- 
 der spirit: probably partly from example and partly 
 from intercourse with some of the Border families. 
 Mr. Baillie Smith gives the following instance of 
 this spirit: — "Between Yetholm and the Border 
 farms in Northumberland, there were formerly, as 
 in most border situations, some uncultivated lands, 
 called the Plea Lands, or Debateable Lands, the 
 pastorage of which was generally eaten up by the 
 sorners and vagabonds on both sides of the marshes. 
 Many years ago. Lord Tankerville and some other 
 of the English borderers, made their request to Sir 
 David Bennet and the late Mr. Wauchope, of Nid- 
 dry, that they would accompany them at a riding 
 of the Plea Lands, who readily complied with their 
 request. They were induced to this, as they un- 
 derstood that the gipsies had taken offence, on the 
 supposition that they might be circumscribed in their 
 pasture for their shelties, and asses, which they had 
 held a long time, partly by stealth and partly by vio- 
 lence. Both threats and entreaties were employed to 
 keep them away ; and at last Sir David obtained a 
 promise from some of the heads of the gang, that 
 none of them would shew their faces on the occasion. 
 
 " They, however, got upon the hills in the neigh- 
 bourhood, whence they could see everything that 
 passed. At first they were very quiet, but when they
 
 GIPSIES. 235 
 
 saw the English Court-Book spread out on a cushion 
 before the clerk, and apparently taken in a line of 
 direction interfering with that which they considered 
 to be their privileged ground, it was with great diffi- 
 culty that the most moderate of them could restrain 
 the rest from running down and taking vengeance 
 even in sight of their own lord of the manor. They 
 only abstained for a short time, and no sooner had 
 Sir David and the other gentlemen taken leave of 
 each other in the most polite and friendly manner, as 
 border chiefs are wont to do, since border feuds ceased, 
 and had departed to a sufficient distance, than the 
 clan, armed with bludgeons and pitchforks, and such 
 other hostile weapons as they could find, rushed down 
 in a body, and before the chiefs on either side had 
 reached their homes, there was neither English tenant, 
 horse, cow, or sheep left upon the premises." 
 
 This account of their descent on the Plea Lands is 
 like one of Sir Walter Scott's own vivid sketches of 
 border life ; and the following anecdote, also related 
 by Mr. Baillie Smith, shews how truly they had 
 imbibed the border spirit of clanship. " When I 
 first knew anything about the colony, old Will Faa 
 was their king, or leader, and had held the sovereignty 
 for many years. Meeting at Kelso with Mr. Walter 
 Scott, whose discriminating habits and just observa- 
 tions I had occasion to know from his youth, and at 
 the same time seeing one of my Yetholm friends in 
 the horse-market, I merely said to Mr. Scott, ' Try 
 to get before that man with the long drab coat ; look 
 at him on your return, and tell me whether you ever 
 saw him, and what you think of him.' He was so 
 good as to indulge me; and rejoining me said without
 
 236 GIPSIES. 
 
 hesitation, ' I never saw the man that I know of, but 
 he is one of the gipsies of Yetholm that you told me 
 of several years ago.' I need scarcely say that he 
 was perfectly right. 
 
 " I'he descendants of Faa, now take the name of 
 Fall, from the Messrs. Fall of Dunbar, who, they 
 pride themselves in saying, are of the same stock and 
 lineage. When old Will Faa was upwards of eighty 
 years of age, he called on me at Kelso, in his way to 
 Edinburgh, telling me that he was going to see the 
 laird, the late Mr. Nisbett of Dirleton, as he under- 
 stood that he was very unwell, and himself now being 
 old, and not so stout as he had been, he wished to see 
 him once more before he died. The old man set out 
 by the nearest road, which was by no means his 
 common practice. Next market day some of the 
 farmers informed me that they had been in Edinburgh, 
 and seen Will Faa upon the bridge (the south bridge 
 w^as not built then), that he was tossing about his old 
 brown hat, and huzzaing with great vociferation that 
 he had seen the laird before he died. Indeed Will 
 himself had no time to lose, for having set his face 
 homewards, by the way of the sea-coast, to vary his 
 route, as is the general custom with the gang, he 
 only got the length of Coldingham when he was 
 taken ill and died." 
 
 No one can fail to recognise in these border gipsies 
 the Faas and Gordons of Guy Mannering, the despe- 
 rate clan of Meg Merrilies and Derncleugh. Scott, 
 indeed informs us that his prototype of Meg Merrilies 
 was Jean Gordon, an inhabitant of Kirk-Yetholm in 
 the Cheviot hills, adjoining to the English border. 
 The Faas, of which family her mother was, were tlie
 
 GIPSIES. 237 
 
 lineal descendants of John Faa, who styled himself 
 Lord and King- of Little Egypt, and with a numerous 
 retinue entered Scotland, in the reign of Queen Mary. 
 The difference between the English and Scotch 
 gipsies was singularly exemplified in Jean Gordon's 
 own family. The English gipsies have generally had 
 the policy to commit no capital offences ; but Jean's 
 sons were all hanged one day. Scott, in the eighth 
 chapter of Guy Mannering, says, their mixture M'ith 
 the Border people gave them a peculiar ferocity, quite 
 alien to their original character. " They understood 
 all out-of-door sports, especially otter-hunting, fishing 
 and finding game. They had the best and boldest 
 terriers, and sometimes had good pointers for sale. 
 In winter, the women told fortunes, the men shewed 
 tricks of legerdemain ; and these accomplishments 
 helped to wile away a weary or stormy evening in the 
 circle of the ' farmer's ha'.' The wildness of their 
 character, and the indomitable pride with wdiich they 
 despised all regular labour, commanded a certain awe, 
 which was not diminished by the consideration that 
 these strollers were a vindictive race, and were re- 
 strained by no check either of fear or conscience, from 
 taking desperate vengeance upon those who had of- 
 fended them. These tribes were, in short, the Farias 
 of Scotland, living like wild Indians among European 
 settlements; and like them, judged of rather by their 
 own customs, habits, and opinions, than as if they had 
 been members of the civilized part of the community. 
 Some hordes of them yet remain, chiefly in such situ- 
 ations as afford a ready escape into a waste country, 
 or into another jurisdiction. Kor are the features of 
 their character much softened. Their numbers are, 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 238 GIPSIES. 
 
 however, so greatly diminislied, that instead of one 
 hundred thousand, as calculated by Fletcher of Sal- 
 toun, it would now perhaps be impossible to collect 
 above five hundred throughout all Scotland." 
 
 Since writing so far, I have visited Kirk-Yetholm, 
 and can testify to the correctness of these details. It 
 was in June 1836, that I was at this remarkable haunt 
 of this singular class of gipsies. The tribe was then, 
 according to their regular custom, encamping, proba- 
 bly far off on the heaths of Scotland, or in the green 
 lanes of England ; and their houses, to the number 
 of about a score, stood along one side of the village, 
 all lenantless, with closed shutters, and doors barrica- 
 doed with boards, or locked or nailed up. They had 
 a strange look of desertion, amid the peopled village. 
 Along the lane side leading to the neighbouring hills, 
 extended a strip of land, divided into as many allot- 
 ments as there were houses, in which were growing 
 their crops of corn and potatoes, left, till their return, 
 to providence and the forbearance of their neighbours; 
 and we were assured that the tribe would not make 
 their appearance here till the crops were ready to house, 
 when they would come and get them in, and then 
 away again till the setting in of winter. We found 
 the feud between them and the shepherds still kept up 
 as hotly as ever, and likely to continue so, from the 
 peculiar location of the land above spoken of, on 
 which they claim to pasture their horses. About a 
 mile from the village, lies a region of pastoral hills, 
 most beautiful in their greenness and loftiness. They 
 are covered from vale to summit with the softest and 
 finest turf, and their loftiest steeps are dotted with 
 flocks. In the very midst of these hills, loftier and
 
 GIPSIES. 239 
 
 more naked than the rest, rises the one which the gip- 
 sies and other inhabitants of Yetholm claim. Nothing 
 could be more ingeniously contrived, if by contrivance 
 it had been done, to effect a constant bickering be- 
 tween the shepherds and the Yetholmers. The gipsies 
 of course drive their horses up to their own hill, and 
 nothing is more natural than that seeing better pas- 
 ture all around them, and no fence to^ prevent them, 
 they should go down and enjoy it. It is equally 
 natural that the shepherds should be on the look-out, 
 and the moment they find the horses trespassing, 
 should drive them out into the lane leading to the 
 village, and close the gates behind them. This also 
 is expected by the gipsies, and the moment the horses 
 make their appearance at the village, they are driven 
 back again to the hills. Here is perpetual food for 
 resentment and hostility, and to such a height does it 
 sometimes rise, that a gentleman of Kelso informed 
 me that he has seen at Yetholm wool-fair such affrays 
 between the gipsies and the shepherds as would out-do 
 Donnybrook. 
 
 We found a Will Faa still the reputed king of the 
 tribe. He was an old man, having none of the com- 
 mon features of the gipsy — his Border blood having 
 done away with the black eyes and swarthy skin ; 
 but Will had all the propensities of the gipsy, except 
 that of encamping; smuggling, fishing, and shooting 
 appeared to have been the business of his life. We 
 were told that in an affray with the revenue officers 
 he had defended a narrow bridge some^diere near 
 Bamborough Castle, while his party made their escape, 
 and had stood fighting singly with his cudgel till it 
 was cut down by the cutlasses of the officers to " twa
 
 240 GIPSIES. 
 
 nieves lang," and till he finally got a cut across the 
 arm which disabled him. When we asked him of the 
 truth of this story, his grey eyes kindled up into a 
 wild fire, and stretching out his two arms together, he 
 shewed us, with a significant gesture, that one was still 
 at least two inches longer than the other. Old Will 
 Faa had risen into great importance through the 
 writings of Sir Walter Scott. He told us that Sir 
 Martin Archer Shee had been down to take his like- 
 ness. He was in daily request at the houses of the 
 neighbouring nobility and gentry to catch trout for 
 them, being intimately acquainted with all the streams 
 of the country round, and all the arts of filling his 
 creel out of them. Will, therefore, is sure to be 
 found either by the side of one of the trout streams, 
 or in the kitchen of some of the neighbouring halls, 
 telling his exploits and drinking his toddy. His 
 niece, who was absent with the tribe, was said to be 
 the belle of the camp ; a true gipsy beauty, dark and 
 " weel fa'ured." 
 
 Such is the present state of the gipsies of England 
 and Scotland. Their numbers are evidently every- 
 where on the decrease ; yet what do remain in England 
 retain all their ancient characteristics. These charac- 
 teristics have never been more accurately delineated 
 than by Richard Howitt, in his poem of the " Gipsy 
 King," in the Metropolitan Magazine for June 1836. 
 The groups proceeding to the coronation of their 
 king are living. 
 
 Now come in groups the gipsy tribes, 
 
 From northern hills, from southern plains; 
 
 And many a panniered ass is swinging 
 
 The child that to itself is singing 
 Along the flowery lanes.
 
 GIPSIES. 241 
 
 Stout men are loud in wrangling talk. 
 Where older tongues are gruff and tame ; 
 
 Keen maiden laughter rings aloft, 
 
 Whilst many an undervoice is soft 
 From many a talking dame. 
 
 Their beaver hats are weather stained, — 
 
 The one black plume is sadly gay ; 
 Their squalid brats are slung behind, 
 In cloaks that flutter to the wind, 
 
 Of scarlet, brown, and grey. 
 
 The king himself is distinguished by some touches 
 that are the life itself, but which I never recollect 
 seeing: elsewhere introduced. 
 
 The slouching hat our hero wore. 
 
 The crown wherewith he king was crowned; 
 
 Wiierein a pipe and a crow's feather 
 
 Were stuck in fellowship together, 
 Was by a hundred winters browned. 
 
 His sceptre was a stout oak sapling, 
 
 Round which a snake well-carved was wreathed ; 
 
 Cunning and strength that well bespoke. 
 
 Whilst from his frame, as from an oak, 
 " Deliberate valour breathed." 
 
 His footstool was the solid earth ; 
 
 His court spread out in pomp before him. 
 The heath arrayed in summer's smiles ; 
 His empire broad, the British isles; 
 
 His dome the heavens arched o'er him. 
 
 Antique and flowing was his dress : 
 
 And from his temples bold and bare, 
 Fell back in many a dusky tress, 
 As liberal as the wilderness. 
 
 His ample growth of hair. 
 
 Like Cromwell's was his hardy front, 
 
 Where thought but feeling none, was shewn ; 
 
 Where underneath a flitting grace. 
 
 Was firmly built up in his face, 
 A hardness as of stone.
 
 242 GIPSIES. 
 
 They are not to be confounded with a tribe of 
 wandering potters, who live in tents like them. The 
 true gipsies are readily distinguished by their invari- 
 able jet-black hair, black sparkling eyes, Indian com- 
 plexions, and their genuine Oriental language. On 
 the extensive heaths of Surrey, since my residence in 
 that county, I have met with frequent camps of them. 
 In the midland counties, although there is less waste 
 land, they are not unfrequently to be seen. They are 
 there chiefly the Lovell, Boswell, and Kemp gangs. 
 They are great people still for kings and chiefs. Every 
 district has its king. One of these died in the sum- 
 mer of 1835, in their camp in Bestwood Park, in 
 Nottinghamshire ; and thousands of people went to 
 see him lie in state. They conveyed his body in a 
 cart to Eastwood, a distance of nine miles, and would 
 fain have stipulated with the clergyman for his inter- 
 ment in the church ; not on account of any notion of 
 the sanctity of the place, but for its security. This 
 being refused, they chose a place in the churchyard, 
 for which they paid a handsome sum, and ordered it 
 to be fenced off with iron railings. An old beldame 
 of the tribe said to me, that it was hard that he could 
 not be buried in a church, as most of his ancestors 
 had been before him. 
 
 This gang had no less than nine horses, which in 
 the day time grazed in the bare lanes; but if they 
 were not turned into the fields at night, they throve 
 wonderfully on bad commons. The farmers com- 
 plained dreadfully of their pulling up their hedges for 
 fuel. The whole race seems to have no fear of man ; 
 they are troubled with no mauvaise honte. The men 
 seldom condescend to solicit you, but the women are
 
 GIPSIES. 243 
 
 always anxious to lay hold of your money under pre- 
 tence of telling your fortune ; and the moment you 
 approach their encampment, out comes a troop of 
 little impudent, though not insolent rogues, to beg 
 everything and anything they can. The women, 
 many of them, in their youth, are fine strapping 
 figures, with handsome brown faces and most brilliant 
 and speaking eyes — they have a peculiar poco-curante 
 air and jaunty gait, and are extremely fond of finery. 
 Their costume is unique, and pretty uniform, — 
 scarlet cloaks, black velvet bonnets with large wide 
 pokes trimmed with lace ; a handkerchief thrown over 
 the head under the bonnet, and tied beneath the chin ; 
 long pendant earrings, black stockings, and ankle - 
 boots. So far from shunning any intercourse or in- 
 quiries, they approach you with a ready smile and a 
 style of flattery peculiar to them. "A good- day to 
 you, sir ; your honour is born to fortune. I see that by 
 the cast of your countenance. It was a right lucky 
 planet that shone on your honour's birth !" If you 
 know anything of their language, they are only too 
 glad to talk to you in it. Accost a gipsy with 
 *' Shaushan, Palla?" " how do you do, brother?" and 
 you will see the effect. 
 
 This singular race of people, of whom Grellman 
 calculates there are not less than 700,000 in Europe, 
 seemed to demand a more comprehensive account in 
 the Rural Life of England, than has hitherto been 
 given in any one work. Many of my readers, I am 
 persuaded, will regard them for their antiquity, the 
 mystery of their origin, the strangeness of their history 
 and life, with deeper feelings than they have hitherto 
 done ; and it may be well for such as live in those
 
 244 GIPSIES. 
 
 parts of the country which the gipsies haunt, to ask 
 themselves whether something may not be done by 
 education, and other means, to reclaim those wild 
 denizens of heaths and lanes, or to give them some 
 greater portion of the knowledge and benefits of civi- 
 lized life. A considerable number have sent their 
 children to schools during the winters in London ; and 
 these children, though compared by one of their 
 schoolmasters, at their first entrance, to wild birds 
 suddenly put into a cage, and ready to beat them- 
 selves against the bars, having no sense of restraint, 
 soon became not only perfectly orderly, amongst the 
 very first for quickness and avidity in learning; but 
 expressed the utmost regret when obliged to leave at 
 spring. I once saw a woman in a gipsy tent, reading 
 the Bible to a circle of nine children, all her own ! 
 and though, on coming near, her blue eyes and light 
 hair shewed her to be an English woman, the daugh- 
 ter, as I found, of a gamekeeper, who had married 
 one of the Boswell gang, yet the interest which the 
 children took in her reading of the Bible, and the 
 interest which she assured me the whole camp took in 
 it, were sufficient evidence that it is only for want of 
 being taught that they still remain in ignorance of the 
 best knowledge. They have been so long treated 
 with contempt and severity, that they naturally look 
 on all men as their enemies. For my part, when I 
 see a horde of them coming on some solitary way, 
 with their dark Indian faces, their scarlet-cloaked 
 women, their troops of little vivacious savages, their 
 asses and horses laden with beds and tents, and, trudg- 
 ing after them, their guardian dogs, — I cannot help 
 looking on them as an Eastern tribe, as fugitives of
 
 GIPSIES. 245 
 
 a most ancient family, as a living enigma in human 
 history — and feeling that, with all their Arab-like 
 propensities, they have great claims on our sympa- 
 thies, and on the splendid privileges of a Christian 
 land. 
 
 An incident which occurred to me this summer, 
 shewed me most strikingly how next to impossible it 
 is for the peculiar manner and costume of the English 
 gipsies to be personated. In an evening drive on the 
 27th of July, with a young friend staying Math us, as 
 we passed through, or by, the little rustic hamlet of 
 Stoke D'Abernon, for it consists of houses scattered 
 along one side of the road, I was struck with two 
 singular female figures at a little distance before us. 
 They were both young — the one about the middle 
 size, the other rather taller. The taller one was 
 dressed in a dark cotton bed-gown, dark petticoat, 
 grey stockings and shoes ; on her head was tied a 
 yellow silk handkerchief, and in her hand she held, as 
 a walking-stafi', a long stout hazel wand, recently cut 
 from the hedge. The other had on also a short bed- 
 gown, but of a pink colour, striped and figured with 
 white, a dark petticoat, and ankle-boots. On hei 
 head she wore an old straw bonnet. As my eye 
 caught them at a distance, — the one standing with her 
 tall stick by a pool on one side of the way, the other 
 in the act of begging from, or addressing, a gentle- 
 man who was sitting on a stile, I could not help 
 exclaiming, — " What have we got here ! — Maria de 
 Moulins and Madge Wildfire?" As we drew near, 
 they came running up to us, and, one on each side of 
 
 M 2
 
 246 GIPSIES. 
 
 the pony-chaise, began begging most importunately : 
 " Will you give us sixpence ? Do give us sixpence ! 
 Do, dear gentleman, give us sixpence ! Dear lady, 
 do tell the gentleman to give us sixpence!" It was 
 only necessary to give a slight glance at the faces of 
 these beggars, and to hear one tone of their voices, to 
 know that it was a frolic — that they were ladies of 
 education and family, from some of the neighbouring 
 country houses, thus dressed up. They had hair and 
 eyes jet-black as any gipsies; and after all that has 
 been said of the beauty of some of the gipsy women — 
 and they have a great deal — were handsomer than 
 any gipsies I ever saw. The taller, who appeared 
 the younger of the two, was a very lovely woman, of 
 a slender figure, the exquisite symmetry of which was 
 not to be disguised by the rustic dress she had as- 
 sumed. The other had, or affected, a slight lisp. 
 Irresistible as such beggars might appear, I resolved 
 to refuse them, in order to see how they would keep 
 up the attempt, and how they would take a refusal. 
 I therefore said, laughing, " O ! I have no sixpences 
 for beggars like you ; you certainly are very charming 
 beggars ; you have chosen a very rustic costume ; 
 you act your part very well indeed, and I hope you 
 will enjoy your frolic." All this time I kept driving 
 on at a good pace; but the resolute damsels still ran 
 on, importuning for a sixpence. One soon dropped 
 behind — the taller one still ran on with her stick in 
 her hand, in a voice of much softness and sweetness 
 still begging for sixpence — as they were poor stran- 
 gers, and had got nothing all day ! As she ran, this 
 sort of badinage passed : — " Where do you come 
 from?" " O we have come all the way from Epsom
 
 GIPSIES. 247 
 
 to meet our young man here, and he has deceived 
 us." — " Well, I hope no young man will deceive 
 you more cruelly." " Dear gentleman, if you won't 
 give us sixpence, give us a penny then to buy us a 
 glass of ale ! " " O, you are no ale-drinkers — what 
 should you think of a glass of gin?" " I should like 
 something, for I am very tired : and what is sixpence 
 to you ? — you have a very good horse in your chaise ; 
 I have no doubt you are a gentleman of independent 
 fortune — do give us sixpence ! " " No, 1 wish I were 
 half as rich as you are." Here the fair beggar 
 stopped, and turned round with an air of very beau- 
 tiful disdain. As she went back to join her com- 
 panion, we were again struck with the grace of her 
 form, and the buoyancy of her carriage. 
 
 My impression was that these ladies were merely 
 acting beggars; but we soon found that they were 
 acting gipsies; for they offered to tell almost every 
 body's fortunes, and actually did tell some. As we 
 returned, we met them coming up a hollow woody 
 lane, near Bookham Common, about a mile from 
 where we left them ; and behold ! they, and the gen- 
 tleman who was there sitting on the stile — a military- 
 looking man with light mustachios — were walking 
 familiarly on together. It was evident that they had 
 found " their young man !" It was a group worthy 
 of the pencil of Stothard ; and on the opposite side of 
 the lane, from a cottage above it, out were come a 
 countrywoman, and six or seven children, of different 
 ages, in their rustic costume, and stood to look at 
 them — a little picture after the very heart of Collins. 
 The moment our actresses saw us, they motioned their 
 escort to move off to the other side of the way, and to
 
 248 GIPSIES. 
 
 walk on, as though he did not belong to them, and 
 again renewed their importunity as we passed. I 
 merely smiled, and moved my hat to them. As we 
 proceeded, I stopped and asked of all the country 
 people I met — who was that gentleman? and who the 
 ladies dressed as beggars ? The miller thought the 
 gentleman was from Bookham Lodge, the seat of 
 Captain Blackwood — he heard a large party of gentry 
 was just come there ; " but the women, sir, they are 
 Dutch women ! " Dutch women ! Broom-girls, in 
 fact ! Broom-girls, with legs and arms like young 
 elephants ! and broad solid figures, as if cut out of 
 blocks of wood — how very like those slim and elegant 
 creatures ! But it was enough for the worthy miller, 
 whose fortune they had offered to tell, that they had 
 on short bedgowns and dark petticoats. A grocer 
 from Epsom, with his spring-cart, going as they do 
 all round the country, from one gentleman's house to 
 another, had had his fortune told by them, and was 
 lost in amaze at the announcement that he had had 
 nine children, six of which were still living — five girls 
 and one boy ; the very facts to a hair ! A farmer and 
 his wife at Stoke, never dreamt that the gentleman 
 whom they had noticed belonged to these " young 
 baggages of beggars," that had been sitting on the 
 bank by the road-side opposite their house; but his 
 wife said one of them was the handsomest beggar she 
 ever saw. " Ay, they were both good-looking," said 
 the man, " and had famous things on." The groom 
 at the parsonage gate "didn't know the gentleman 
 in the mustachios ; but the women, bless you, they 
 were no ladies." "Why?" " O, they carried it 
 on too far for ladies here, I assure you." " What
 
 GIPSIES. 249 
 
 did they do ? " " O ! they came ringing at the bell 
 like new 'uns ; six or seven times they called us out — 
 they would take no nay." 
 
 Little did these fair ladies, when sallying out for 
 this frolic in the sylvan lanes of Surrey, dream, I dare 
 say, that they should meet " a chiel takin' notes," 
 that would put their exploits into print. Here they 
 are, however ; and if they should chance to see this, 
 I must tell them, that they were very sweet nonde- 
 scripts, but not very perfect beggars; and far, far 
 indeed from perfect Zinganies. For Madge Wild- 
 fires, they were not amiss ; but beggars, impudent as 
 they are, seldom ask for sixpences ; seldom appear in 
 new apparel; never run by the side of carriages — 
 that is left to beggar children. Pleading looks, and a 
 pitiful whining tone, with low genuflections, mark the 
 young beggar woman, as she stands fixed at one 
 place ; — her husband is dead, and she is going home 
 to her parents or parish ; or he is gone for a soldier, 
 and she is following to the garrison. Lancashire 
 witches they would have done for capitally — but then 
 witches don't tell fortunes by palmistry; their vocation 
 is by spell and cauldron ; and as for gipsies, why it is 
 just as difficult to mistake the particular expression 
 and cultivated voice of an English lady, as it is the 
 features and voice of the real gipsy-woman. Black 
 eyes and black hair these ladies had ; but they had 
 neither the olive skin, nor the bold, easy degagee air 
 of the gipsy belle; and what do gipsies with such 
 beautifully slender and delicate hands ? They were 
 importunate ; but nothing but a life and an education 
 in the gipsy-camp, and perhaps the blood and descent 
 of the gipsy, can give the peculiar style of palaver —
 
 250 
 
 GIPSIES. 
 
 a 
 
 the suavifer in modo — the unique flattery — the " you 
 are born fortunate, sir" — with which the gipsy accosts 
 you. And the costume ! The gipsy wears nothing 
 short. She has a long gown, — a long red cloak — a 
 handkerchief tied over her head, it is true, but upon 
 it a large flapping bonnet with lace trimming, or 
 black beaver hat ; — instead of that fairy form, she is 
 generally strapping, tall, and strong — and instead of 
 those taper ankles and small feet, which could evi- 
 dently dance down the four-and-twenty hours, she 
 has her lower limbs arrayed in black stockings and 
 stout shoes that would do for a wagoner. Young 
 gipsy women walk with sticks ! who indeed ever saw 
 an old one with one ? Knowing now who these 
 ladies were, I should, beforehand, have expected a 
 closer personation of the gipsy; but the result only 
 proves the difficulty of the attempt. It must, how- 
 ever be confessed, that this was as pretty a little rural 
 adventure as one could desire to meet with.
 
 251 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD; OR, 
 A PEEP INTO THE BACK SETTLEMENTS OF ENGLAND. 
 
 There are thousands of places in this beautiful king- 
 dom, which, if you could change their situation — if 
 you could take some plain, monotonous, and unin- 
 teresting tracts from the neighbourhood of large cities, 
 from positions barren and of daily observance, and 
 place these in their stead — would acquire an incalcul- 
 able value ; while the common spots would serve the 
 present inhabitants of those sweet places just as well, 
 and often far better, for the ordinary purposes of their 
 lives— for walking over in the day, sleeping in during 
 the night, and raising grass, cattle, and corn upon. 
 The dwellers of cities — the men who have made 
 fortunes, or are making them, and yet long for the 
 quietness and beauty of the country — but especially 
 the literary, the nature-loving, the poetical — would, 
 to use a common expression, jump at them ; and, if 
 it were in their power to secure them, would make
 
 252 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Iieavens-upon-eartli of them. Yes ! they are such 
 spots as thousands are longing for; as the day-dream- 
 ing young, and the world-weary old, are yearning 
 after, and painting to their mind's eye, daily, in great 
 cities ; and the dull, the common-place, the imperci- 
 pient of their beauty and their glory, are dwelling in 
 them: — paradisiacal fields and magnificent mountains; 
 or cloudy hollows in their mottled sides; or little 
 cleuchs and glens, hidden and green — overhung with 
 wild wood — rocky, and resounding with dashing and 
 splashing streams; — places, where the eye sees the 
 distant flocks and their slowly-stalking shepherds — the 
 climbing goat, the soaring eagle : and the ear catches 
 their far-off cries ; whence a thousand splendours and 
 pageants, changing aspects, and kindling and dying- 
 glories, in earth and sky, are witnessed ; the cheerful 
 arising of morning — the still, crimson, violet, purple, 
 azure, dim grey, and then dark fading away of day 
 into night, are watched; where the high and clear 
 grandeur and solitude of night, with its moon and 
 stars, and wandering breezes, and soul-enwrapping 
 freshness, are seen and felt. Such places as these, 
 and the brown or summer-empurpled heath, with its 
 patch of ancient forest; its blasted, shattered, yet 
 living old trees, greeting you with feelings and fancies 
 of long-past centuries ; the clear, rushing brook ; the 
 bubbling and most crystalline spring; and the turf 
 that springs under your feet with a delicious elasticity, 
 and sends up to your senses a fresh and forest-born 
 odour ; or cottages perched in the sides of glades, or 
 on eminences by the sea — the soul-inspiring sea — with 
 its wide views of coming and going ships, its fresh
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 253 
 
 gales, and its everlasting change of light and life, on 
 its waters, and on its shores ; its sailors, and its fisher- 
 men, with all their doings, families, and dependencie 
 — every one of them thoroughly covered and saturated 
 with the spirit of picturesque and homely beauty; or 
 inland hollows and fields, and old hamlets, lying amid 
 great woods and slopes of wondrous loveliness; — if we 
 could but turn thing's round, and bring these near us, 
 and unite, at once, city advantages, city society, and 
 them ! But it never can be ! And there are living 
 in them, from generation to generation, numbers of 
 people who are not to be envied, because they know 
 nothins: at all of the enviableness of their situa- 
 tion. 
 
 We are continually labouring to improve society — 
 to diflFuse education — to confer higher and ampler re- 
 ligious knowledge ; but these people know little of all 
 this — experience little of its eifect ; for their abodes, 
 and natural paradises, lie far from the great tracks of 
 travel and commerce ; far from our great roads ; in 
 the most out-of-the-world places — the very nooks of 
 the world. 
 
 If you come by chance upon them, you are struck 
 with their admirable beauty, their solemn repose, 
 their fresh and basking solitude. You cannot help 
 exclaiming. What happy people must these be ! But, 
 when you come to look closer into them, the delusion 
 vanishes. They do not, in fact, see any beauty that 
 you see. Their minds have never been stirred from 
 the sluggish routine of their daily life ; their mental 
 eye has never been unsealed, and directed to survey 
 the advantages of their situation. They have been 
 occupied with other things. Like the farmer's lad
 
 254 KOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 mentioned by Wordsworth, their souls have become 
 encrusted in their own torpor. 
 
 A sample should I give 
 Of what this stock produces, to enrich 
 The tender age of life, ye would exclaim, 
 " Is this the whistling plough-hoy whose shrill notes 
 Impart new gladness to the morning air ? " 
 Forgive me, if I venture to suspect 
 That many, sweet to hear of in soft verse. 
 Are of no finer frame ; — his joints are stiff; 
 Beneath a cumbrous frock, that to the knees 
 Invests the thriving churl, his legs appear, 
 Fellows to those that lustily upheld 
 The wooden stools, for everlasting use. 
 Whereon our fathers sate. And mark his brow ! 
 Under whose shaggy canopy are set 
 Two eyes, not dim, but of a healthy stare ; 
 Wild, sluggish, blank, and ignorant, and strange ; 
 Proclaiming boldly that they never knew 
 A look or motion of intelligence, 
 From infant conning of the Christ-cross-i'ow, 
 Or puzzling through "a Primer, line by line, 
 Till perfect mastery crown the pains at last. 
 
 The Excursion, B. 8. 
 
 This, however, is one of the worst specimens of the 
 most stupified class — farm-servants. Wordsworth 
 himself makes his good and wise Wanderer, a shepherd 
 in his youth, and describes him, when a lad, as im- 
 pressed with the deepest sense of nature's majesty. 
 He represents him, in one of the noblest passages of 
 the language, as witnessing the sun rise from some 
 bold head-land, and 
 
 Rapt into still communion that transcends 
 The imperfect offices of prayer and praise. 
 
 And, indeed, the mountaineer must be generally 
 excepted from that torpor of mind I have alluded to. 
 The forms of nature that perpetually surround him.
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 255 
 
 are so bold and sublime, that they almost irresistibly 
 impress, excite, and colour his spirit within him ; and 
 those legends and stirring histories which generally 
 abound in them, co-operate with these natural in- 
 fluences. This imawakened intellect dwells more 
 generally amid the humbler and quieter forms of 
 natural beauty ; in the " sleepy hollows" of more 
 champaign regions. 
 
 It might be supposed that these nooks of the world 
 would, in their seclusion, possess very much one 
 moral character; but nothing can be more untrue. 
 Universally, they may seem old-fashioned, and full of 
 a sweet tranquillity ; but their inhabitants differ widely 
 in character in different parts of the country — widely 
 often in a short space, and in a manner that can only 
 be accounted for by their less or greater communion 
 with towns, less or greater degree of education extend- 
 ed to them — and the kind extended. Where they are 
 far from towns, and hold little intercourse with them, 
 and have no manufactory in them, they may be dull, 
 but they are seldom very vicious. If they have had 
 little education, they lead a very mechanical sort of life; 
 are often very boorish, and have very confined notions 
 and contracted wishes; are rude in manner, but not bad 
 in heart. I have been in places — ay, in this news- 
 paper-reading age, where a newspaper never comes ; 
 where they have no public-house, no school, no church, 
 and no doctor ; and yet the district has been populous. 
 But, in similarly situated places, where yet they had 
 a simple, pious pastor — some primitive patriarch, like 
 the venerable Robert Walker, of whom so admirable 
 an account is given by Wordsworth ; where they have 
 been blest with such a man amongst them, and where
 
 256 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 they have had a school ; where they knew little of 
 what was going on in the world, and where yet you 
 were sure to find, in some crypt- like hole in the wall, 
 or in a little fire-side window, about half a dozen 
 books — the Bible, " Hervey's Meditations among the 
 Tombs," " Baxter's Saint's Everlasting Rest," " Ro- 
 maine's Life of Faith," or his "Drop of Honey 
 from the Rock Christ," " Macgowan's Life of Christ," 
 or " Drelincourt on Death," and such like volumes; 
 or " Robinson Crusoe," " Philip Quarle," "The His- 
 tory of Henry the Earl of Moreland," " Pilgrim's Pro- 
 gress," or "Pamela;" — have you found a simplicity 
 of heart and manner, a quiet prosperity, a nearer 
 approach to the Arcadian idea of rural life, than 
 anywhere else in this country. There are yet such 
 places to be found in our island, notwithstanding the 
 awful truth of what was said by Coleridge, that " Care, 
 like a foul hag, sits on us all; one class presses with 
 iron foot upon the wounded heads beneath, and all 
 struggle for a worthless supremacy, and all, to rise to 
 it, more shackled by their expenses." 
 
 But these are now few and far between ; and they 
 are certainly " nooks of the world," far from manu- 
 facturing towns; for my experience coincides with 
 that of Captain Lloyd, as given in his " Field Sports 
 of the North :" — " Manufactures, of whatever nature 
 they may be, may certainly tend to enrich individuals, 
 but, to my mind, they add little to the happiness of 
 the community at large. In what parts of any country 
 in the world are such scenes of vice and squalid 
 misery to be witnessed, as in manufacturing districts ?" 
 What he adds is very true — that, though it may 
 appear singular, yet it is a fact, that the farther we
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 257 
 
 retreat from great towns and manufactories, a greater 
 degree of comfort is generally to be observed amongst 
 the peasantry. It is, indeed, a strange relief to the 
 spirit of one who has known something of the eager 
 striving of the world, to come upon a spot where the 
 inhabitants are passing through life, as it were, in a 
 dream-like pilgrimage, half unconscious of its trials 
 and evils — an existence which, if it have not the 
 merit of great and triumphant virtue, has that absence 
 of selfish cunning, pride, sorrow, and degradation, 
 which one would seek for in vain amid more bustling 
 scenes. To find the young, soberly and cheerfully 
 fulfilling their daily duties — nowhere affluence, but 
 everywhere plenty and comfort observable — and the 
 old, in their last tranquil days, seated in their easy 
 chairs, or on the stone bench at their doors, glad to 
 chat with you on all they have known on earth and 
 hope for in heav^en — why, it would be more easy to 
 scathe such a place with the evil spirit of the town, 
 tlian to raise it in the scale of moral life. The ex- 
 periment of improvement there, you feel, would be a 
 hazardous one. It were easy and desirable to give 
 more knowledge : but not easy to give it unac- 
 companied by those blighting contaminations that at 
 present cling to it. 
 
 It is in those rural districts into which manufac- 
 tories have spread — that are partly manufacturing and 
 partly agricultural — that the population assumes its 
 worst shape. The state of morals and manners 
 amongst the working population of our great towns is 
 terrible — far more so than casual observers are aware 
 of. After all that has been done ,to reform and 
 educate the working class, the torrent of corruption
 
 258 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 rolls on. The most active friends of education, the 
 most active labourers in it, are ready to despair, and 
 sometimes exclaim — " What have we done, after all !" 
 There, the spirit of man is aroused to a marvellous 
 activity; but it is an unhealthful activity, and over- 
 powers, in its extravagance, all attempts to direct it 
 aright. " Evil communications corrupt good manners" 
 faster than good communications can counteract them; 
 and, where the rural population, in its simplicity, 
 comes in contact with this spirit, it receives the con- 
 tagion in its most exaggerated form — a desolating 
 moral pestilence ; and suffers in person and in mind. 
 There, spread all the vice and baseness of the lowest 
 grade of the town, made hideous by still greater 
 vulgarity and ignorance, and unawed by the higher 
 authorities, unchecked by the better influences which 
 there prevail, in the example and exertions of a higher 
 caste of society. 
 
 The Methodists have done much to check the pro- 
 gress of demoralization in these districts. They have 
 given vast numbers education ; they have taken them 
 away from the pot-house and the gambling-house ; 
 from low haunts and low pursuits. They have placed 
 them in a certain circle, and invested them with a 
 degree of moral and social importance. They have 
 placed them where they have a character to sustain, 
 and higher objects to strive after ; where they have 
 ceased to be operated upon by a perpetual series of 
 evil influences, and have been brought under the 
 regular operation of good ones. They have rescued 
 them from brutality of mind and manners, and given 
 them a more refined association on earth, and a warm 
 hope of a still better existence hereafter. If they
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 259 
 
 have not done all that could be desired, with such 
 materials, they have done much, and the country 
 owes them much. The thorough mastery of the evil 
 requires the application of yet greater power — it 
 requires a national power. The evil lies deeper 
 than the surface ; it lies in the distorted nature of our 
 social relations ; and, before the population can be 
 effectually reformed^ its condition must be physically 
 ameliorated ! 
 
 There never was a more momentous and sure truth 
 pronounced, than that pronounced by Christ — "They 
 who take the sword, shall fall by the sword." If they 
 do not fall by its edge, they will by its hilt. It is 
 under this evil that we are now labouring. As a 
 nation we have fallen, through war, into all our present 
 misery and crime. It is impossible that the great 
 European kingdoms, with their present wealth and 
 cultivated surfaces, in their present artificial state of 
 society, can carry on war without enduring evils far 
 more extensive, tremendous, and lasting, than the 
 mere ravaging of lands, the destruction of towns, or 
 even of human lives. We are, as a nation, an awful 
 proof of this at this moment. By the chances of war, 
 at one time manufacturing and farming almost for the 
 world; prospering, apparently, on the miseries of 
 whole kingdoms wrapt in one wide scene of promis- 
 cuous carnage and anarchy, our tradesmen and agri- 
 culturists commanded their own terms ; and hence, on 
 the one hand, they accumulated large fortunes, while, 
 on the other, the nation, by its enormous military pre- 
 parations — its fleets and armies marching and sailing 
 everywhere, prepared to meet emergencies at all 
 points and in all climes ; by its aids and subsidies
 
 260 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 abroad ; by Its wasteful expenditure at home — piled 
 up the most astounding debt ever heard of in the 
 annals of the world. A vast working population was 
 not merely demanded by this unnatural state of ex- 
 citement, but might be said to be forced into existence, 
 to supply all manner of articles to realms too busy in 
 mutual slaughter to be able to manufacture or plough 
 for themselves. Everything assumed a new and won- 
 derful value. All classes, the working classes as well 
 as the rest, with the apparent growing prosperity, 
 advanced into habits of higher refinement and luxury. 
 The tables of mechanics were heaped with loads of 
 viands of the best quality, and of the highest price, 
 as earliest in the market ; their houses were crowded 
 with furniture, till they themselves could scarcely turn 
 round in them — clocks, sometimes two or three in one 
 house ; chests of drawers and tables thronged into the 
 smallest rooms ; looking-glasses, tea-trays, and prints, 
 stuck on every possible space on the walls ; and, from 
 the ceiling depending hams, bags, baskets, fly-cages 
 of many colours, and a miscellaneous congregation of 
 other articles, that gave their abodes more the aspect 
 of warerooms or museums, than the dwellings of the 
 working class. Dress advanced in the same ratio; 
 horses and gigs were in vast request; and the publi- 
 cans and keepers of tea-gardens made ample fortunes. 
 The war ceased. Commerce was thrown open to 
 the competition of the world. The Continental na- 
 tions began to breathe, and to look round on their 
 condition. Their poverty and their spirit of emulation, 
 the sight of their own stripped condition, and of Eng- 
 land apparently enriched beyond calculation at their 
 expense, set them rapidly about helping themselves.
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 261 
 
 This could not but be quickly ajid deeply felt here. 
 To maintain our position, all manner of artificial 
 means were adopted. Every class, feeling the tide of 
 wealth changing its course, strove to keep what it had 
 got. The working class, as individually the weakest, 
 because they had spent their gains as they came, went 
 to the ground. The value of every necessary of life 
 was kept up as much as possible by legal enactments. 
 The rate of wages fell. The manufacturers, impelled 
 by the same necessity of struggling for the mainte- 
 nance of their rank, were plunged into the most eager 
 competition ; the utmost pressure of reduction fell on 
 the labour of the operatives, who, with their acquired 
 habits, were ill able to bear it. They were thrust 
 down to a condition the most pitiful and morally de- 
 structive — to excessive labour, to semi-starvation, to 
 pauperism. They could not send their children to 
 school — not so much from the expense of schooling — 
 for that was made light by public contribution, and 
 new plans of facility in teaching large numbers — but 
 because they wanted every penny their children could 
 earn, by any means, to aid in the common support. 
 Hence, mere infants were crowded in pestilent mills 
 when they should have been growing in the fresh air, 
 and were stunted and blighted in body and in mind — 
 a system, the evil of which became so enormous as to 
 call lately upon the attention of the legislature, and 
 the indignant wonder of the nation. The parents 
 themselves had not a moment's time to watch over 
 their welfare or their morals ; at least sixteen hours' 
 unremitting daily labour being necessary to the most 
 miserable existence. Evils accumulated on all sides. 
 The working class considered themselves cast off" from 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 262 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 the sympathies of the upper classes, regarded and 
 valued but as tools and machines ; their children 
 grew into ignorant depravity, in spite of all efforts of 
 law or philanthropy to prevent them. These causes 
 still operate wherever manufacturing extends : and, 
 till the condition of this great class, whether in towns 
 or villages, can be amended ; till time for domestic 
 relaxation can be given to the man, and a Christian, 
 rather than a literary, education to the boy — an in- 
 culcation of the beauty and necessity of the great 
 Christian principles ; the necessity of reverencing the 
 laws of God ; doing, in all their intercourse with 
 their fellow men, as they would be done by; the 
 necessity of purity of life and justice of action, rather 
 than the cant of religious feeling, and the blind 
 mystery of sectarian doctrine, — the law and the phi- 
 lanthropy must be in vain. 
 
 To the simple, and yet uncontaminated parts of 
 the country, there is yet a different kind of education 
 that I should rejoice to see extended. It should be, 
 to open the eyes of the rural population to the advan- 
 tages of their situation ; — to awaken a taste for the 
 enjoyment of nature ; — to give them a touch of the 
 poetical ; — to teach them to see the pleasantness of 
 their quiet lives, — of their cottages and gardens, — of 
 the freshness of the air and country around them, 
 especially as contrasted with the poor and squalid 
 alleys where those of their own rank, living in towns, 
 necessarily take up their abode, — of the advantages in 
 point of health and purity afforded to their children 
 by their position, — of the majestic beauty of the day, 
 with its morning animation, its evening sunsets, and 
 twilights almost as beautiful; its nightly blue altitude.
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 263 
 
 with its moon and stars: — all this might be readily- 
 done by the conversation of intelligent people, and 
 by the diffusion of cheap publications amongst them ; 
 and done, too, without diminishing the relish for the 
 daily business of their lives. Airy and dreamy 
 notions — notions of false refinement, and aspirations 
 of soaring beyond their own sphere — are not inspired 
 by sound and good intelligence, but by defective and 
 bad education. 
 
 The sort of education I mean has long been realized 
 in Scotland, and with the happiest results. There, 
 large towns and manufactories have produced their 
 legitimate effect, as with us; but, in the rm*al dis- 
 tricts, every child, by national provision, has a sound, 
 plain education given him. He is brought up in 
 habits of economy, and sentiments of rational religion, 
 and the most solemn and thorough morality. The 
 consequence is, that almost all grow up with a sense 
 of self-respect; a sense of the dignity of human 
 nature; a determined resolve of depending on their 
 own exertions : and, though no people are so national, 
 because they are made sensible of the beauty of their 
 country, and the honourable deeds of their forefathers, 
 yet, if they cannot find means of living at home 
 without degradation, and, indeed, without bettering 
 their condition, they soberly march off, and find some 
 place where they can, though it be at the very ends 
 of the earth. 
 
 Nothing is better known than the intelligence and 
 order that distinguish a great portion of the rural 
 population of Scotland. No people are more diligent 
 and persevering in their proper avocations ; and yet 
 none are more alive to the delights of literature.
 
 264 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Amid wild mountain tracks and vast heaths, where 
 you scarcely see a house as you pass along for miles, 
 and where you could not have passed two generations 
 ago without danger of robbery or the dirk, they have 
 book societies, and send new books to and fro to one 
 another, with an alacrity and punctuality that are 
 most delightful. When I have been pedestrianizing 
 in that country, I have frequently accosted men at 
 their work, or in their working dress — perhaps with 
 their axe or their spade in their hands, and three or 
 four children at their heels — and found them well 
 acquainted with the latest good publications, and 
 entertaining the soundest notions of them, without 
 the aid of critics. Such men in England would pro- 
 bably not have been able to read at all. They would 
 have known nothing but the routine of their business, 
 the state of the crop, and the gossip of the neigh- 
 bourhood : but there, sturdy and laborious men, 
 tanned with the sun, or smeared with the marl in 
 which they had been delving, have not only been 
 able to give all the knowledge of the district ; its 
 histories and traditions ; the proprietorships, and other 
 particulars of the neighbourhood ; but their eyes have 
 brightened at the mention of their great patriots, 
 reformers, and philosophers, and their tongues have 
 grown perfectly eloquent in discussing the works of 
 their poets and other writers. The names of Wallace, 
 Bruce, Knox, Fletcher of Saltoun, the Covenanters, 
 Scott, Burns, Hogg, Campbell, Wilson, and others, 
 have been spells that have made them march away 
 miles with me, when they could not get me into their 
 own houses, and find it difficult to turn back. 
 
 Now, why should not this be so in England?
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 265 
 
 Why should not similar means produce similar effects ? 
 They must and would ; and by imbuing* the rural 
 population \vith a spirit as sound and rational, we 
 should not only raise it in the social scale to a degree 
 of worth and happiness at present not easily imagin- 
 able, but render the most important service to the 
 country, by attaching "a bold peasantry, the country's 
 pride," to their native soil by the most powerful of 
 ties, and rendering them both able and more determined 
 to live in honourable dependence on self-exertion. 
 Book Societies, under local management, should do 
 for the Country what Mechanics' Libraries are 
 doing for the Towns — building up those habits, and 
 perfecting those healthful tastes, for which popular 
 education is but the bare foundation. 
 
 Wordsworth gives an account of the early years of 
 his Wanderer, which, under such a system, might be 
 that of thousands. 
 
 Early had he learned 
 To reverence the volume that displays 
 The mystery, the life which cannot die : — 
 What wonder if his being thus became 
 Sublime and comprehensive! Low desires, 
 Low thoughts, tl)ere had no place ; yet was his heart 
 Lowly ; for he was meek in gratitude, 
 Oft as he called those ecstasies to mind. 
 And whence they flowed; and from them lie acquired 
 Wisdom, which works through patience : hence lie learned 
 In oft-recurring hours of sober thought 
 'J'o look on nature witli a humble heart. 
 Self-questioned, where it did not understand, 
 And with a superstitious eye of love. 
 
 So passed the time ; yet to the nearest town 
 He daily went, with what small overplus 
 His earnings might supply, and brought away 
 The book that most had tempted his desires. 
 While at the stall he read. Among the hills,
 
 266 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 He gazed upon that mighty orb of song, 
 
 The divine Milton. Lore of different kind, 
 
 The annual savings of a toilsome life. 
 
 His schoolmaster supplied ; books that explain 
 
 The purer elements of truth, involved. 
 
 In lines and numbers, and, by charm severe, 
 
 (Especially perceived when nature droops. 
 
 And feeling is suppressed) preserve the mind 
 
 Busy in solitude and poverty. 
 
 Yet, still uppermost, 
 Nature was at his heart, as if he felt. 
 Though yet he knew not how, a wasting power 
 In all things that from her sweet influence 
 Might tend to wean him. Therefore, with her hues, 
 Her forms, and with the spirit of her forms, 
 He clothed the nakedness of austere truth, 
 While yet he lingered in the rudiments 
 Of science, and among her simplest laws : 
 His triangles — they were the stars of heaven. 
 The silent stars ! Oft did he take delight 
 To measure the altitude of some tall crag 
 That is the eagle's birth-place, or some peak 
 Familiar with forgotten years. 
 In dreams, in study, and in ardent thought. 
 Thus was he reared ; much wanting to assist 
 The growth of intellect, yet gaining more. 
 And every moral feeling of his soul 
 Strengthened, and braced, by breathing in content 
 The keen, the wholesome air of poverty. 
 And drinking from the well of homely life. 
 
 The Excursion, B. I. 
 
 Such a process I should rejoice to see producing 
 such characters in England. Yes ! Milton, Thomson, 
 Cowper, the pious and tender Montgomery, and 
 Bloomfield, one of their own kind, would be noble 
 and enriching studies for the simplest cottage, and 
 cottage-garden, and field-walk. Some of our con- 
 densed historians, our best essayists and divines, 
 travellers, naturalists in a popular shape, and writers
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 267 
 
 of fiction, as Scott, and Edgeworth, and De Foe, 
 mig-ht be with vast advantage diffused amongst them. 
 Let us hope it will one day be so. And already I 
 know some who have reaped those blessings of an 
 awakened heart and intellect, too long denied to the 
 hard path of poverty, and which render them not the 
 less sedate, industrious, and provident, but, on the 
 contrary, more so. They have made them, in the 
 humblest of stations, the happiest of men ; quickened 
 their sensibilities towards their wives and children ; 
 converted the fields, the places of their daily toil, into 
 places of earnest meditative delight — schools of per- 
 petual observation of God's creative energy and 
 wisdom. 
 
 It was but the other day that the farming-man of a 
 neighbouring lady having been pointed out to me as 
 at once remarkably fond of reading and attached to 
 his profession, I entered into conversation with him ; 
 and it is long since I experienced such a cordial plea- 
 sure as in the contemplation of the character that 
 opened upon me. He was a strong man ; not to be 
 distinguished by his dress and appearance from those 
 of his class, but having a very intelligent countenance; 
 and the vigorous, healthful feelings, and right views, 
 that seemed to fill not only his mind but his whole 
 frame, spoke volumes for that vast enjoyment and 
 elevation of character which a rightly directed taste 
 for reading would diffuse amongst our peasantry. 
 His sound appreciation of those authors he had read 
 — some of our best poets, historians, essayists, and 
 travellers — was truly cheering, when contrasted with 
 the miserable and frippery taste which distinguishes 
 a large class of readers ; where a-thousand-times-
 
 268 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 repeated novels of fashionable life, neither original in 
 conception nor of any worth in their object — the 
 languid offspring of a tinsel and exotic existence — 
 are read because they can be read without the labour of 
 thinking. While such works are poured in legions upon 
 the public, like a host of dead leaves from the forest, 
 driven along in mimic life by a mighty wind— and 
 while such things are suffered to swell the Puffiads of 
 publishers, and shoulder away, or discourage, the sub- 
 stantial labours of high intellect — it is truly reviving to 
 see the awakening of mind in the common people. It is, 
 I am persuaded, from the people that a regenerating 
 power must come — a new infusion of better blood into 
 our literary system. The inanities of fashion must 
 weary the spirit of a great nation, and be thrown off; 
 strong, native genius, from the measureless, un- 
 ploughed regions of the popular mind— robust, gigan- 
 tic, uneffeminated by luxury, glitter, and sloth — will 
 rise up, and put all soulless artificialities to shame; 
 and already mighty are the symptoms of such a change 
 manifested, in an array of names that might be 
 adduced. But 1 must not be farther led away by this 
 seducing topic. 
 
 I found this countryman was a member of our 
 Artisans' Library, and every Saturday evening he 
 walked over to the town to exchange his books. I 
 asked him whether reading did not make him less 
 satisfied with his daily work; his answer deserves 
 universal attention : — " Before he read, his work was 
 weary to him ; for, in the solitary fields, an empty 
 head measured the time out tediously, to double its 
 length; but, now, no place was so sweet as the 
 solitary fields: he had always something pleasant
 
 Nooks of the world. 269 
 
 floating across his mind ; and the labour was delight- 
 ful, and the day only too short." Seeing his ardent 
 attachment to the country, I sent him the last edition 
 of " The Book of the Seasons ;" and I must here give 
 a verbatim et literatim extract from the note in which 
 he acknowledged its receipt, because it not only con- 
 tains an experimental proof of the falsity of a common 
 alarm on the subject of popular education, but shews 
 at what a little cost much happiness may be conveyed 
 to a poor man : — " Believe me, dear sir, this kind act 
 has made an impression on my heart that time will 
 not easily erase. There are none of your works, in 
 my opinion, more valuable than this. The study of 
 nature is not only the most delightful, but the most 
 elevating. This will be true in every station of life. 
 But how much more ought the j^oor man to prize this 
 study ! which if prized and pursued as it ought, will 
 enable him to bear, with patient resignation and 
 cheerfulness, the lot by providence assigned him. O 
 Sir ! I pity the working man who possesses not a 
 ?osfe for reading. 'Tis true, it may sometimes lead 
 him to neglect the other more important duties of his 
 station ; but his better and more enlightened judgment 
 will soon correct itself in this particular, and will 
 enable him, while he steadily and diligently pursues 
 his private studies, and participates in intellectual 
 enjoyment, to prize, as he ought, his character as a 
 man in every relative duty of life." 
 
 What a nation would this be, filled with a peasantry 
 holding such views, and possessing such a consequent 
 character as this ! 
 
 The sources of enjoyment in nature have been too 
 long closed to the poor. The rich can wander from 
 
 N 3
 
 270 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 side to side of the island, and explore its coasts, its 
 fields and forests — but the poor man is fettered to the 
 spot. The rich can enter the galleries and exhibitions 
 of cities, and contemplate all the great works of art ; 
 the poor ought to he taught to knoio that, if they cannot 
 see the works of art — statues and paintings — they can 
 see those of God, — if they cannot gaze on the finest 
 forms of beauty from the chisel of the sculptor, they 
 may be taught to distinguish the beauty of all living 
 forms, — if they cannot behold splendid paintings of 
 landscapes, of mountains, of sea-coasts, of sunrises 
 and sunsets; they can see, one or other of them, all 
 the originals of these — originals to whose magnificence 
 and glory the copies never can approach. To the 
 poor, but properly educated man, every walk will 
 become a luxury, a poem, a painting — a source of the 
 sweetest feelings and the most elevating reflections. 
 
 But there is one class in these back settlements of 
 England to whom a liberal education is most requi- 
 site, and to whom it would be most difficult to give 
 it — the class of smaller resident proprietors. The 
 efi'ect of the possession of property in such places is 
 singular and most lamentable. It produces the most 
 impenetrable hardness of nature — the most selfish 
 and sordid dispositions. Everywhere, the tendency 
 of accumulation is to generate selfishness: but, in 
 towns, there are many counteracting influences ; the 
 emulative desire of vying, in mode of life, with equals 
 and superiors — the greater spread of information 
 — the various objects of pleasure and association, 
 which keep open the avenues of expenditure, not only 
 in the purse, but in the heart. Here there are none. 
 Amusements and dissipations are self-gratulatingly de-
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 271 
 
 nounced as gross follies and sins; objects of display, 
 as pride. The consequence is, that habits of the 
 strangest parsimony prevail — the rudest furniture, the 
 rudest style of living. Men who, in a town or its 
 neighbourhood, would appear as gentlemen, and, 
 perhaps, keep a carriage, there wear often clouted 
 shoes, threadbare and patched clothes, and a hat not 
 worth a farthing; and all in a fashion of the most 
 awkward rusticity. All wisdom is supposed to lie in 
 penuriousness. They have abundance of maxims for 
 ever in their mouths, full of that philosophy; as 
 "Penny-wise and pound-foolish" — "A penny saved 
 is a penny got" — " A pin a-day 's a groat a-year." 
 All ideas seem absorbed in the one grand idea of 
 accumulating coin, that will never be of more value 
 to them than so many oyster-shells. Such a thing as 
 a noble or generous sentiment would be a surprise to 
 their own souls. Of such men are made the hardest 
 overseers of the poor; whose screwing, iron-handed 
 administration of relief is the boast of the parish, and 
 has led to the most monstrous abuses. To them all 
 objects are alike; they have no discrimination; the 
 old and young, the idle and industrious, the sturdy 
 vagabond, and the helpless and dying ! — they deem it 
 a virtue to deny them all, till a higher power forces 
 the reluctant doit from their gripe. They are surly, 
 yet proud churls, living wrapped in a sense of their 
 own importance ; for they see nobody above them, 
 except there be a squire or a lord in the parish ; and 
 they see little of him, and then only to make their 
 passing obsequious bow ; for they are at once 
 
 Tyrants to the weak, and cowards to the strong. 
 
 Any education, any change, would be a blessing to 
 these men, that would bring them into collision with
 
 272 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 those of their own supposed standing-, but with better 
 education and more liberal views and habits. The 
 excess to which these causes operate in some of these 
 out-of~the-world places, is scarcely to be credited : 
 they produce the strangest scenes and the strangest 
 characters. Let us take a specimen or two from one 
 parish, that would be easily paralleled in many others. 
 In one part of this secluded neighbourhood, you 
 approach extensive woods, and behold amongst them 
 a house of corresponding air and dimensions — a man- 
 sion befitting a large landed proprietor. If you choose 
 to explore the outbuildings belonging to it, you will 
 find there a regularly educated and authorised physi- 
 cian, living in a dovecot, and writing prescriptions for 
 any that choose to employ him, for a crown, or even 
 half-a-crown, which he spends in drink. Paternal 
 example and inculcations made him what he is ; un- 
 fitted him for success in his profession, and left him 
 dependent on his elder brother, who afi'ords him the 
 asylum of his dovecot, yet so grudgingly that he has 
 even attempted to dislodge him by pulling off the roof; 
 and the poor doctor owes his retreat, not to his brother's 
 good-will, but to his own possession of a brace of for- 
 midable bull-dogs, that menace the destruction of any 
 assailant. The dogs lie in his chamber when you 
 enter, with their noses on the ground, and their dark 
 glittering eyes fixed steadily upon you, and are ready, 
 at a signal, to spring on you, and tear you to pieces. 
 The doctor's free potations have now deprived him of 
 the power of locomotion ; he cannot quit his pigeon- 
 house ; but one of his bull-dogs he has trained to act 
 as his emissary, and with a note suspended to his neck 
 by a tape, he goes to certain houses in the neighbour-
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 273 
 
 ing village, and so communicates his wishes to certain 
 cronies of his, who are in the habit of attending to 
 them. The dog would tear any one to pieces that 
 attempted to stop him while on his master's errands, 
 being a very strong and fierce creature ; but, if he is 
 not molested, he goes very civilly along to his place of 
 destination, and, when the note is taken off his neck 
 b)'^ the proper hands, returns with great punctuality 
 and decorum. 
 
 It must be said of this curiosity of a physician, that 
 he is the descendant of a very curious family ; whose 
 history, for the last three generations, would be a 
 regular series of eccentricities ; and the first of whom, 
 here resident, was a celebrated piratical captain, Avho 
 is said to have come hither disguised as a peasant, 
 seeking as secluded a country as he could find, and 
 driving before him an ass loaded with gold. It is cer- 
 tain that he purchased very extensive estates, and 
 that one of his descendants was a member of the last 
 Parliament, who, partaking of the family qualities, 
 excited more surprise and more laughter in the 
 house, than, perhaps, any man since the days of Sir 
 Thomas Lethbridge. 
 
 Not far thence, stands another residence. At some 
 distance, it appears a goodly manor-house. It is large ; 
 with white Myalls and many antique gables , a stately 
 avenue of elms in front ; tall pines about it, the land- 
 mark of the whole country round : a spacious garden, 
 with a summer-house on the wall, seeming to have 
 been built when there was some taste there for those 
 rural enjoyments which such a place is calculated to 
 afford to the amiable, country-loving, and refined. As 
 you come near, there appear signs of neglect and decay.
 
 274 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 Old timber, litter, and large stones lie about ; there 
 are broken windows, iinpainted and rotting woodwork: 
 everything looks forlorn, as if it were the residence of 
 poverty on the verge of utter destitution. 
 
 The fact is, the owner has landed property worth 
 from thirty to forty thousand pounds. But see the 
 man himself ! There he goes, limping across his 
 yard, having permanently injured one of his legs in 
 some of his farming operations. There he goes — a 
 tall, hard-featured, weather-beaten man, dressed in the 
 garb of the most rustic husbandman ; strong clouted 
 ankle-boots, blue or black ribbed worsted stockings : 
 corduroy small-clothes: a yellow striped waistcoat, 
 and a coat of coarse grey cloth, cut short, in a rude 
 fashion, and illustrated with metal buttons : a hat that 
 seems to have been originally made of coarse wool, or 
 dog's hair ; to have cost some four-and-sixpence some 
 dozen years ago — brown, threadbare, and cocked up 
 behind, by propping on his coat collar. 
 
 He has brought up a family of three sons, and 
 never spent on their education three pounds. The 
 consequence has been just what might be expected. 
 They came to know, as they grew up, " for quickly 
 comes such knowledge," their expectations ; and they 
 turned out rude, savage, and drunken. One married 
 a servant girl, and she dying, the son brought him- 
 self and several children to the old man's to live. 
 Warned by this — for, with all his clownish parsimony, 
 he has pride — the pride of property — he has put the 
 others on farms, and they have married farmers' daugh- 
 ters : but, always living in expectation of the old man's 
 death, they attend to no business; always looking for- 
 ward to the possession of his wealth, they have already
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 275 
 
 condemned a good part of it. If any man could be 
 punished, that man is, for sparing the expense of their 
 education, and for the example set before them ; for, 
 what he has made the sole object of all his thoughts 
 and labours, he sees them squandering, and knows 
 that they will squander it all. But he himself is not 
 guilty of all this ; he is but the victim of his own 
 education, and the maxims and manners of his ances- 
 tors. If he could have seen the usefulness of educa- 
 tion to his sons, he could not have found in his heart 
 to spend the necessary money ; but he could not see 
 it: anything further than to be able to sign a receipt, 
 and reckon a sum of money in their heads, he called 
 trash and nonsense. 
 
 When his sons were growing towards men, I have 
 chanced to pass his farm-yard, and seen him and two 
 of them filling a manure-cart; labouring, puffing and 
 blowing, and perspiring, as if their lives depended 
 on their labour ; and the old man was urging them on 
 with continual curses — " Curse thy body, Dick ! 
 Curse thy body, Ben ! — Ben ! Dick ! Ben ! Dick ! 
 work, lads, work !" And these hopeful sons were re- 
 paying their father's curses with the same horrible 
 earnestness. 
 
 A gentleman once told me that, having to call on 
 this man about some money transaction, he was de- 
 tained till twelve o'clock, and desired to stay dinner, 
 that being his hour. Out of curiosity, he consented. 
 Everything about the house was in the rudest and 
 most desolate state. I do not know whether they 
 had a cloth spread on the sturdy oak table, which 
 supported a set of pewter plates, a roasted fowl, and a 
 pudding in a huge brown oaken dish. The wife,
 
 276 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 stripjDed to her stays and quilted petticoat, was too 
 busy making cheese and scolding the servants to come 
 to dinner. The pater familias and his guest sat down 
 together. As he cut up the fowl, the two great lads, 
 Dick and Ben, then about twelve and fourteen years 
 of age, came, with their wild eyes staring sharply out 
 of their bushy heads of wild hair, and hung over their 
 father's chair, one on each side, with an eager expres- 
 sion of voracity ; for they were not asked to sit down. 
 The father, as if he expected them to pounce on the 
 dinner and carry it off, kept a sharp look-out on 
 them ; and though, out of deference to his guest, he 
 restrained his curses, he kept vociferating, as he" 
 turned his head first to one and then to the other, and 
 then gave a cut at the fowl — " Ben ! Dick ! get 
 away, lads ! get away ! get away ! get away !" But 
 the moment a leg and a wing were cut off, the lads 
 made a sudden spring, and each seizing a joint, 
 bounded out of the apartment, leaving the old man in 
 wonder at the unmanageableness of his sons. From 
 such an education who can doubt the result? — a 
 brood of savages, the nuisance of the neighbourhood, 
 and torment of the old man's days. To such a height 
 lias the old man's agony arisen at times, as he saw the 
 wasteful conduct of his sons, that it is a pretty well 
 established fact, that on one occasion he threw himself 
 down in a ditch in one of his own fields, and — did not 
 pray to die, for he never knew the beginning, middle, 
 or end of a prayer, but he tried to die ; but, after a 
 long and weary endeavour, finding it in vain, he got 
 up and hobbled off home again, saying — " Well, 1 
 see it is as hard to die as to live. I can't die ! I 
 can't die ! I must even bear it, till these lads kill me
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 277 
 
 by inches — and that must be a plaguy while first ; for 
 I measure two yards of bad stuff, and I think I'm as 
 hard as a nur,* and as tough as whitleather." 
 
 Ben, now upwards of forty years of age, still lives 
 with the old man, working as a labourer on his farm, 
 and is maintained with his children. Money he 
 never sees : but his father allows him to sell bundles 
 of straw; and he may be seen, in an evening, with 
 two bundles of straw under each arm, proceeding to 
 the alehouse in the next village, where he barters 
 them for the evening cup. Nay, the other night, a 
 person encountered, as he supposed, a thief issuing 
 .from the old man's yard, with a huge beam on his 
 shoulder. It was Ben, going to turn it into ale ; who 
 desired his neighbour to say nothing. Nothing chu 
 more strikingly close this account than the old man's 
 usual description of his three sons. " My son Dick 
 has Cain's mark on his forehead ; Ben, if ale was a 
 guinea a-pint, and he had but one guinea in the 
 world, would buy a pint of ale ; and, as for Simon — 
 he is a gentleman ! He takes a certificate to shoot. 
 He runs with those long legs of his over three 
 parishes, and comes slinging home with a crow, or a 
 pinet* — ay ay, Simon is a gentleman ! " 
 
 In this same nook of the world might be seen, 
 some years ago, two brothers, stout farmers — farmers 
 of their own property — heaping curses and recrimina- 
 tions on each other about their possessions, in so loud 
 a voice that they have been heard half a mile oif. 
 This enmity outlasted the elder, and burned in the 
 breast of the younger for years after. For it was 
 
 * Nur — a hard knot of wood used by boys at bandy instead of a ball. 
 
 f Magpie.
 
 278 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 some years after, that he attended the funeral of a 
 niece whom he left through life to the charity of another. 
 When the funeral was over, they adjourned with the 
 parson to the public-house ; and here the person who 
 had cared for the neglected niece, urged the uncle 
 now to pay some part of the funeral charges. " Yes," 
 said he, " thou hast been at a deal of cost," (these 
 country people still retain the use of thou and thee), 
 " and here is a sixpence for the parson's glass of 
 brandy and water." The astonished man pushed 
 back the sixpence with contempt; but, at this mo- 
 ment, in came a lad to tell them that the grave being 
 made too near that of the deceased brother, the earth 
 had suddenly fallen in, and broken in the lid of the 
 old man's coffin. At this, the living brother started 
 up in evident delight and exclaimed — " Why, has it ? 
 Why, has it? Thou tells me summut, lad ! thou 
 tells me summut ! " And he gave him the sixpence 
 he had generously destined for the parson's glass. 
 
 A scene, described to me by a professional land- 
 agent, would seem to belong to the generation of 
 Parson Adams and Squire Western, but it actually 
 occurred but the other day, and only seven miles 
 from one of our largest county towns. This land- 
 agent was sent for on business by an old gentleman 
 of large landed estate in that county. As the gen- 
 tleman's house was in a secluded situation, off the 
 highways, and it was a fine, cool, autumnal day, he 
 took a foot-path which led the whole way across de- 
 lightful fields, and after enjoying his walk through 
 meadows and woods, arrived at the Hall with a most 
 vigorous appetite, just as the squire and his house- 
 keeper were sitting down to dinner. Of course.
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 279 
 
 nothing less could take place than an invitation for 
 him to join them ; which he was not in the disposi- 
 tion by any means to decline. I need scarcely say 
 that the fact of the squire and his house-keeper sitting 
 at the same table indicates the ancient gentleman as 
 one of the real old school. He was, in fact, a tall, 
 gaunt, meagre old fellow, whose sole pleasure was 
 putting out his rents on good security, and whose sole 
 family consisted of his house-keeper and one old 
 amphibious animal, who, if he had as many heads as 
 occupations, would have carried at least four more 
 than Janus — occupying his talents, as he did, as 
 gardener, groom, serving-man, and three or four 
 other personages. The whole house and everything 
 about it bore amplest marks of neglect and antiquity. 
 Not a gate, or a door, or a window, or a carpet, or 
 any other piece of furniture, but was just as his father 
 left it fifty years before, except for the work which 
 time, and such tying and patching as were absolutely 
 needful to keep certain things together, had done. 
 Our agent looked with some curiosity at the two 
 covers on the table before them, which being removed 
 revealed a single partridge and three potatoes. The 
 house-keeper having cut the partridge into quarters, 
 gave each of the gentlemen one, and took the third 
 herself. Our worthy land-agent supposing this to be 
 but a slioht first course, was astounded to hear the 
 squire say, he hoped Mr. Mapleton would make a 
 dinner — for he saw what there was ! On this signifi- 
 cant hint Mr. Mapleton made haste to dispatch his 
 quarter of bird, and cast eager looks on the remaining 
 quarter in the dish. The house-keeper, indeed, was 
 just proceeding to extend the knife and fork towards
 
 280 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 it, saying, perhaps Mr. Mapleton would take the 
 other quarter, when the old gentleman said very 
 smartly; " Don't urge Mr. Mapleton unpleasantly — 
 don't overdo him — I dare say he knows when he has 
 had enough, without so much teasing. I have made 
 an excellent dinner indeed !" 
 
 Hereupon the house-keeper's arms and weapons 
 were drawn back abruptly; the old gentleman rang 
 the bell, and the shuffling old serving-man entered 
 and cleared all away. As the cloth and the house- 
 keeper disappeared, the squire also opened a tall cup- 
 board on one side of the fire-place, and Mr. Mapleton 
 began to please his fancy with a forthcoming appari- 
 tion of wine. Having sate, however, sometime, and 
 hearing from behind the tall door, which was drawn 
 partly after the old squire so as to conceal him, cer- 
 tain sounds as of decanting liquor, and as of a knife 
 coming in contact with a plate, sounds particularly 
 familiar and exciting to hungry ears, he contrived to 
 lean back so far in his chair as to catch a view of the 
 tall figure of the squire standing with a large plum- 
 cake upon the shelf before him, into which he had 
 made a capacious incision, and a glass of wine, more- 
 over, at a little distance. This discovery naturally 
 making our land-agent extremely restless, he began 
 to indicate his presence by sundry hems, shuffles, 
 coughs, and drummings on his chair, whicli imme- 
 diately produced tliis consequence. The old squire's 
 head protruded from behind the cupboard door with 
 an inquiring look; and finding the eyes of Mr. Ma- 
 pleton as inquiringly fixed on him, he said — " Mr. 
 Mapleton, will you take a glass of wine?" "Cer- 
 tainly, Sir, with the greatest pleasure." The wine
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 281 
 
 was carefully poured out ; making various duckings, 
 or sobbings in the throat of the bottle as very loath 
 to leave it, and was set on the table before Mr. Ma- 
 pleton. No invitation, however, to a participation of 
 the cake came; and after sitting perhaps a quarter of 
 an hour longer, listening to the same inviting sounds 
 of scraping plate and decantation, he was compelled 
 again to shuffle, hem, and drum. This had a similar 
 happy effect to the former attempt; — out popped the 
 squire's head with a — " Would you take another glass 
 Mr. Mapleton?" "Certainly, Sir, with the greatest 
 pleasure, I feel thirsty with my walk." The bottle 
 was produced, and the glass filled, but to put an end 
 to any further intimations of thirst, the door was in- 
 stantly closed, the key dropped into the squire's capa- 
 cious pocket, and the old gentleman forthwith entered 
 upon business, which, in fact, concerned thousands of 
 pounds. 
 
 Before closing this gallery of country oddities, I 
 must say that, in some instances, much goodness of 
 heart is mixed up with this wild growth of queerness. 
 There are very many who will know of whom I am 
 speaking, when I say that there was in the last gene- 
 ration a gentleman in one of the midland counties 
 who was affected with this singular species of mono- 
 mania: at every execution at the county town he 
 purchased the rope or ropes of Jack Ketch. These 
 ropes, duly labelled with the name of the culprit, the 
 date of his execution, and the crime for which he 
 suffered, were hung round a particular room. On 
 one occasion, arriving at the town and being told that 
 the criminal was reprieved, he exclaimed — " Gracious 
 Heavens, then I have lost my rope ! " The son of
 
 282 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 this gentleman still displays a good deal of hereditary 
 eccentricity, but has destroyed these ropes. Never- 
 theless, I am told, that the carving-knife used in his 
 kitchen is the very sword with which Lord Byron 
 killed Chaworth. He still lives in the same house, 
 and, old bachelor as he is, maintains the old English 
 style and hospitality in a degree not often to be wit- 
 nessed now. His personal appearance is unique. 
 He is tall, with a ruddy countenance, with white 
 whiskers, white waistcoat, white breeches, and white 
 lining to his coat. He always appears most scrupu- 
 lously and delicately clean. His estate is large ; and 
 whoever goes to his house on business, finds bread and 
 cheese and ale set before him. His house-keeper is 
 said to receive no regular wages, but every now and 
 then a fifty pound note is put into her hands, so that 
 she has grown tolerably rich. It is a standing order 
 in the house, that every poor person, come whence he 
 may, who has lost a cow, and is seeking to get an- 
 other, shall receive a sovereign. I have heard a gen- 
 tleman say, who knows him well, that his benevolence, 
 particularly to young tradesmen, is most extraordi- 
 nary: and that being himself once supposed to be on 
 his death-bed, this worthy man came, sate down by 
 him, cried like a child, and told him, if he had not 
 provided for his children just as he wished, that he 
 had only to tell him what he would have done, and 
 then and there it should be done. No relationship 
 whatever existed; and this noble oflfer was not ac- 
 cepted. The same gentleman told me that it is the 
 regular habit of this worthy example of Old English 
 simplicity and goodness of heart, every evening before 
 he retires to rest, to sit quietly for a certain time in
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 283 
 
 his easy chair, endeavouring to discover whether he 
 has done anj'thing wrong during the day, or has 
 possibly hurt any one's feelings; and if he fancies he 
 has, he hastens the next morning to set all right. It 
 is delightful to have to record proofs of the yet exist- 
 ing spirit of ancient hospitality and simple worth of 
 character. 
 
 In conclusion, — let me observe that some of the 
 foregoing cases are shocking ones ; but they are only 
 too true ; and such are but the events of every day in 
 those sleepy hollows, where public opinion has no 
 weight, and where ignorance and avarice are handed 
 down from age to age. I have seen hundreds of such 
 things in such places. And what mode of regene- 
 ration shall reach this class of people, who have the 
 rust of whole ages in their souls ? You cannot offer 
 to them education, as you do to the poor. You 
 cannot reason with them, as with the poor. They 
 have too much pride. It can only be by educating 
 all around them, that you can reach them. When 
 they feel the effect of the education of the poor, their 
 pride will compel them to educate their children. 
 This will be one of the many good results that will 
 flow from the education of the poor in the back 
 settlements of England. Let us, then, direct the 
 stream of knowledge into the remotest of these 
 obscure places. If the penny periodicals were, by 
 some means, made to circulate there, as they circulate 
 in towns — the Penny Magazine^ and Saturday Maga- 
 zine, with their host of wood-cuts and useful facts ; 
 and Chamhers' Edinburgh Journal, with its more 
 refined and poetical spirit — they would work a great 
 change. Prints and cuts from good originals would
 
 284 NOOKS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 awaken a better taste; higher ideas of the beauty of 
 created forms : for I say with Rogers — 
 
 Be mine to bless the mere mechanic skill 
 That stamps, renews, and multiplies at will; 
 And cheaply circulates through distant climes, 
 The fairest relics of the purest times. 
 
 We blame our populace for not possessing the 
 same refined taste as the French and Italians; for 
 being brutal and destructive; that parks, public walks, 
 and public buildings, cannot be thrown open to them 
 without receiving injury. We ought not to blame 
 them for this ; for is not this the English spirit that 
 has been praised in Parliament? for the encourage- 
 ment of which, bull-baitings, dog-fightings, cock- 
 fightings, and boxings have been pleaded for by 
 senators, as its proper aliment? and the Romans, 
 with their gladiatorial shows, quoted as good prece- 
 dents? Forgetting that while the Romans were a grow- 
 ing and a conquering people, they were a simple and 
 domestic people. When they had their amphitheatres 
 and their bloody shows of battling men and beasts, 
 they fell under imperial despotism, and thence into 
 national destruction. If we will have a better spirit, 
 we must take better means to produce it. We can 
 never make our rural population too well informed. 
 Ireland, with all manner of horrible outrages, England 
 with its rick-burnings, and Scotland with its orderly 
 peasantry, all point towards the evils of ignorance and 
 oppression, and the national advantage and individual 
 happiness that are to be reaped from the spread of 
 sound knowledge through our rural districts.
 
 ^,?i??Je- 
 
 
 
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 '/ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 NOOKS OF THE WORLD: — LIFE IN THE DALES OF 
 LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 
 
 The nooks of the world M'hich we visited in our last 
 chapter lay in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire; we 
 will now change the scene a little northward. Such 
 secluded and original spots we might indeed readily 
 undertake to discover in almost every county of 
 England ; but I can only give a few specimens from 
 the great whole, and leave every one to look about 
 him for the rest. Lancashire is famous for its im- 
 mense manufactures, and consequent immense popu- 
 lation. In ranging over its wild, bleak hills, we are 
 VOL. I. o
 
 286 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 presently made sensible of the vast difference between 
 the character and habits of the working class, and 
 the character and habits of the pastoral and agri- 
 cnltural districts. We have no longer those pictu- 
 resque villages and cottages half buried in their garden 
 and orchard trees ; no longer those home-crofts, with 
 their old, tall hedges; no longer rows of bee-hives 
 beneath their little thatched southern sheds; those 
 rich fields and farm-houses, surrounded with wealth of 
 corn-ricks, and herds and flocks. You have no longer 
 that quiet and Arcadian-looking population ; hedgers 
 and ditchers, ploughmen and substantial farmers, who 
 seem to keep through life the " peaceful tenor of their 
 way," in old-English fulness and content. There 
 may indeed, and there are, such people scattered here 
 and there ; but they and their abodes are not of the 
 class which gives the predominant character to the 
 scenery. On the contrary, everywhere extend wild 
 naked hills, in many places totally unreclaimed; in 
 others, enclosed, but exhibiting all the signs of a 
 neglected and spiritless husbandry ; with stunted 
 fences or stone walls; and fields sodden with wet 
 from want of drainage, and consequently over-grown 
 with rushes. Over these naked and desolate hills are 
 scattered to their very tops, in all directions, the 
 habitations of a swarming population of weavers ; the 
 people and their houses equally unparticipant of those 
 features which delight the poet and the painter. The 
 houses are erections of stone or brick, covered with 
 glaring red tiles, as free from any attempt at beauty 
 or ornament as possible. Without, where they have 
 gardens, those gardens are as miserable and neglected 
 as the fields; within, they are squalid and comfortless.
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 287 
 
 In some of these swarming villages, ay, and in the 
 cottages of the large manufacturing towns too, you 
 can scarcely see a window with whole panes of glass. 
 In one house in the outskirts of Blackburn, and that 
 too, an ale-house, M^e counted in a window of sixty 
 panes, eight-and-forty broken ones ; and this window 
 was of a pretty uniform character with its fellows, both 
 in that house, and the neighbouring ones. It is not 
 possible to conceive a more violent and melancholy 
 contrast tlian that which the filth, the poverty, and 
 forlornness of these weavers' and spinners' dwellings 
 form to the neatness, comfort, and loveliness of the 
 cottages of the peasantry in many other parts of the 
 kingdom. Any man who had once been through this 
 district, might again recognize the locality if he were 
 taken thither blindfold, by the very smell of oatcake, 
 which floats about the villages, and the sound of the 
 shuttles with their eternal "latitat ! latitat !" I ranged 
 wide over the bleak hills in the neighbourhood of 
 Padiham, Belthorne, Guide, and such places, and the 
 numbers and aspect of the population filled me with 
 astonishment. Through the long miserable streets of 
 those villages, children and dogs were thick as motes 
 in the sun. The boys and men with their hair shorn 
 off, as with a pair of wool-shears, close to their heads, 
 till it stood up staring and bristly, and yet left hang- 
 ing long over their eyes, till it gave them a most 
 villanous and hanoman look. "What makes those 
 rough heads more conspicuous, is their being so 
 frequently red ; the testimony of nature to the ancient 
 prevalence of the Dane on these hills. The men are 
 besides long and bony ; the women often of stalwart 
 and masculine figure, and of a hardness of feature 
 
 VOL. J. o *
 
 288 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 which gives them no claims to be ranked amongst the 
 most dangerous of the " Lancashire witches." Every- 
 where the rudeness of the rising generation is wonder- 
 fuL Everywhere the stare of mingled ignorance and 
 insolence meets you ; everywhere a troop of lads is 
 at your heels, with the clatter of their wooden clogs, 
 crying — " Fellee, gies a hawpenny ! " 
 
 In one village, and that too the celebrated Roman 
 station of Ribchester, our chaise was pursued by 
 swarms of these wooden-shod lads, like swarms of 
 flies, that were only beaten off for a moment to close 
 in upon you again, and their sisters showed equally 
 the extravagance of rudeness in which they were 
 suffered to grow up, by running out of the houses as 
 we passed, and poking mops and brushes at the horses' 
 heads. No one attempted to restrain or rebuke them, 
 and yet what was odd enough, not one of the adult 
 population offered you the least insult, but if you 
 asked the way, gave you the most ready directions, 
 and if you went into their houses, treated you with 
 perfect civility, and showed an affection for these 
 wild brats that was honourable to their hearts, and 
 wanted only directing by a better intelligence. The 
 uncouthness of these poor people is not that of evil 
 disposition, but of pressing poverty and continued 
 neglect. As is generally the case, in the poorest 
 houses were the largest families. Ten and eleven 
 children in one small dirty hovel was no uncommon 
 sight, actually covering the very floor till there seemed 
 scarce room to sit down; and amid this crowd, the 
 mother "was generally busy washing, or baking oat- 
 cakes ; and the father making the place resound with 
 the "latitat, latitat" of his shuttle. One did not
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 289 
 
 wonder, seeing this, that the poor creatures are glad 
 to turn out the whole troop of children to play on the 
 hills, the elder girls lugging the babies along with them. 
 The wildness into which some of these children in 
 the more solitary parts of the country grow is, I 
 imagine, not to be surpassed in any of the back 
 settlements of America. On July 5th of last year, 
 the day of that remarkable thunder-storm, which 
 visited a great part of the kingdom with such fury, 
 being driven into a cottage at the foot of Pendle by 
 the coming on of this storm, and while standing at 
 the door watching its progress, I observed the head of 
 some human creature carefully protruded from the 
 doorway of an adjoining shed, and as suddenly with- 
 drawn on being observed. To ascertain what sort of 
 person it belonged to, I went into the shed, but at 
 first found it too dark to allow me to discover any 
 thing. Presently, however, as objects became visible, 
 I saw a little creature, apparently a girl of ten years 
 old, reared very erectly against the opposite wall. 
 On accosting her in a kind tone, and telling her to 
 come forward, and not to be afraid, she advanced from 
 the wall, and behold ! there stood another little 
 creature about the head shorter, whom she had been 
 concealing. I asked the elder child whether this 
 younger one was a girl. She answered — " Ne-a." 
 " Was it a boy?" " Ne-a." " What ! neither boy 
 nor girl ! was she herself a girl?" " Ne-a." " What 
 was it a boy that I was speaking to ?" " Ne-a." 
 " What in the name of wonder were they then ?" 
 " We are childer." " Childer ! and was the woman 
 in the house their mother?" "Ne-a." "Who was 
 she then ?" " Ar Mam." " O ! your mam ! and do
 
 290 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 you keep cows in this shed ?" " Ne-a." " What 
 then?" " Bee-as." In short, common English was 
 quite unintelligible to these little creatures, and their 
 appearance was as wild as their speech. They were 
 two fine young creatures, nevertheless, especially the 
 elder, whose form and face were full of that symmetry 
 and free grace that are sometimes the growth of un- 
 restrained nature, and would have delighted the 
 sculptor or the painter. Their only clothing was a 
 sort of little boddice with skirts, made of a reddish 
 stuff, and rendered more picturesque by sundry patches 
 of scarlet cloth, no doubt from their mother's old 
 cloak. Their heads, bosoms, and legs to the knees 
 were bare to all the influences of earth and heaven ; 
 and on giving them each a penny, they bounded away 
 with the fleetness and elasticity of young roes. No 
 doubt, the hills and the heaths, the wild flowers of 
 summer and the swift waters of the glens were the 
 only live-long day companions of these children, who 
 came home only to their oatmeal dinner, and a bed as 
 simple as their garments. Imagine the violent change 
 of life, by the sudden capture and confinement of 
 these little English savages, in the night and day noise, 
 labour, and foul atmosphere of the cotton purgatories ! 
 In the immediate neighbourhood of towns, many 
 of the su'elling ranges of hills present a much more 
 cultivated aspect, and delight the eye with their 
 smooth, green, and flowing outlines ; and the valleys 
 almost everywhere, are woody, watered with clear 
 rapid streams, and, in short, are beautiful. But along 
 these rise up the tall chimneys of vast and innumerable 
 factories, and even while looking on the palaces of the 
 master manufacturers. Math their woods, and gardens,
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 291 
 
 and slirubbery lawns around them, one cannot help 
 thinking of all the horrors detailed before the Com- 
 mittees of the House of Commons respecting the 
 Factory System; of the parentless and friendless little 
 wretches, sent by wagon loads from distant work- 
 houses to these prisons of labour and despair ; of the 
 young frames crushed to the dust by incessant labour; 
 of the beds into which one set of children got, as 
 another set got out, so that they were said never to 
 be cold the whole year round, till contagious fevers 
 burst out and swept away by hundreds these little 
 victims of Mammon's over -urging, never-ceasing 
 wheel. Beautiful as are many of those wild glens 
 and recesses where, before the introduction of steam, 
 the dashing rivulet invited the cotton spinners to 
 erect their mills ; and curious as the remains of those 
 simple original factories are, with their one great 
 water-wheel, which turned their spindles while there 
 was water, but during the drought of summer quite 
 as often stood still ; yet one is haunted even there, 
 amongst the shadows of fine old trees that throw their 
 arms athwart streams dashing down their beds of solid 
 rock, by the memory of little tender children who 
 never knew pity or kindness, but laboured on and on, 
 through noon and through midnight, till they slept 
 and yet mechanically worked, and were often awaked 
 only by the horrid machinery rending off their little 
 limbs. In places like these, Mdiere now the old 
 factories, and the large houses of the proprietors 
 stand deserted, or are inhabited by troops of poor 
 creatures whose poverty makes them only appear the 
 more desolate, we are told by such men as Mr. 
 Fielden of Oldham, once a factory child himself and
 
 •29*2 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 now a ffreat manutacturerj who dares to reveal the 
 secrets of the prison-house, that little creatures have 
 even committed suicide to escape from a life worse 
 ihan ten deaths. And what a mighty system is this 
 now become ! What a perpetual and vast supply of 
 human life and energy it requires, with aU the facili- 
 ties of improved machinerVj with all the developed 
 power of steam., and with all the growing thirst of 
 wealth to urge it on ! We are told that the state of 
 the factories, and the children employed in them is 
 greatlv improved : and I trust they are : but if there 
 be anv truth in the evidenc-e given before the parlia- 
 mentary committees, there is need of great amelio- 
 ration yet : and it is when we recollect these things, 
 how completelv the labouring clas has, in these 
 districts, been regarded as mere machinery for the ac- 
 cumulation of enormous capitals, that we cease to 
 wonder at their unc-outh and degraded aspect, and 
 at the neo^lect in which thev are suffered to swarm 
 over these hills, — like the very weeds of huma- 
 nitv, cast out into disregarded plac-es, and left to 
 spread and increase in rank and deleterious \uxu- 
 riance. The numbers of drimken men that you meet 
 in these districts in an evening, and the numbers of 
 tcomen that you see sealed with their ale-pots and 
 pipes roimd the ale-house fires, a sight hardly else- 
 where to be witnessed, form a striking contrast to the 
 stare of things in the agricultural districts, such as 
 Craven, where you may pass through half-a-dozen 
 viiiaores and not find one pot-house. 
 
 It was necessary to take a glimpse at these Lan- 
 cashire hills in reviewing the rural life of England ; 
 let us now pass into a tract of the country which
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 293 
 
 borders immediately upon them, and yet is so totally 
 unlike in its aspect and population. We shall now 
 penetrate into perhaps the most perfect nook of the 
 world that England holds. The Yorkshire dales are 
 known to most by name, but to comparatively few by 
 actual visitation. Thev lie amongrst that wild tract of 
 hills which stretch alongr the West Riding- of York- 
 shire, from Lancashire to Westmoreland, and form 
 part, in fact, of the great mountainous chain which 
 runs from Derbyshire through these counties and 
 Cumberland into Scotland. Some of these hills are 
 of great bulk and considerable altitude. The old 
 rhymes are well known of 
 
 and, 
 
 Icgleborough, Pendle, and Pennegeat 
 
 Are the higaest hills betwixt Scotland and Trent; 
 
 Pendle, Pennegent, and Ingleborough 
 Are the highest hills all £ngland thorough. 
 
 The Yorkshire dales stretch from the foot of Ingle- 
 borough north-east and west, over a considerable space 
 of country. It is a wild, and, in many parts, a drearv 
 region. Long ridges of hills covered with black 
 heath, or bare stone, — with stony wastes at their feet 
 of the grimmest and most time-worn character. 
 All round Ingleborough the whole country seems to 
 have been so tossed, shaken, and undermined by the 
 violence which at some period broke it up into its 
 present character, that its whole subterranean space 
 seems to be filled with caves and passages for winds 
 and waters that possess a remarkable connexion one 
 with another, and present a multitude of singular 
 phenomena. On the Craven side lie those celebrated 
 spots Malham Cove and Gordale Scar, well known to
 
 294 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 tourists; the one, a splendid range of precipice with a 
 river issusing from its base, the other, Gordale Scar, 
 one of the most solemnly impressive of nature's works. 
 It is that of a river which has torn its way from the 
 top of a mountain, through a rugged descent in the 
 solid rock, and falls into a sort of cove surrounded by 
 lofty precipices, which make such a gloom that on 
 looking up, the stars are said sometimes to be seen at 
 noon. Amongst all the magnificent scenes which the 
 mountainous parts of these kingdoms present, I never 
 visited one which impressed me with so much awe 
 and wonder as this. You approach it by no regular 
 road ; you have even to ask permission to pass through 
 the yard of a farm-house, to get at it ; and your way 
 is then up a valley, along which come two or three 
 streams, running on with a wild beauty and abundance 
 that occupy and delight your attention. Suddenly, 
 you pass round a rock, and find yourself in this so- 
 lemn cove, the high grey cliffs towering above you on 
 all sides, the water dropping from their summits in a 
 silver rain, and before you a river descending from a 
 cleft in the mountain, and falling, as it were, over a 
 screen, and spreading in white foam over it in a 
 solemn and yet riotous beauty. This screen is formed 
 of the calcareous deposit of the water; and crossing 
 the stream by the stones which lie in it, you may 
 mount from the greensward which carpets the bottom 
 of the cove, climb up this screen, and ascend along 
 the side of the falling torrent, up one of the most wild 
 and desolate ravines, till you issue on the mountain 
 top, where the mountain cistus and the crimson gera- 
 nium wave their lovely flowers in the breeze. 
 
 These scenes lie on the Craven side of Ingle-
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 295 
 
 borough, and as you wind round his feet, though 
 distantly, by Settle, to the dales, your way is still 
 amongst the loftiest fells, and past continual proofs 
 of subterranean agency, and agency of past violence. 
 You are scarcely past Settle, when by the road-side 
 you see a trough overflowing with the most beauti- 
 fully transparent water. You stop to look at it, and 
 it shrinks before your eyes six or seven inches, per- 
 haps, below the edge of the trough, and then again 
 comes gushing and flowing over. As you advance, 
 the very names of places that lie in view speak of a 
 wild region, and have something of the old British or 
 Danish character in them. To your left shine the 
 waters distantly of Lancaster Sounds, and Morecombe 
 Bay, and around you are the Great Stone of Four 
 Stones, the Cross of Grete, Yorda's Cave, that is, the 
 cave of Yorda, the Danish sorceress; Weathercote 
 Cave, and Hurtle-pot and Gingle-pot. Our progress 
 over this ground, though early in July, was amid 
 clouds, wind and rain. The black heights of Ingle- 
 borough were only visible at intervals through the 
 rolling rack, and all about Weathercote Cave, Hurtle- 
 pot and Gingle-pot were traces of the violence of out- 
 bursting waters. We found a capital inn nearly 
 opposite the Weathercote Cave, where one of the 
 tallest of imaginable women presented us with a 
 lunch of country fare, — oat-cake, cheese, and porter, 
 and laid our cloaks and great-coats to dry while we 
 visited the Cave and the Pots. Weathercote Cave, is 
 not, as the imagination would naturally suggest to 
 any one, a cave in the side of a hill or precipice, but 
 a savage chasm in the ground, in which you hear the 
 thunder of falling waters. It is just such a place as 
 
 o2
 
 296 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 one dreams of in ancient Thessaly, haunted by Pan 
 and the Satyrs. When you come to the brink of 
 this fearful chasm, which is overhung with trees and 
 bushes, you perceive a torrent falling in a column of 
 white foam, and with a thundering din, into a deep 
 abyss. Down to the bottom of this abyss there is a 
 sloping descent, amongst loose and slippery stones. 
 When you reach the bottom, a cavern opens on your 
 left, into which you may pass, so as to avoid the mass 
 of falling water, which is das lied upon a large black 
 stone, and then is absorbed by some unseen channel. 
 The huge blocks of stone which lie in this cave appear 
 black and shining as polished ebony. I suppose this 
 chasm is at least a hundred feet deep, and yet a few 
 days before we were there, it had been filled to over- 
 flowing with water, which had rushed from its mouth 
 with such violence as to rend down large trees around 
 it. What is still more remarkable, at a few hundred 
 yards distance is another chasm of equal depth, and of 
 perpendicular descent, whence the torrents swallowed 
 by the Weathercote Cave during great rains are again 
 ejected with incredible violence. This had taken 
 place, as we have said, a few days before our visit, 
 and though this gulph was now dry again, the evi- 
 dences of its fury were all around us. Wagon loads 
 of stones lay at its mouth, which had been hurled 
 up with the torrent of water, all churned or hurtled 
 (whence its name of Hurtle-pot) by its violence into 
 the roundness of pebbles ; and trees were laid pros- 
 trate, with their branches crushed into fragments, in 
 the track by which the waters had escaped. This 
 track was towards the third singular abyss — Gingle- 
 pot. This gulph had a wider and more sloping
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 297 
 
 mouth than the other, so that you could descend a 
 considerable depth into it, but there you found a black 
 and sullen water, which the people say has never been 
 fathomed. It is said to contain a species of black 
 trout, which are caught, we were told, by approach- 
 ing the surface of the M^ater with lighted torches by 
 night, towards which they rise. Several country 
 fellows were amusing themselves as we approached 
 with rolling large stones into the abyss, which cer- 
 tainly sunk into the water with an awful sound. 
 
 Such is the region which abuts upon the Yorkshire 
 dales. The dales themselves are the intervening 
 spaces betwixt high fells, which run in long ranges 
 one beyond another in a numerous succession. Some 
 of these dales possess a considerable breadth of mea- 
 dow land, as Wensley-dale, but the far greater num- 
 ber have scarcely more room in the bottom than is 
 occupied by the stream and the public road. Thus 
 every dale seems a little world in itself, being shut in 
 by its high ranges of fell. If you ascend to the ridge 
 of one of these, you find another dale, lying at your 
 feet, with its own little community; were you to cross 
 to the next ridge, you would find another, and so on, 
 far and wide. It is a land of alternating ridge and 
 hollow, ridge and hollow, or in the language of the 
 district, fell and dale, without any intervention of 
 champaign country. Wordsworth's description in 
 Peter Bell, shows that the poet had been there, as 
 well as the potter. 
 
 And he had trudged through Yorkshire dales, 
 Among the rocks and winding scars ; 
 Where deep and low the hamlets lie, 
 Beneath their little patch of sky, 
 And little lot of stars.
 
 298 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 Formerly, when there were no roads into these 
 secluded dales, except some shingly ravine, down 
 which the pedestrian, or one of their native ponies 
 could with considerable caution, and sundry strikings 
 of the foot against loose stones, descend, few, except 
 the inhabitants themselves could visit them, and they 
 then must have possessed a primitive character indeed. 
 Now, however, good roads run through them, and a 
 greater intercourse with the surrounding country must 
 have had its effect, yet 1 know no other corner of 
 England where still linger so patriarchal a character 
 and such peculiar habits. 
 
 George Fox, in his travels far and wide through the 
 realm to promulgate his doctrines, penetrated into 
 these dales. From the top of Pendle-hill in Lan- 
 cashire, where there is an immense prospect, he tells 
 us in his journal, that he had a vision of the triumphs 
 of his ministry, and of the thousands that would be 
 converted to his peculiar faith. Descending in the 
 strength of this revelation, he marched northward, 
 and speedily found in these dales a primitive race, 
 ready to adopt his opinions and practices, so con- 
 genial to a simple and earnest-hearted people. There 
 he repeatedly came, and sojourned long ; and the 
 accounts of the extraordinary meetings held, and the 
 effect produced, have few parallels in the histories of 
 religious reformers. There is a little church-of-Eng- 
 land chapel perched on the highest point of Kendal 
 Fells, not far from Sedburgh, which is in the out- 
 skirts of this district, called Firbank Chapel, where a 
 thousand people are said to have been collected to 
 hear him, and at which three hundred people were 
 convinced of the truth, to use his own words, at one
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 299 
 
 time. That little chapel is standing yet, perhaps 
 the very humblest fabric in England belonging to 
 the Established Church, old and dilapidated, and 
 situated in one of the most singular and wild situa- 
 tions. Near the door is a rock, on which, it is said, 
 he stood to preach. From its high site you look 
 around over dreary moors, and a vast tract of out- 
 stretched country, and wonder whence the people 
 gathered to his ministry. But his fame was that of 
 an apostle all round this country. In Sedburgh 
 churchyard stand two yew trees, under the shade of 
 which, he, on one occasion preached, drawing all the 
 people out of the church to him. Within the dales 
 themselves he planted several meetings, at Aysgarth, 
 Counterside, and Laygate. These meetings still 
 remain, and a considerable number of Friends are 
 scattered through the dales, of a primitive and hospit- 
 able character. We went, on the only Sunday which 
 we passed in the dales, to his favourite meeting of 
 Counterside, and could almost have imagined that the 
 remarkable times of his ministry were yet remaining. 
 We found the meeting situated amid a cluster of 
 rustic cottages in pleasant Simmerdale, by Simmer- 
 dale W^ater. The house in which he usually lived 
 during his visits to this valley adjoined the meeting; 
 a true old-fashioned house, where the remains of his 
 oaken bedstead were still preserved; and a very hand- 
 some one it must have been, and far too much adorned 
 with the vanity of carving for so plain a man, and so 
 homely a place. But the people were flocking from 
 all sides, down the fells, along the dales to the meet- 
 ing, not only the Friends themselves, but the other 
 dalespeople ; and we found Mr. Joseph Pease, brother
 
 300 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 of the M.P., and his lady, from Darlington, addressing 
 a crowded audience. The old times of Fox seemed 
 indeed returned. The preacher's discourse was one 
 of an earnest and affectionate eloquence, and the 
 audience was of a most simple and unworldly charac- 
 ter. Almost every person, man or woman, had a 
 nosegay in hand ; nosegays in truth, for they very 
 liberally and repeatedly applied them to the organ 
 whence they are named. The herbs, for they con- 
 sisted rather of herbs than flowers, were as singular 
 as the appearance of such a host of nosegays itself. 
 Not one of them was without a piece of southern- 
 wood, in some instances almost amounting to a bush, 
 and evidently there entitled to its ancient name, 
 "lads'-love and lasses'- delight." With this was 
 grasped in many a hardy hand, thyme, and ailcost, 
 and in many, mint ! No doubt the pungent qualities 
 of these herbs are found very useful stimulants in 
 close and crowded places of worship, and especially 
 under a drowsy preacher, by those whose occupations 
 for the other six days lie chiefly out-of-doors, in the 
 keen air of hills and moors. That such is the object 
 of them was sufficiently indicated by a poor woman 
 who offered us a little bunch of these herbs as we 
 entered the meeting-house, saying with a smile, 
 " they are so reviving." 
 
 Amongst the Friends, are a considerable number 
 of substantial people, who lead here a sort of patri- 
 archal life, with their flocks and herds on the hills 
 around them. And their houses, placed on the slope 
 of the hills, yet not far above the level of the valley, 
 with their ample gardens, must be in the summer 
 months most agreeable abodes. Old English hos-
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 301 
 
 pitality and kindness are found here in all their 
 strength. We called on several of the resident pro- 
 prietors, and amongst others Mr. William Fothergill, 
 at Carr-End. The garden of this gentleman was a 
 perfect Paradise of roses. But the fine old intellec- 
 tual man himself, retaining beyond his eightieth year, 
 and in this secluded place, all the enthusiasm of youth, 
 the love of books, and aspirations after the spread of 
 knowledge and freedom through the world, was a still 
 more attractive object. He is the descendant of two 
 well-known men, Dr. Fothergill, and Samuel Fother- 
 gill, an eminent minister in this society. Talent and 
 liberality of sentiment seem a congenial growth of 
 these dales, for the able and noble-minded Adam 
 Sedgwick is a native of one of them. 
 
 To that valley, the beautiful dale of Dent, we may 
 as well betake ourselves, for in describing these retired 
 regions, one portion may with great propriety be taken 
 as a specimen of the whole. Descending therefore 
 from the moors at Newby-Head, we found this south- 
 ern entrance of Dent-dale steep and narrow. As we 
 proceeded, it wound on before us for several miles, 
 till we beheld the village of Dent lying at its northern 
 extremity. Dent's-Town, as they call it, has a very 
 Swiss look, with its projecting roofs, and open galleries 
 ascended by steps from the outside. But what strikes 
 you with most surprise in this dale is its high state of 
 cultivation. All the lower part of the dale is divided 
 into small enclosures, rich with grass and summer 
 flowers, and beautifully wooded; and amid the or- 
 chards and gardens, peep out houses of various sizes 
 and characters. The hills nearly meet at the bottom, 
 and ascend high, in two long ranges. The upper
 
 302 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 part, above the enclosures appears, in some parts, black 
 with heath, but more generally smooth and green, and 
 dotted all over with flocks of sheep and geese. On 
 the wilder parts of these hills graze a great number 
 of cattle, and a shaggy race of ponies, peculiar to 
 them, with coats and manes long, and bleached by the 
 wintry winds, till they look at a distance, more like 
 wild bisons than horses. These dun ponies, before 
 the progress of enclosure, used sometimes to follow 
 the tops of the hills right away into Scotland, and have 
 been fetched back from a distance of two hundred 
 miles. When they have shed their wintry coats, and 
 ceased to have such a look 
 
 As of the dwellers out of doors ; 
 
 they often turn out very beautiful creatures, remark- 
 ably sure-footed, and highly prized for drawing in 
 ladies' pony-carriages. But we must descend into the 
 valley : and here one of the most remarkable features 
 is the river. It has all the character of a mountain 
 torrent ; huge stones, and masses of gravel everywhere 
 demonstrating the occasional violence of the waters. 
 But what has the most singular effect, its bed is one 
 of solid stone, in some parts black or dark-grey marble, 
 which is chafed and worn by the fury of the stream in 
 floods, in such a manner that it looks itself like a rush- 
 ing, billowy river, petrified by enchantment. A great 
 part of this bed during the summer is dry, and there- 
 fore the more remarkable in its aspect. Here and 
 there you may walk along it for a considerable dis- 
 tance ; then again it descends in precipices, and amid 
 blocks of stone of a gigantic character. One of these 
 places is known by the name of Hell's Cauldron, no 
 doubt in rainy seasons a most appropriate name ; for
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 303 
 
 the river here, overhung with dark masses of trees, 
 falls over some huge steps of the stony bed into a 
 deep and black abyss, where the rending of the rocks 
 and washing up of heaps of debris, shew with what 
 fury that cauldron boils. But what are still more sig- 
 nificant of this fury, are the hollows worn into the very 
 mass of the ledges of rocks over which it passes, one 
 of which, overlooking the abyss, is called the Pulpit, 
 from its form, and in which you may stand. These 
 hollows, which are scooped out with wonderful regu- 
 larity, appear to be made by the churning and grinding 
 of stones, which get in wherever the softer parts of the 
 rocks give way to the action of the floods. Yet fear- 
 ful as this Hell's Cauldron must be when the stream is 
 swollen, we were told that a boy once slipped in, and 
 was carried through it, and washed up on the bank 
 below, unhurt; — calling out to his astounded com- 
 panions — " Here am I ! where are you ?" The pub- 
 lic road runs along the side of the stream, down the 
 valley. This stream is crossed by two queer little 
 foot-bridges, called by the odd names of Tummy and 
 Nelly, or Tummy-Brig, and Nelly- Brig, having been 
 built by two persons of these familiar names, to 
 accommodate the inhabitants of the opposite sides of 
 the dale. And truly, as will be shortly evident, a 
 great accommodation they must be, not only in cases 
 of actual business, but in those visitings which go on 
 in the dale. 
 
 Not only the people and their houses have an 
 old-fashioned look, but you see continually out-of- 
 doors lingering vestiges of long-past times and ancient 
 usages. There are sledges, with which they bring 
 stone and peat from the tops of the fells. I have often
 
 304 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 wondered at the industry of mountain people in build- 
 ing up those stone walls, or dykes, as they call them, 
 which you often see running up the mountain sides, 
 to very distant and often very steep places ; but cross- 
 ing these fells, I discovered that the labour was far 
 less than it seemed at first sight. The material has 
 not to be carried up these lofty ascents : it abounds on 
 their summits, and has only to be loosened, and slid 
 down the hill sides on sledges, as they proceed, for 
 they begin to build at the top, and not at the bottom. 
 So their peat for fuel is found in abundance on the 
 wet and spongy tops of these hills, and is dug, and 
 reared on end to dry through the summer, and in the 
 autumn is slid down on sledges. In the Scottish 
 Highlands you see the women bringing the peat from 
 the mountains in large creels, or baskets, on their 
 backs, while their husbands are perhaps angling in the 
 loch below; but here the men generally act a less 
 lordly part ; cutting and drying the peat with the help 
 of their boys, and sledging it home into the bargain. 
 
 Besides these sledges, they have also that very 
 ancient species of cart, the tumbrel ; or as they call 
 it, the Tumble-Cart. This is of so primitive a con- 
 struction that the wheels do not revolve on a fixed 
 axle, but the axle and wheels all revolve together. 
 The wheels themselves are of a construction worthy 
 of so pristine an axle ; they are, in truth, wheels of 
 the original idea : not things of the complex construc- 
 tion of nave, spokes, and fellies, but solid blocks of 
 wood, into which the axle is firmly inserted; upon this 
 axle the body of the vehicle is laid, and kept in its 
 place by a couple of pegs. It is such a cart as you 
 might imagine rumbling down these hills in the days
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 305 
 
 of their Saxon ancestors. Since good roads have 
 been opened through the dales, carts of modern con- 
 struction have followed, and these tumbrels will in 
 awhile be no longer seen. They have, however, this 
 advantage ; in descending the steep sides of the hills, 
 their clumsy construction of axle and wheel prevents 
 them from running down too fast, and this is the cause 
 why they are still retained. And yet this difficulty 
 of movement sometimes becomes the cause of awkward 
 dilemmas. These tumbrels are apt to stick in the 
 bogs as they come down the fells, and are not easily 
 drawn out. We were assured that there was one 
 then sticking in a bog on the hills, past all chance of 
 recovery ; and some wag of the dale had made this 
 distich on the accident, denoting the peculiar pre- 
 eminence of clumsiness in the unfortunate vehicle. 
 
 "Willie O'Middlebrough's tumble-car. 
 Many were better, and none waur. 
 
 With a carriage so antique, one is not surprised to 
 find gears of corresponding character. Consequently, 
 as in Cornwall, so here, collars of straw and a few 
 ropes often serve to harness out the team. 
 
 As might be supposed, the inhabitants of one dale 
 form a little community or clan where every one is 
 known to the rest, and where a great degree of 
 sociality and familiarity prevails : but the whole dale 
 sub -divides itself again into neighbourhoods, where a 
 stronger esprit du corps exists. The dales are sin- 
 gularly marked by lines of ravines and streams, which 
 run down the sides of the fells from the bogs and 
 springs on the heights. These lines are commonly 
 fringed on the lower slopes by alders and other water- 
 lovinof trees. The smaller streams are called sike,
 
 306 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 the larger gills, and the largest, being generally those 
 which run along the dale, becks. The space from 
 gill to gill generally constitutes a neighbourhood, or 
 if that space is small, it may include two or three gills. 
 Within this boundary they feel it a duty, established 
 by time and immemorial usage, to perform all offices 
 of good neighbourhood, and especially that of associ- 
 atinof tojrether. For instance, when a birth is about 
 to take place, they have what is called a Shout. The 
 nearest neighbour undertakes the office of herald. 
 She runs from house to house, through the neigh- 
 bourhood, though it be dead of night, summoning all 
 the wives with this cry — " Run, neighbour, run, for 
 neighbour such-a-one wants thy help — and take thy 
 warming-pan with thee!" The consequence is, that 
 the house is speedily filled with women and warming- 
 pans; a scene ludicrous, and, one would imagine, in- 
 convenient enough too ; but which the women of the 
 dale all protest is a great comfort. When the child 
 is born, there is a great ceremony of washing its head 
 with brandy, v/hich is performed by the father and 
 his male friends, who are assembled for the occasion ; 
 and who then fall to, and make merry over their 
 glasses. 
 
 The assembled women regale themselves with a 
 feast of their own kind, being a particular species of 
 bread made for the occasion, and sweet-butter ; that 
 is, butter mixed with rum and sugar, and having in 
 truth no despicable flavour. Then comes the Wife- 
 day, generally the second Sunday after the birth, 
 when all the women of the neighbourhood who have 
 attended at the Shout, go dressed in their best, to take 
 tea, and hold a regular gossip, each carrying with her
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 307 
 
 a shilling and the news of the neighbourhood. The 
 highest possible offence that can be given, is to pass 
 over a person within the understood limits of the 
 neighbourhood — it is the dead-cut. Sometimes there 
 occurs a false Shout, either through the wantonness 
 or malice of some ne'er-do-weel. In the night, the 
 mischievous wag runs from house to house, and calls 
 all the good wives to the dwelling whence they are 
 hourly expecting such a summons. When they 
 get there, they find it a hoax, and come under the 
 name of May-goslings, — the term applied to this 
 species of dupe. The joke, however, is no venial 
 one, for it is perhaps played off on a severe and tem- 
 pestuous night, and the good dames, muffled up in 
 their cloaks, and lantern and warming-pan in hand, 
 have to steer their way down the sides of hills, and 
 across becks hidden by the drifts of snow. Similar 
 assemblages take place at deaths, called Passings ; 
 and at Christmas, when they eat yule bread and yule 
 cheese, made after a particular formula. 
 
 But perhaps the most characteristic custom of the 
 Dales, is what is called their Sitting, or going-a- 
 sitting. Knitting is a great practice in the dales. 
 Men, women, and children all knit. Formerly you 
 might have met the wagoners knitting as they went 
 alono- with their teams ; but this is now rare ; for the 
 greater influx of visitors, and their wonder expressed 
 at this and other practices, has made them rather 
 ashamed of some of them, and shy of strangers ob- 
 serving them. But the men still knit a great deal in 
 the houses ; and the women knit incessantly. They 
 have knitting schools, where the children are taught; 
 and where they sing in chorus knitting songs, some
 
 308 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 of whicli appear as childish as the nursery stories of 
 the last generation. Yet all of them bear some 
 reference to their employment and mode of life ; and 
 the chorus, which maintains regularity of action and 
 keeps up the attention, is of more importance than the 
 words. Here is a specimen. 
 
 Bell-wether o' Barking,* cries baa, baa, 
 How many sheep have we lost to-day ? 
 Nineteen have we lost, one have we fun. 
 Run Rockie,f run Rockie, run, run, run. 
 
 This is sung while they knit one round of the stock- 
 ing ; when the second round commences they begin 
 again — 
 
 Bell-wether o' Barking, cries baa, baa, 
 How many sheep have we lost to-day? 
 Eighteen have we lost, two have we fun. 
 Run, Rockie, run Rockie, run, run, run ; 
 
 and SO on till they have knit twenty rounds, decreas- 
 ing the numbers on the one hand, and increasing 
 them on the other. These songs are sung not only 
 by the children in the schools, but also by the people 
 at their sittings, M'hich are social assemblies of the 
 neighbourhood, not for eating and drinking, but ' 
 merely for society. As soon as it becomes dark, and 
 the usual business of the day is over, and the young 
 children are put to bed, they rake or put out the fire ; 
 take their cloaks and lanterns, and set out with their 
 knitting to the house of the neighbour where the 
 sitting falls in rotation, for it is a regularly circulating 
 assembly from house to house through the particular 
 neighbourhood. The whole troop of neighbours 
 being collected, they sit and knit, sing knitting-songs, 
 
 * A mountain over-looking Dent Dale. t The shepherd's dog.
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 309 
 
 and tell knitting'-stories. Here all the old stories and 
 traditions of the dale come up, and they often get so 
 excited that they say, " Neighbours, we '11 not part 
 to-night," that is, till after twelve o'clock. All this 
 time their knitting goes on with unremitting speed. 
 They sit rocking to and fro like so many weird 
 wizards. They burn no candle, but knit by the light 
 of the peat fire. And this rocking motion is con- 
 nected with a mode of knitting peculiar to the place, 
 called swaving ; which is difficult to describe. Ordi- 
 nary knitting is performed by a variety of little 
 motions, but this is a single uniform tossing motion 
 of both the hands at once, and the body often accom- 
 panying it with a sort of sympathetic action. The 
 knitting produced is just the same as by the ordinary 
 method. They knit with crooked pins called pricks ; 
 and use a knitting-sheath consisting commonly of a 
 hollow^ piece of wood, as large as the sheath of a 
 dagger, curved to the side, and fixed in a belt called 
 the cowhand. The women of the north, in fact, often 
 sport very curious knitting sheaths. We have seen 
 a wisp of straw tied up pretty tightly, into which they 
 stick their needles ; and sometimes a bunch of quills 
 of at least half-a-hundred in number. These sheaths 
 and cowhands are often presents from their lovers to 
 the young women. Upon the band there is a hook, 
 upon which the long end of the knitting is suspended 
 that it may not dangle. In this manner they knit for 
 the Kendal market, stockings, jackets, nightcaps, and 
 a kind of caps worn by the negroes, called bump-caps. 
 These are made of very coarse worsted, and knit a 
 yard in length, one half of which is turned into the 
 other, before it has the appearance of a cap.
 
 310 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 The smallness of their earnings may be inferred 
 from the price for the knitting of one of these caps 
 being three pence. But all knit, and knitting is not so 
 much their sole labour as an auxiliary gain. The 
 woman knits when her household work is done ; the 
 man when his out-of-door work is done ; as they walk 
 about their garden, or go from one village to another, 
 the process is going on. We saw a stout rosy girl 
 driving: some cows to the field. She had all the cha- 
 racter of a farmer's servant ; without anything on her 
 head, in her short bedgown, and wooden clogs, she 
 went on after them with a great stick in her hand. 
 A lot of calves which were in the field, as she opened 
 the gate, seemed determined to rush out, but the 
 damsel laid lustily about them with her cudgel, and 
 made them decamp. As we observed her proceedings 
 from a house opposite, and, amused at the contest 
 between her and the calves, said, " well done ! dairy 
 maid !" " O," said the woman of the house, "that is 
 no dairy maid : she is the farmer's only daughter, and 
 will have quite a fortune. She is the best knitter in 
 the dale, and makes four bump-caps a day ;" that is, 
 the young lady of fortune earned a shilling a-day. 
 
 The neighbouring dale, Garsdale, which is a nar- 
 rower and more secluded one than Dent, is a great 
 knitting dale. The old men sit there in companies 
 round the fire, and so intent are they on their occupa- 
 tion and stories, that they pin cloths on their shins to 
 prevent their being burnt ; and sometimes they may 
 be seen on a bench at the house, and where they have 
 come out to cool themselves, sitting in a row knitting 
 with their shin-cloths on, making the oddest appear- 
 ance imaginable.
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 311 
 
 It may be supposed that eccentricity of character is 
 the growth of such a phice. A spirit of avarice is one 
 of the most besetting- evils. Many of the people are 
 proprietors of their little homesteads; but there is no 
 manufacturing beyond that of knitting, and money 
 therefore is scarce. As it is not to be got very easily, 
 the disposition to hold and save it becomes proportion- 
 ably strong. They are extremely averse to suffer any 
 money to go out of the dale ; and will buy nothing, if 
 they can avoid it, of people who travel the country 
 w'ith articles to sell ; that would be sending money 
 out of the dale ; but they will go to a shop in the 
 dale, and buy the same thing, not reflecting that the 
 shopkeeper must first purchase it out of the dale, and 
 therefore send money out of the dale to pay for it ; 
 and that what goes out of the dale for such articles 
 comes back again by the sale of their horses, cattle, 
 and sheep. A person who had been collector of the 
 taxes in one of these dales, described to us the exces- 
 sive difficulty he had to collect the money, even from 
 those whom he knew always had it. They would put 
 off payments as long as possible, and when he went 
 and told them it was positively the last time he could 
 call, they would sit doggedly, and declare that Samp- 
 son was strong, and Solomon was wise, but neither 
 could pay money when they had not it. When they 
 saw he would not depart, they would, at length, get 
 up, go up stairs, where they always kept their cash. 
 There he could hear them slowly open their chest, let 
 down the lid again ; open it again in awhile ; then 
 shut it again, and M'alk about the room as if unable to 
 part with it. Then they would come to the top of 
 the stairs, and shout down, saying they would not pay
 
 312 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 it. Finding him still immoveable, they would come 
 slowly down, but still persist — " I'll nae gie it thee ! " 
 Then perhaps soon after, as if relenting, they would 
 come towards him, open their hand with the money in 
 it, extending it towards him ; but when he offered to 
 take it, snatch it away, saying — "Nay; tou'st niver 
 hae it!" Finally they would throw it to him, and 
 with it abundance of angry words. We met a man of 
 a most gaunt and miserable appearance. A young man 
 not more than thirty years of age. He had all the 
 aspect of a penurious fellow. Dirty, unshaven, with 
 soiled clothes and unwashed linen. He was coming 
 along the lane with a rude tumbril. This man was a 
 thorough miser as ever existed. He lived totally 
 alone. He suffered no woman to come about his 
 house. If his clothes ever were washed they M'ere 
 done by himself, but he never bought an ounce of 
 soap. He had bought a small property; a house and 
 some adjoining crofts, where he lived. From this 
 place he was called Tony of Todcrofts. This man 
 was never known to part with money, except to the 
 tax-gatherer. If he wanted a board put on his cart, 
 or a nail to keep it together, he bargained with the 
 wheelwright or the blacksmith to pay them in peat. 
 He baked his own oatcake, and paid the miller in 
 peat for grinding his oats. He drank milk from his 
 own cow, and made his own clogs, cut from his own 
 alder. He contrived to purchase little, and what he 
 did purchase, he still paid for in peat. On the fells 
 he cut peat all summer, making days of uncommon 
 length ; and in the autumn he drew it down with a 
 sledge, and on one occasion having no horse, he car- 
 ried the sledge, every time he reascended the hills, 
 upon his back.
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 313 
 
 In such a place a man's appearance is no indication 
 of his actual condition as respects property. Men 
 who have good estates will be seen in a dress not 
 worth three farthings altogether, except it were as a 
 curiosity. They tell a story with great glee of an 
 old Friend, John Wilkinson, wdio sate in a patched 
 coat on a large stone by the road-side, knitting, when 
 a gentleman riding by, stopped and fixed his eyes on 
 him as in compassion, and then threw him half-a- 
 crown. He picked it up, told him he was much 
 obliged to him, but added—" May be I's richer na 
 tou," and returned him the money, desiring him to 
 give it to some one who had greater need of it. In 
 fact, the old Friend was wealthy; and in this case his 
 pride overcame his acquisitive propensity; but that 
 propensity is unquestionably very powerful here, and 
 another instance may be mentioned which occasioned 
 a good deal of laughter in the dale. An old man of 
 some property having a colt which he wanted break- 
 ing, instead of putting it into the hands of the horse- 
 breaker, thought he would break it himself, and save 
 the cost. Having brought it to carry him pretty well, 
 he was desirous of making it proof against starting at 
 sudden alarms. He therefore concerted with his wife 
 that she should stand concealed behind the yard gate, 
 and as he entered on the back of his colt, should pop 
 out, and cry — Boh ! Accordingly, in he rode, out 
 popped the good-wife, and cried Boh ! so effectu- 
 ally, that the horse made a desperate leap, and flung 
 the old man with a terrible shock upon the pavement. 
 Recovering himself, however, without any broken 
 bones, though sorely bruised and shaken, he said, as 
 he limped into the house — "Ah, Mally! Mally! that 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 314 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 was too big a boh! for an old man, and a young 
 colt!" 
 
 This propensity extends too, amongst the women as 
 well as the men : one woman declared she would as 
 leave part with the skin off her back, as with her money. 
 And yet, there are things which they will not do for 
 money, as thousands of the poor in other districts do, — 
 they won't work in a factory. The experiment was 
 tried in this dale; but the people, like the French, 
 would only work just when they pleased, and soon 
 would not work at all. One would have thought that 
 the strong love of gain amongst them, and their in- 
 dustrious habits would have insured success to such an 
 experiment, but they had too much love for their own 
 firesides, and the enjoyment of the fresh mountain air ; 
 the parents had too much love for their children to sub- 
 ject them to the daily incarceration amid heat, and dust, 
 and flue from the cotton. The scheme failed; the factory 
 stands a ruinous monument of the attempt, and these 
 beautiful dales are yet free from the factory system. 
 And yet, peaceful, and far removed as they are from 
 the acts and oppressions by which the strong build 
 their houses, and add field to field, out of the toils of 
 the weak, they are not unacquainted with occasional 
 instances of the evils done with impunity in the nooks 
 of the world. I do not mean to represent such spots 
 as Arcadias of purity and perfection. In the former 
 chapter, and in this, I have indicated the vices which 
 flourish, and the depravity which spreads in the shade 
 of secluded life. The worst feature of these dales is 
 the penurious spirit which little opportunity of profit 
 produces; but I do not know that this spirit is a more 
 sordid one than pervades the lower streets and alleys
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 315 
 
 of larsre towns. Tliere is along^ with it a strongf sense 
 of meum and tuum ; a strong and uncorrupted moral 
 principle ; and no man is in danger of either being 
 filched of his purse, or if he chanced to lose it by ac- 
 cident, of not regaining it. As the pressure of poverty- 
 is not so tremendous, so the extinction of the moral 
 sense is by no means so great as in large towns ; and, 
 on the other hand, how much more delightful a view 
 of the social life of these people we have, than of those 
 of similar rank in our large manufacturing towns, and 
 especially amongst the lower classes of the metropolis, 
 where they tread on each other from their multi- 
 tudes, and yet, from the same cause, pass through life 
 strangers to each other. Here the social sympathies 
 are strongly called forth ; a sort of kinship seems to 
 pervade the whole neighbourhood ; and they pass their 
 lives, if in a good deal of poverty, yet in mutual con- 
 fidence, and very pleasant habits of association. Every 
 man and every spot has a name and share of distinc- 
 tion. Every gill and beck have their appellation, as 
 Hacker-gill; Arten-gill; How-gill; Cow-gill; Spice- 
 gill; Thomas O' Harbour-gill; Baekstone-gill; Kale- 
 beck; Monkey-beck. Every house has its name; — as 
 Tinkler's Budget ; Clint ; Henthwaite-Hall ; Coat- 
 Fall; The Birchen Tree; Lile-Town; Riveling; Broad 
 Mere; Hollins; EUen-ha; Scale-gill -foot ; Linter- 
 Bank; Hollow-Mill, — all names in Dent. Their 
 names for one another are the most familiar possible ; 
 and they use the christian names, and attach the 
 christian names of their fathers and mothers in such 
 a manner, that it is difficult to get at many peoples' 
 surnames. They themselves know very well John 
 o' Davits Fletcher, Kit o' Willie, or Willie o' Kit
 
 316 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 o'Willie; when if the real name of these people were 
 John Davis, Catherine Broadbent, or William Thistle- 
 thwaite, they would have to consider a while who was 
 meant, if asked for by these names. 
 
 The dales' people have, therefore, evidently good 
 elements ; a strong social feeling ; great simplicity of 
 life and character; great honesty ; — and the extension 
 of the facility of voting in elections by dividing the 
 counties, and appointing local polling places, has 
 demonstrated that they have a strong love of liberal 
 principles. All that appears wanting is exactly what 
 is wanting in all these nooks, the introduction of more 
 knowledge by the diffusion of sound and cheap publi- 
 cations, which would at once raise the moral tone, 
 and inspire a more adventurous disposition, as is the 
 case with the Scotch ; so that those who do not find 
 profitable employment in these pastoral dales, should 
 set out in quest of more promising fields of action. 
 As to crimes of magnitude, if you hear of them here, 
 they are perpetrated by those in a higher class. There 
 was a story ringing through one of the dales when we 
 were there, which if half of it were true, was bad 
 enough; and that we might arrive at as much truth 
 as possible, we visited and conversed with those who 
 were apparently likeliest to know it. It was said, 
 and this too by those who had been in daily inter- 
 course with the parties — that a very wealthy widow 
 lady, who seemed to have been of weak intellect, or 
 at least so unaccustomed to the world, and matters of 
 business, as to become an easy prey to any clever 
 and designing fellow, had entrusted the management 
 of her affairs to a lawyer of a neighbouring town. 
 That this lawyer twenty years ago made her will, in
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 317 
 
 which he had appointed himself one of the executors, 
 and a gentleman of high character, living at a great 
 distance, the other. That he had left in the will ten 
 per cent, on the accumulations of her income to the 
 executors, besides five hundred pounds each for the 
 trouble of their office. That a man brought up in 
 the house of the lady, was left 5000Z. That from the 
 original making of the will, it appeared never to have 
 been read over again at any time to the lady ; but 
 that she had frequently dictated or written in pencil 
 her instructions for its alteration in many particulars, 
 which instructions or alterations at the final reading of 
 the will after her decease nowhere appeared. That 
 from the time the will was made till that of her death, 
 twenty years, her lawyer-executor had continually 
 tormented her with the fear of poverty. He had 
 told her that her income did not meet her expenses ; 
 and through these representations had induced her 
 to curtail her charities, and to lay down her carriage. 
 This, however, did not suffice, and his representations 
 made the poor lady miserable with the constant fear 
 of coming poverty. In an agony of feeling on this 
 subject, she one day sent her confidential servant to 
 the lawyer to order him to sell her West Indian 
 property. The lawyer said, " tell your mistress from 
 me, that her West Indian property is not worth one 
 farthing." This the servant, whom we took the trouble 
 of seeing, confirmed to us. The poor woman, haunted 
 with the fear of poverty, at length took to her bed, 
 and a few days before her death, when, indeed, her 
 recovery was hopeless, her lawyer appeared at her 
 bedside and astounded her with the news, that so far 
 from poverty, her West Indian property was very
 
 318 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 large, and her income had actually accumulated in the 
 funds to the sum of 80,000Z. ! and the hypocritical 
 monster, with a refinement of cruelty perhaps never 
 paralleled, humbly asked her, " how she would wish 
 it disposed of?" The previous progress of the poor 
 lady's illness, and this overwhelming intelligence, 
 rendered any present disposal impossible. She was 
 thrown into the most fearful distress of mind, — and 
 continually exclaiming, " O ! please God that I might 
 recover, how different things should be !" died on the 
 third day. 
 
 When the will was read, the man who had 5000Z. 
 left him twenty years ago, found it left him still ; and 
 yet this man had for years lost the good opinion of 
 the lady, by his misconduct, and had not been per- 
 mitted to come into her presence for two years. This 
 was a striking proof that her will had not of late years 
 been adapted to her altered mind. This man, who 
 first came into the lady's house as a shoe-black, or 
 some such thing, and had on one occasion for his mis- 
 conduct, the alternative offered him either to quit her 
 service, or be carried up to the top of the neighbour- 
 ing fell, on the back of one man and down again, 
 Avhile he was flogged by another, and was of so base 
 a nature that he had chosen the flagellation, and con- 
 tinuance in a family where he was regarded with con- 
 tempt — this man had now actually purchased the 
 lady's house of the executors, and lived in it! We 
 walked past it, and naturally regarding it with a good 
 deal of curiosity, a ludicrous scene occurred. I sup- 
 pose, being strangers, and 1 having a moreen bag in 
 my hand, it was inferred from our particular observa- 
 tion of the place, that I was a lawyer, come down on
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 319 
 
 the behalf of some dissatisfied expectant, to inquire 
 into the case. However that might be, we presently 
 saw the man's wife, a very common-looking person, 
 and appearing wonderfully out of place as the mistress 
 of such a house, peeping at us from the windows, first 
 on one side of the house, and then on the other, and 
 at the same time attempting to screen herself from 
 view by partly unclosing the shutters, and placing 
 herself behind them. Soon after, her daughter too 
 came with stealthy steps, out of the back-door, crept 
 cautiously round the house, and posted herself behind 
 a bush to watch us ; nor had we advanced far from the 
 place, when the man himself came hurrying along, and 
 went past us with very black and inquisitive looks. 
 
 We were told that on the will being read, the other 
 executor being now present, was not more amazed at 
 the fact of his becoming, unknown to himself, so 
 greatly benefited by it, than he was at the general 
 details of it. He inquired of the lawyer if the will 
 had been read to the lady from time to time, in order 
 to see whether it might require some alteration, and 
 being told by him that it had not, he seemed filled 
 with the utmost astonishment and indignation, and 
 abruptly said to him — " Why, there is nothing but 
 damnation for you !" and with that proceeded in such 
 piercing terms to shew to the lawyer the cruelty and 
 wickedness of his conduct, that the man trembled 
 through every joint. It was added that the lawyer 
 " never looked up afterwards," but M'as in the greatest 
 distress of mind, and daily M'asted away. Tliat when 
 the tenants of the property, some time afterwards went 
 to pay their rents, they found him propped up in bed 
 with bolsters and pillows, a most pitiable object; his
 
 3*20 LIFE IN THE DALES 
 
 inkhorn stitched into the bed-quilt by him, and yet 
 his trembling hand scarcely able to direct his pen into 
 it. That such was the effect of fear, and the visitings 
 of conscience on his superstitious mind, that he drank 
 the water which dropped from the church-roof in 
 rainy weather, in the hope it would do him good ! 
 
 This is a most extraordinary story, but we found 
 one of these quiet dales ringing with it from end to 
 end, and this was the account given by most trust- 
 worthy people, who knew the parties well, and one of 
 whom was the lady's confidential servant. Amongst 
 the stories which we heard relating to the past state of 
 these dales, was one of the murder of a Highland 
 drover, in its particulars bearing a striking resemblance 
 to the story of Scott's, told under that title. In Swale 
 Dale is said to be a race of gipsies, a very fine set of 
 people ; and a remarkable account was given us of one 
 of them, a singularly fine woman in her time, called 
 Nance of Swaledale. 
 
 They have some singular customs in these dales not 
 yet mentioned. One is, when a sow litters, they 
 allow her to champ oats out of a bee-hive to make the 
 bees lucky; and salt is thrown into the fire, with the 
 same object, when the bees swarm. Another of their 
 customs arises out of their spirit of good neighbour- 
 hood, and mutual accommodation. In sheep-shearing 
 time, instead of each man shearing his flock solitarily, 
 they combine together in troops, and go from farm to 
 farm, till they have completed the whole, and celebrate 
 the end of their labours at each house, over a good 
 supper given by the master. 
 
 Here then I close this second chapter of the nooks 
 of the world, bearing grateful testimony that amongst
 
 OF LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE. 
 
 321 
 
 the virtues of the dales-people, hospitality and attach- 
 ment to their pleasant hills and valleys are pre-eminent. 
 Wherever we went we found them only too happy to 
 shew us all the beauties of their country, the winding 
 becks, the scars and waterfalls, and prospects from the 
 loftiest fells. When they had trudged with us for many 
 a weary mile, through moss and moor, they would hang 
 the girdle upon the peat-fire, and in a wonderfully 
 short time have those delicious little kettle-cakes, made 
 of pastry, and thickly dotted with currants, smoking on 
 the tea-table. And when you came in at a late hour, 
 would bring you out those rural dainties, equally de- 
 licious, gooseberry tarts, with curds and cream. Long 
 may the simple virtues of the Dales remain, while 
 knowledge in its growth, roots out the more earthly 
 traits of character, and implants a bolder spirit of 
 enterprise, with the present moral integrity of mind. 

 
 322 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 
 
 Our country houses, and especially the older ones, 
 are in themselves an inestimable national treasure. 
 A thousand endearing associations gather about them. 
 I cannot conceive a more deeply interesting work 
 than a history of them which entered fully into the 
 spirit of the times in which they were raised, and 
 through which they have stood. Which should give 
 us a view of the national changes which have passed 
 over them; mighty revolutions, whether abrupt and 
 violent, or slow and silent, in fortune, in manners, 
 and in mind ; and still more, which should, aided by 
 family paintings, family documents and traditions, 
 unfold their domestic annals. What an opening 
 up of the human heart would be there ! There is 
 nothing more splendid, or surprising, or fearful, or 
 pathetic, or happy and fanciful in romance, than 
 would be there discovered. There is no success, no 
 glory of life and action, no image of princely or 
 baronial power, no strange freaks of fortune, none of 
 the startling, or the moving incidents of humanity but 
 have there enrolled themselves. What noble hearts ;
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 323 
 
 what great and pathetic spirits have dwelt at one time 
 or other in those old places ; and then, what beautiful 
 and bewitching creatures have cast through them the 
 sunshine of their presence ; have made them glad with 
 their wit, and their gay fancies, and their strong 
 aftections ; or have hallowed them with their sufferings 
 and their tears. O for the revelation of the fair 
 forms ; of the scenes of successful or sorrowful love ; 
 of the bridals and the burials; of the poetic dreams 
 and pious aspirations, that have warmed or saddened 
 these old halls through the flight of ages ! Much of 
 this is gone for ever; swept into the black and 
 fathomless gulf of oblivion ; but enough might be re- 
 covered to make us M^onder at what has passed upon 
 our ancestral soil, and to make us love it with a still 
 deeper love. There is no portion of our national 
 history, or point of our national character, but would 
 be brought into the sweep of such narratives, and 
 receive illustration from them. Our warriors, states- 
 men, philosophers, divines, poets, beauties, and he- 
 roines more admirable than beauty could make them, 
 would all figure there.* In the galleries of many of 
 these houses hang portraits to which traditions are 
 attached that would freeze the blood, or make it dance 
 with ardour and delight; that would chain up the 
 listening spirit in breathless attention, in awe and 
 curiosity. In the very Avritings by which the estates 
 are secured, in old charters, wills and other deeds, 
 facts are traced and changes developed of the most 
 singular character; and in the oral annals of the 
 
 *■ Til is was written three years ago. Since then the author has 
 m;ide considerable progress in such a worli.
 
 324 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 
 
 families exist correlative testimonies, which have been 
 imprinted there by the intense interest of the circum- 
 stances themselves. 
 
 How delightful it is to go through those hereditary- 
 abodes of ancient and distinguished families, and to 
 see, in the very construction of them, images of the 
 past times, and their modes of existence. Here you 
 pass through ample courts, amid rambling and ex- 
 tensive offices that once were necessary to the jolly 
 establishment of the age, for hounds, horses, hawks, 
 and all their attendants and dependencies. Here you 
 come into vast kitchens, with fire-places at which 
 three or four oxen might be roasted at once, with 
 mantel-pieces wide as the arch of a bridge, and 
 chimneys as large as the steeple of a country church. 
 Then you advance into great halls, where scores of 
 rude revellers have feasted in returning from battle, 
 or the chase, in the days of feudal running and 
 riding, of foraying and pilgrimages; of hard knocks 
 and hard lying : ere tea and coffee had supplanted 
 beef and ale at breakfast; ere books had charmed 
 away spears and targets, tennis-courts and tourneys, 
 and political squabbles and parliamentary campaigning, 
 the scouring of marches, and firing of neighbours' 
 castles. Then again, you advance into tapestried 
 chambers, on whose walls mythological or scriptural 
 histories, wrought by the fingers of high-born dames, 
 at once impress you with a sense of very still and 
 leisurely and woodland times, when Crockford's and 
 Almack's were not ; nor the active spirit of civilization 
 had raised up weavers, and spinners, and artificers of 
 all kinds by thousands on thousands, by towns-full 
 and cities -full. And now you come to the very
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 325 
 
 closets and bowers of the ladies themselves — scenes of 
 worn and faded splendour, but shewing enough of 
 their orisrinal state to mark their wide difference from 
 the silken boudoirs and luxurious dormitories of the 
 fair dames of this age of swarming and busy artizans; 
 of ample rents and city life ; instead of hunting and 
 fighting, of wars in the heart of France, or civil wars 
 at home, to call out the heads of houses, or perhaps, 
 drive their families forth with fire and sword in their 
 absence. Then there is the antique chapel, and the 
 library; the one having, in most cases, been deserted 
 by its ancient faith, the other still bearing testimony 
 to the range of reading of our old squires and nobles, 
 since reading became a part of their education, in a 
 few grim folios, — a Bible, a Gwillim's Heraldry, one 
 or two of our Chroniclers, and a few Latin Classics 
 or Fathers, for the enjoyment of the chaplain. 
 
 But the armoury and the great gallery — these are 
 the places in which a flood of historic light pours in 
 upon you, and the spirit of the past is made so pal- 
 pable, that you forget your real existence in this utili- 
 tarian century; you forget reform in all its shapes 
 — ballot, household suffrage, triennial parliaments ; 
 you forget the cry of the church and king; and the 
 counter-cry from a million of eager voices, for liberty 
 of hearth and faith; you forget that, all around you, 
 from the very walls that surround you to the distant 
 sea, is nothing but fields cultivated like gardens, 
 secured by gates and fences, and tenfold more costly 
 and powerful parchment, to their particular owners; 
 you forget that towns stand by hundreds, and villages 
 by thousands, filled with a busy, an inquisitive, a 
 reading, thinking, aspiring and irresistible population ;
 
 323 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 
 
 and that all the institutions, the opinions, the loves 
 and doings of the times when these things before you 
 were matters of familiar life, are gone, or are going, 
 for ever : that. 
 
 Another race lias been, and other palms are won. 
 
 Yes, mighty and impressive as these things are ; 
 deeply as they visit your daily thought and nightly 
 dreams ; woven as they are with the thread of your 
 existence, and your hopes and belief of the future 
 ages, — yes, potent as they are, they vanish for a time. 
 Here are swords, helmets, coats of mail, and plate- 
 armour standing up in its own massiveness ; shells 
 from which the active bodies which moved them, have 
 long ago disappeared. Here are buff-coats, ponderous 
 boots, and huge spurs ; broad hats, with sweeping 
 feathers, and chains of gold, crosses and amulets, 
 which make the past for ever in time, the past for ever 
 in spirit, come back again with a vivid and intoxicating 
 effect. You gaze upon arms and relics which figured 
 in all the battles and pilgrimages, the desperate strifes 
 and extravagant pageants of our ancestors; you behold 
 things which link your fancies to all the romantic ages 
 of European history. You forget the present; and 
 exist amid forests, the stern strength of castles, and 
 the venerable quiet of convents. You are ready to 
 listen to the distant bell of the abbey ; for news of the 
 crusaders ; you expect as you ride through the woods, 
 to stumble upon the abode of the hermit. These 
 arms and fragments before you, were in the battles of 
 Cressy and Poictiers ; in the wars of the Roses ; in 
 the Tourney of the Field of the Cloth-of-Gold ; that 
 mail, on the back of some stout knijj:ht, climbed over
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 327 
 
 the ramparts of Askalon, or of Jerusalem itself; and 
 those, bringing you down the stream of strange events, 
 are the equipments of Cavaliers and of Puritan leaders, 
 when the spirit of feudalism and that of progression 
 came so rudely into strife as to shake the kingdom like 
 an earthquake. You step into the gallery, and there 
 are the very men whose iron habiliments you have 
 been contemplating; there are the rude portraitures 
 of the warriors of an earlier day ; and there are the 
 Sidneys, the Howards, the Essexes and Leicesters, the 
 Warwicks and Wiltons, of an after one ; the men that 
 set up and pulled down kings, that waded through the 
 blood of others, or that poured out their own, for 
 honour and liberty. You have read of some hand- 
 some and gallant knight who wrought some chivalric 
 miracle, who perhaps died in its performance — he is 
 there ! You have glowed over the accounts of arrogant 
 or fascinating beauties, who turned the heads of kings 
 and nobles — they are there ! worthy of all their fame, 
 their very shadows filling you with sighs and dreams of 
 loveliness which will haunt you in the open sunshine, 
 and amid ail the cheerful sounds of present life. 
 
 But it is not merely these great historic characters. 
 There are family ones that constitute a history amongst 
 themselves, most interesting and touching. There 
 are the founders of those families. There is the p-reat 
 minister, who once rose to the favour of his sovereign, 
 and swayed the destinies of the kingdom ; there is the 
 great churchman that climbed up from plebeian obscu- 
 rity to the primacy; there is the judge who, from a 
 younger brother of an ancient line, became the for- 
 tunate founder of a new one ; there are admirals, 
 generals, and nobles, who have figured in the cam-
 
 328 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 
 
 paigns of every reign. There are stern forms that were 
 despots in their own sphere, or calm and smiling faces 
 that have such blots and dark passages attached to 
 them as confound all your physiognomical acuteness ; 
 and there are beautiful and gentle-looking creatures, 
 that are most strangely tainted with blood ; noble 
 matrons, who knew sorrows for which neither their 
 rank and affluence, no, nor the possessions of ten 
 kingdoms could make recompense ; and lastly, there 
 are young boys and girls, that look on you with most 
 innocent archness or open good-nature, which perished 
 like blossoms ere fully opened, or lived to make you 
 shudder over their remembrance. 
 
 Such are many of our older houses, to say nothing 
 of later and more splendid ones ; nothing of all the 
 modern attractions that have been added to their an- 
 cient ones ; nothing of those sumptuous places which 
 our nobility have raised on their estates, and filled 
 with all the luxurious adornments of modern life, and 
 with the wealth of art. And then those houses stand 
 scattered over all the kingdom, in fine old parks, in 
 gardens of quaint alleys and topiary work ; or in the 
 freer beauty of modern lawns and shrubberies ; objects 
 of pleasure and pride to thousands beside their own 
 possessors. 
 
 Horace Walpole wished that they were all collected 
 in London, and then should we have had such a capi- 
 tal as the world could not boast. Heaven forgive him 
 for the wish ! A splendid capital no doubt we shoidd 
 have had, but we should not have had such a country, 
 such a people, such a national strength and character 
 as we have. It is by living scattered through the 
 realm, amid their own people, their own lands and
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 329 
 
 woods, that our gentry have retained such high inde- 
 pendence of principle, and such healthy tastes as they 
 have done. It is by this means that agriculture, and 
 horticulture, and rural architecture have been promoted 
 to the extent they have reached ; that the whole king- 
 dom has become a paradise, and that the people have 
 been linked to the interests of their superiors. We have 
 only too many temptations already to a crowding into 
 our capital. A city life to a wealthy aristocracy must 
 become a life of luxury and splendour, a life of dissi- 
 pation and rivalry. The enjoyments of society, of 
 music, and of public spectacles, at intervals, might 
 refine the taste ; but when this species of life becomes 
 almost perpetual, its certain consequence must be to 
 deteriorate and effeminate character : to weaken the 
 domestic attachments : to divert from, or disincline for 
 that sober thought and those studies which lead to 
 greatness, or leave behind solid satisfaction. We have 
 already too much of this, and its effect will daily be- 
 come more and more conspicuous, as it is of more and 
 more vital importance. Now, while the people are 
 struggling to acquire possession of rights that they 
 long knew not their claim to : now that they are grow- 
 ing informed, and therefore quick to see and to feel — 
 those on whom they look as their natural and powerful 
 rivals, are living at a distance from them : taking no 
 means to conciliate their good-will, or to retain their 
 esteem. Their humble neighbours feel no effect from 
 their estates except the withdrawal of their rents ; and 
 they ask themselves what claim these people, who are 
 living in our great Babylon, 
 
 Minions of splendour, shrinking from distress, —
 
 330 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 
 
 have upon their veneratioM or regard. Is it not in 
 these noble ancestral houses, amid their ancestral 
 woods and lands, that the spirit of our gentry is most 
 likely to acquire a right tone? Here, where they are 
 surrounded by objects and memories of worth, of 
 greatness and renown, that the fire of a generous and 
 glorious emulation is most likely to be kindled ; and 
 that all the best feelings of their nature are likely to 
 be touched, and their best affections quickened ? 
 Even Horace Walpole himself furnishes an instance 
 in proof. Little as he had of the pensive and poetical 
 in him, his visit to the family place at Houghton 
 called up such thoughts and emotions as, if encou- 
 raged instead of avoided, might have made him aware 
 of higher qualities in himself than he was habitually 
 accustomed to display. " Here am I," says he in one 
 of his letters, " at Houghton ! and alone ; in this spot 
 where, except two hours last month, 1 have not been 
 in sixteen years ! Think what a crowd of reflections! 
 No ! — Gray, and forty church-yards could not furnish 
 so many ; nay, I know one must feel them with greater 
 indifference than I possess, to have patience to put 
 them into verse. Here I am, probably for the last 
 time in my life, though not for the last time; every 
 clock that strikes, tells me that I am one hour nearer 
 to yonder church, — that church into which I have not 
 yet had courage to enter ; where lies the mother on 
 whom I doated, and who doated on me ! There are 
 the two rival mistresses of Houghton, neither of whom 
 ever wished to enjoy it. There too lies he, who 
 founded its greatness; to contribute to whose fall, 
 Europe was embroiled. There he sleeps in quiet and 
 dignity, while his friend and his foe, rather his false
 
 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 331 
 
 ally and real enemy, Newcastle and Bath, are ex- 
 hausting; the dregs of their pitiful lives in squabbles 
 and pamphlets. 
 
 " The surprise the pictures gave me is again re- 
 newed. Accustomed for many years to see wretched 
 daubs and varnished copies at auctions, I look at these 
 
 as enchantment. A party arrived just as I did, to 
 
 see the house : a man and three women, in riding 
 dresses, and they rode fast through the apartments. 
 I could not hurry before them fast enough; they were 
 not so long in seeing for the first time, as I could have 
 been in one room, to examine what I knew by heart. 
 I remember formerly being often diverted by this kind 
 of seers; they come, ask what such a room is called, 
 in which Sir Robert lay : admire a lobster, or a cot- 
 tage in a market piece ; dispute whether the last room 
 was green or purple ; and then hurry to the inn, for 
 fear the fish should be overdressed. How different my 
 situation ! Not a picture here but recalls a history ; 
 not one but I remember in Downing-street, or Chel- 
 sea, where queens and crowds admired them, though 
 seeing them as little as these travellers. 
 
 " When I had drank tea I strolled into the garden. 
 They told me it was now called the j^ieasure-ground. 
 What a dissonant idea of pleasure ! Those groves, 
 those alleys^ where I have passed so many charming 
 moments, are now stripped up, or overgrown ; many 
 fond paths I could not unravel, though with a very 
 exact clue in my memory. I met two gamekeepers, 
 and a thousand hares ! In the days when all my soul 
 was tuned to pleasure and vivacity, I hated Houghton 
 and its solitude ; yet I loved this garden ; as now, 
 with many regrets, I love Houghton ; — Houghton, I
 
 332 OLD ENGLISH HOUSES. 
 
 know not what to call it: a monument of grandeur or 
 ruin ! How I wished this evening for Lord Bute ! 
 How I could preach to him ! — The servants wanted to 
 lay me in the great apartment — what ! to make me 
 pass the night as I had done my evening ! It were 
 like proposing to Margaret Roper to be a duchess in 
 the court which cut off her father's head, and imagin- 
 ing it could please her. I have chosen to sit in my 
 father's little dressing-room, and am now in his escri- 
 toire, where, in the height of his fortune, he used to 
 receive the accounts of his farmers, and deceive him- 
 self, or us, with the thoughts of his economy. How 
 wise a man, at once, and how weak ! For what has 
 he built Houghton ? For his grandson to annihilate, 
 or his son to mourn over." 
 
 Horace Walpole's Letters, vol. ii. pp. 227-8. 
 
 Having made these preliminary observations, I 
 will now give a specimen or two from my own 
 neighbourhood,* because necessarily more familiar 
 with them; let every reader throughout England look 
 round him in his, and he will find others as interesting 
 there. 
 
 * This and other parts of the work were written at Nottingham.
 
 333 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson has lately given a very vivid and 
 charming account of this fine old place, I am not 
 going to tread in her steps, but to describe the im- 
 pression it made upon myself at different times, in 
 my own way, and with reference to my own object. 
 
 My first visit to it was when I was a youth of 
 about seventeen. I had heard nothing at all of it, 
 and had no idea that it was an object of any particular 
 interest. I was at Mansfield, and casually heard that 
 the present Duke of Devonshire, its proprietor, was 
 come of age, and that there, as at his other houses, 
 his birth-day was to be kept by his tenants and the 
 neighbouring peasantry in the old English style. 
 The house lies about five miles to the north of Mans- 
 field, not far from the Chesterfield road. I set off, 
 and learning that there was a footway, I passed 
 through one or two quiet, old-fashioned villages, 
 through solitary fields and deep woody valleys, a 
 road that for its beauty and out-of-the-world air de- 
 lighted me exceedingly. I at length found myself at 
 the entrance of a large old park. The tall towers
 
 334 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 of the hall had been my landmarks all the way, and 
 now that unique buildinp:, standing on the broad, 
 level plain, surrounded at a distance by the old oaks 
 of the park, burst upon me with an unexpected effect. 
 It was unlike any thing I had seen ; but there were 
 solemn halls in the regions of poetry and romance, 
 that my imagination immediately classed it amongst. 
 I advanced toward it with indescribable feelings of 
 wonder and delight. I could have wished that it had 
 been standing in its ordinary solitude, for that seemed 
 to my mind its true and natural state ; but it was not 
 so : around it swarmed crowds of rustic revellers, and 
 I determined to take things as I found them ; to con- 
 sider this very scene as a feature of the olden time ; 
 and to see how it went, about the baronial dwellings 
 in the feudal ages, on occasions like that. 
 
 It was not long before I came upon a man lying on 
 his face under the trees ; — he was dead drunk. Soon I 
 passed another, and another, and another : a little far- 
 ther, and they lay about like the slain on the outskirts of 
 a battle. When I came into the open plain before the 
 hall, the sound of a band of music which had probably 
 been sometime silent through the musicians themselves 
 dining, reached me ; I heard drunken songs and wild 
 outcries miuCTlino; with it. All about the lawn were 
 scattered clustered throngs. I saw barrels standing ; 
 spigots running; men catching their hats full, and 
 running here and there, while others were snatching 
 at their prize, and often spilling the ale on the 
 ground. Sometimes there were two or three trying 
 to drink out of a hat at once ; others were stooping 
 down to drink at the spigots ; there were fighting, 
 scuffling, clamour, and confusion. All round the
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 335 
 
 hull people swarmed like bees. At the doors and 
 gates dense masses were trying to force their way in ; 
 while stout fellows were thumping away at their 
 sculls with huge staves, with an energy that one 
 would have thought enough to kill them by dozens, 
 but which seemed to make little impression. 
 
 While this was going on, being a slim youth, I 
 slipped beneath the uplifted arm of a stout yeoman, 
 and made a safe ingress. I stood astonished at the 
 place into which I had entered. Those ample and 
 lofty rooms, in which stood huge pieces of roast-beef 
 on huge pewter dishes, and great leathern jacks, 
 tankards, and modern jugs of ale, at which scores of 
 people were eating and drinking as voraciously as if 
 they had been fasting all the one-and-twenty years to 
 do due honour to this great birth-day ; while the 
 servants were running to and fro, filling up foaming 
 measures, which were emptied again with wonderful 
 rapidity. Those vast kitchens too, with their mighty 
 fire-places, and tongs, and pokers, and spits fit for the 
 kitchen of Polyphemus ; with broiling cooks, and 
 hurrying menials, called on by twenty voices at once, 
 I made my way to the front court, where, under 
 canvass awnings, long tables were set out for the 
 tenantry and yeomanry of the neighbourhood, admitted 
 by ticket. O what a company of jolly, rosy, full- 
 grown, well-fed fellows was there, making no sham 
 onset on the plum-pudding and roast-beef of Old 
 England ! The band kept up a triumphant din ; but 
 when it ceased for a moment, what a rattle of knives 
 and forks, and a clatter of ale-cups, what a clamour of 
 tongues and hearty laughter became perceptible ! 
 And all round the court, the walls were covered with
 
 336 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 swarms of men, that climbed up no trivial height to 
 get a view of the jovial banquet, and many a cry was 
 raised to throw up thither some of those good things. 
 And sure enough here went a piece of beef, and here 
 a lump of pudding; and a score of hands caught at 
 them ; and a hundred voices joined in the roar of 
 laughter as they were caught, or fell back again into 
 the court, or flew over the wall amongst the scram- 
 bling crowd. 
 
 But suddenly there was in the midst of all this 
 noise and jollity, a cry of horror ; and it was soon 
 seen that one of the pointed stones that stand at 
 intervals on the top of the high wall all round the 
 court, had disappeared. It had given way with a 
 man who clung to it, had fallen upon him, and killed 
 him on the spot. There was a momentary pause 
 in the festivity ; a great running together to the 
 spot of the catastrophe ; but the body was soon con- 
 veyed away to an outbuilding, and the tide of riot 
 rolled on. It was doomed, however, to receive a 
 second check ; for another man, in the wild excitement 
 of the time, and of the strong ale, sprang at one 
 bound over a wall that stood on the edge of a preci- 
 pice, and fell a shattered corpse into the hollow below. 
 These were awful events, and cast over some of the 
 revellers a gloom that would not disperse ; but far the 
 greater part were now too highly charged with birth- 
 day ale to be capable of reflection. All around was 
 Bacchanalian chaos. Singing, shouting, attempts at 
 dancing, reeling and tumbling. Bodies lay thickly 
 strewn through court and hall, and far around on the 
 lawn. Some gay sparks were, with mock respect, 
 carried with much struggling and laughter, and laid
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 337 
 
 in sheds and stables and under trees, and one special 
 dandy was deposited in a heap of soot. For myself, 
 perhaps the only sober person there, I hastened away, 
 resolving to revisit that fairy mansion in the time of 
 its restored quiet. 
 
 And in what a far different aspect did it present 
 itself when I next saw it; and with what a far 
 different company did I witness it ! It was on one 
 of the most glorious days of a splendid summer that 
 we passed under the shadow of its oaks, as happy and 
 attached a company as ever met on earth. Ah ! they 
 are all dispersed now ! Out of a dozen glad hearts, 
 not more than three are livino^ noM% But let me 
 forget that. We were a joyful band of tried friends 
 then. All, except myself and a young Yorkshire 
 damsel, light as a sylph, and lovely and frolic as a 
 fairy, were in carriages ; we were on horseback ; and 
 scarcely had we entered the park, when, as if the sight 
 of its fine wide level had filled her with an irresistible 
 desire to scour across it, the madcap gave her horse 
 the rein, and darted away. Under the boughs of the 
 oaks she stooped, and flew along with arrowy swiftness. 
 Every moment I expected to see her caught by one 
 of them, and dashed to the ground ; but she was too 
 practised a horsewoman for that: she cleared the trees; 
 the deer bounded away as she came galloping towards 
 them, and turned and gazed at her from a distance ; 
 the rooks, and daws, and lapwings feeding on the turf, 
 soared up and raised wild cries; but she sped on, and 
 there was nothing for me to do but to follow. I 
 spurred forwards, but it was only to see her rush, at 
 the same reckless speed, down a deep descent, where 
 one trip of her horse — and nothing was more likely — 
 
 VOL. I. g
 
 «338 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 and she would have flown far over his head to certain 
 death. Yet down she went, and down I followed; 
 but ere I reached the bottom, she was uro-ino- her 
 horse up as steep an ascent, on whose summit, as I 
 approached it, I found her seated on her panting steed, 
 laughing at her exploit and my face of wonder. 
 
 When we reached the Hall, there were all our 
 friends in the court, and the kind-hearted old gentle- 
 man, the head of the party, standing at the great hall 
 door, laughing heartily at the attempts of each of the 
 youngsters in succession to walk blindfold up a single 
 row of the flags that lead from the court-gates to the 
 house. Every one began full of confidence ; but the 
 laughter and cries of the rest, soon proclaimed the 
 failure of the enterprise. When it came to the turn 
 of our merry madcap, up she walked with a bold step, 
 and course as strait as if guided by a clue, from gate 
 to door. All at once exclaimed that she could see, 
 and busy hands were soon at work to fasten the hand- 
 kerchief so artfully round her head, that she could not 
 possibly get a glimpse of daylight. Again she M'as 
 led to the gate, and again she marched up to the door 
 as quickly and directly as before. The wonder was 
 great; but still it was asserted that she must see : — it 
 was that fine Grecian nose of hers that permitted a 
 glance down beside it, enough for the guidance of the 
 spirited damsel ; so handkerchief was bound on hand- 
 kerchief, aslant and athwart, to exclude every possibi- 
 lity of seeing; and again she was set at the gate ; and 
 again went gaily and confidently to the door without 
 one erring footstep. There was a general murmur of 
 applause and M^onder. I see that light and buoyant 
 figure still advancing up the line of flags; I see those
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 339 
 
 golden locks dancing in the sunshine as she went | I 
 see that lovely countenance, those blue and laughing 
 eyes, full of a merry triumph, as her friends unbound 
 her beautiful head. I see the same glad creature, all 
 vivacity and happiness, now sitting on the warm turf, 
 now bounding up long flights of stairs ; now standing, 
 to the terror of her companions, on the jutting edge of 
 a ruinous tower ; — and can it be true, that that fairy 
 creature has long been dead ! the light of those 
 lovely eyes extinguished ! those lovely locks soiled 
 with the damp churchyard earth ! Alas ! we know 
 too well how readily such things come to pass. But 
 no black presage came before us there. All around 
 was summer sunshine ; we explored every nook of 
 that old ivied ruin, the older house of Hardvvick, in 
 which the Queen of Scots was confined ; paced the 
 celebrated banqueting room, adorned with the figures 
 of Gog and Magog, with an angel flying between 
 them with a drawn sword. We rambled over the 
 leaden roof, and in the happy folly of youth, marked 
 each other's foot upon it, with duly inscribed names 
 and date. We went all through the present house ; 
 through its tapestried rooms, along its gallery, into its 
 ancient chapel, and up to its armoury, a tower on the 
 roof; and finally adjourned to the neat little inn at 
 Glapwell, to a merry tea, and thence home. 
 
 My next visit to Hardwick was last autumn. My 
 companions now were, my true associate for the last 
 seventeen years, and one little boy and girl, who, as we 
 advanced up the park, rambled on before us in eager 
 delight. Twenty years had passed since that youth- 
 ful party I have just mentioned was there; — twenty 
 years to me of many sober experiences ; of naturally
 
 340 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 extended kuowled^-e : of observation of our old Eno^lish 
 houses in various parts of the kingdom : but as I once 
 more approached Hardwick, I felt that it had lost 
 none of its effect, — nay, that that effect was actually- 
 increased : it was more unworldly, more unlike any- 
 thino- else, or anything belonging to common life ; 
 more poetical, more crowned and overshadowed with 
 beautiful and solemn associations, than it was when I 
 first beheld it in mv vouth. The distance vou have to 
 advance, from the moment you emerge from amongst 
 the trees of the park into a full view of the Hall, 
 until you reach it, tends greatly to heighten its effect. 
 There it stands, bold and alone, on a wide unob- 
 structed plain. 
 
 No trees crowd upon it, or break, for a moment, the 
 view; it lifts itself up in all its solemn and unique 
 grandeur to the blue heavens, like a fairy palace, in 
 the days of old Romance. It is a thing expressly of 
 bv-ffone times — darkened indeed bv age, but not in- 
 jured. Unlike modern mansions, you see no bustle 
 of human life about it; no gardens and shrubberies; 
 but wings of grey, and not very high walls, extending 
 to a considerable distance over the plain, from each 
 end of the house, inclosing what gardens there are, 
 and paddocks. You see no offices appended, — it 
 seems a place freed from all mortal necessities, — in- 
 habited by beings above them. All offices, in fact, 
 that are not included within the regular walls of the 
 house are removed to a considerable distance with the 
 farm-yard. As you draw near, its grave aspect strikes 
 you more strongly: you become more sensible of its 
 loftiness, of the vast size of its windows, and of that 
 singular parapet which surmounts it. It is an oblong
 
 H.ARDWICK HALL. 341 
 
 building, with three square towers at each end, both 
 projecting from, and rising much higher than, the 
 body of the building. The parapet surmounting these 
 towers is a singular piece of open-work of sweeping 
 h'nes of stone, displaying the initials of the builder, 
 E, S. — Elizabeth Shrewsbury, — surmounted with the 
 coronet of an earl. On all sides of the house these 
 letters and crown strike your eye, and the whole pa- 
 rapet appears so unlike what is usually wrought in 
 stone, that you cannot help thinking that its singular 
 builder, old Bess of Hardwick, must have cut out the 
 pattern in paper with her scissors. It is difficult to 
 sav, whether this remarkable woman had a greater 
 genius for architecture or matrimony. She M'as the 
 daughter of John Hardwick of Hardwick, and sole 
 heiress of this estate. She married four times, always 
 contriving to get the power over her husband's estates, 
 by direct demise, or by intermarrying the children of 
 their former marriages with those of former husbands, 
 so that she brought into the family immense estates, 
 and laid the foundation of four dukedoms. Her ge- 
 nius for architecture is sufficiently conspicuous in this 
 unique pile, and by the engraving of Worksop Manor 
 in Thoroton's Nottinghamshire, as erected by her, 
 though since destroyed by fire, a building full of the 
 same peculiar character. It is said that it having 
 been foretold her by some astrologer, that the moment 
 she ceased to build would be the moment of her death, 
 she was perpetually engaged in building. At length 
 as she was raising a set of alms-houses at Derby, a 
 severe frost set in. All measures were resorted to 
 necessary to enable the men to continue their work: 
 their mortar was dissolved with hot water, and when
 
 342 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 that failed, with hot ale; but the frost triumphed — the 
 work ceased, and Bess of Hardwick expired ! This 
 noble building I trust will long continue to perpe- 
 tuate her memory, lifting aloft on its parapet her con- 
 spicuous E. S. 
 
 All the lower walls surrounding the courts and 
 paddocks, are finished with similar openwork of bands 
 of curved and knotted stone. A colonnade runs along 
 each side of the house between the projecting towers, 
 and the entrance-front is enclosed by that court of 
 which I have already spoken ; having its walls 
 mounted, at intervals, with quaint pyramidal stones. 
 On this side of the house a fine valley opens itself, 
 filled with noble woods, a large water, and displaying 
 beyond a hilly and pleasant country. 
 
 At about a hundred yards from the Hall stands the 
 remains of the old one. The progress of dilapidation 
 upon this building, since my last visit, was striking. 
 Then you could ascend to the leaden roof; but now 
 means were adopted to prevent that, on account of its 
 unsafe state ; in fact, the stairs themselves have partly 
 fallen in ; many of the floors of the rooms have fallen 
 through; the ceiling of the celebrated banqueting- 
 room itself has given way by places, and in others 
 is propped up by stout pieces of timber. The glory 
 of Gog and Magog will soon be annihilated, or they 
 will be left on the walls, exposed to the astonished 
 gaze of the passer-by, as are some stucco alto-relievoes 
 of stags under forest trees on the chamber walls, with 
 ivy drooping over them from the top of the walls 
 above, and tall trees that have sprung on the hearths 
 of destroyed rooms below, waving before them. This 
 is the outward aspect of those old halls M'here Mary
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 343 
 
 Stuart, and the almost equally unfortunate Arabella 
 Stuart, once dwelt. Within, the present hall is as 
 perfect a specimen of an Elizabethan house, as can 
 be wished. " The state apartments are lofty and 
 spacious, with numerous transom windows admitting 
 a profusion of light. The hall is hung with very 
 curious tapestry, which appears to be as ancient as the 
 fifteenth century. On one part of it, is a representa- 
 tion of boar-hunting, and on another of otter-hunting. 
 In the chapel, which is on the first-floor, is a very rich 
 and curious altar-cloth, thirty feet long, hung round 
 the rails of the altar, with figures of saints under 
 canopies wrought in needle-work. The great dining- 
 ioom is on the same floor, over the chimney-piece of 
 which are the arms of the Countess of Shrewsbury, 
 with the date of 1597. The most remarkable apart- 
 ments in this interesting edifice are the state room, or 
 room of audience, as it is called, and the gallery. The 
 former is sixty-four feet nine inches, by thirty-three 
 feet, and twenty-six feet four inches high. At one 
 end of it, is a canopy of state, and in another part a 
 bed, the hangings of which are very ancient. This 
 room is hung with tapestry, in which is represented 
 the story of Ulysses; over this are figures, rudely 
 executed in plaster, in bas-relief, amongst which is 
 a representation of Diana and her nymphs. The 
 gallery is about 170 feet long and 26 wide, extending 
 the whole length of the eastern side of the house ; 
 and hung with tapestry, on a part of which is the date 
 of 1478."* The house has not only been kept in 
 repair, but exactly in the state in which its builder 
 
 * Lj'son's Magna Britannia.
 
 344 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 left it, as to furniture and fitting up, with a very few 
 exceptions, and these in the most accordant taste. 
 For instance, the Duke of Devonshire has brought 
 liither his family pictures from Chatsvvorth, so as to 
 make this fine gallery, the family picture gallery. 
 Not another painting has been suffered to enter. He 
 has also now added a most appropriate feature to the 
 entrance hall, a statue of the Queen of Scots, of the 
 size of life, by Westmacott. It stands on a pedestal of 
 the same stone, bearing an armorial escutcheon. 
 
 Mrs. Jameson expresses strongly the effect of the 
 huge escutcheons, the carved arms thrust out from the 
 wall, intended to hold lights, and the great antlers, as 
 she first entered this hall by night ; but what would 
 have been the effect of seeing Mary Stuart herself 
 standing full opposite, as if to receive her to this place 
 of her former captivity.* To her, and to every imagin- 
 ative person, the effect must have been powerful, and 
 solemnly impressive. Gray the poet, instead of think- 
 ing that the Queen of Scots had but just walked down 
 into the park for half an hour, would have seen her 
 visibly here. I have seen the portraits of Queen Mary, 
 both here and in Holyrood, but none of them give 
 me a thousandth part of the idea of what she must 
 have been, compared with this statue. 
 
 With these two exceptions, both of which tend to 
 strengthen the legitimate infl.uence of the place, all 
 besides is exactly as it was. You ascend the broad, 
 easy oak stairs ; you see the chapel by their side, with 
 all its brocaded seats and cushions; you advance along 
 vast passages, where stand huge chests filled with 
 
 * I do not mean literally that this house was the place of her cap- 
 tivity, it was the old one.
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 345 
 
 coals, and having ample crypts in the walls for chips 
 and fire-wood. Here are none of the modern con- 
 trivances to conceal these things : but they stand 
 there before you, with an air of rude abundance, ac- 
 cording well with the ancient mixture of baronial state 
 and simplicity. You go on and on, through rooms all 
 hung with rich old tapestry, glowing with pictorial 
 scenes from scriptural or mythological history; all 
 furnished with antique cabinets, massy tables, high 
 chairs covered with crimson velvet, or ornamental 
 satin. You behold the very furniture used by Queen 
 Mary ; the very bed she worked with her own fingers. 
 But perhaps that spacious gallery, extending along 
 the whole front of the house, gives the imagination a 
 more feudal feeling than all. Its length, nearly two 
 hundred feet; its great height; its stupendous win- 
 dows, composing nearly the whole front, rattling and 
 wailing as the wind sweeps along them. What a 
 mao-nificent souo-h and even thunder of sound must 
 fill that wild old place in stormy weather. There 
 you see arranged high and low, portraits of most of the 
 characters belonging to the family or history of the 
 place, of all degrees of execution. It is not my inten- 
 tion to give any details, either of those or of the furni- 
 ture ; that having been done by Mrs. Jameson with the 
 accuracy and feeling that particularly distinguish her. 
 1 aim only at imparting the general eff"ect. It is 
 enough therefore to say that there are "many beauti- 
 ful women and brave men:" portraits of bluff Harry 
 VIII ; those of the rival queens, Mary and Elizabeth; 
 her keeper, the Earl of Shrewsbury, and his mascu- 
 line wife, Elizabeth of Hard wick; and the philoso- 
 phers, Boyle and Hobbs- One interesting particular
 
 346 HARDWICK HALL. 
 
 of Mrs. Jameson's statement, however, we could not 
 verify : — the tradition of the nocturnal meeting- of the 
 rival queens in the gallery. We never heard of it 
 before ; nor could we now find, by the most particular 
 inquiries, even among the domestics, any knowledge 
 of such a tradition. It was as new to them as to us ; 
 and we therefore set it down as a pleasant poetical 
 tradition of the fair author's own planting. 
 
 The Duke was come hither from Chatsworth, to 
 spend a week, and he seemed to have come in the 
 spirit befitting the place ; for there was scarcely more 
 than its usual establishment; scarcely less than its 
 usual quietness perceptible. The Duke himself we 
 had met on the road, and in his absence were shown 
 through the apartments which he uses on these occa- 
 sions; and it had a curious effect amid all this staid and 
 sombre antiquity, to find, on a plain oak table in the 
 library, the newspapers of the day ; the Athenaeum, 
 Court Journal, the Spectator, and Edinburgh Review; 
 the works of Dr. Channing; and Hood's Tylney 
 Hall, just then published. What an antithesis ! what 
 a mighty contrast between the spirit of the past and 
 the present ! — the life and stir of the politics and the 
 passing literature of the day, in a place belonging in 
 history, character, and all its appointments to an age 
 so different, and so long gone by, with all its people 
 and concerns. 
 
 Nothing, perhaps, could mark more vividly the vast 
 changes in the manners and circumstances of different 
 ages in England ; the wonderful advance in luxury 
 and refinement of the modern ones, than by passing 
 from Hardwick to the old Hall of Haddon, built in 
 1427, when the feudal system was in its strength ;
 
 HARDWICK HALL. 347 
 
 when the manor-house was but one remove from the 
 castle; to visit this with its rude halls, its massive 
 tables, its floors made from the planks of one mighty 
 oak, its ancient arras and quaint stucco-work ; and 
 then pass over to Chatsworth, only a few miles dis- 
 tant, where to the past all the splendour of the pre- 
 sent has been added ; modern architecture, and all its 
 contrivances for domestic convenience, comfort, and 
 elegance ; pictures, statuary, books, magnificent fur- 
 niture, glowing carpets ; everything that the art, 
 wealth, and ingenuity of this great nation can bring 
 together into one princely mansion. But as my limits 
 M'ill not admit of this, I shall content myself with a 
 survey of a more domestic kind, yet connected with 
 the poetical history of our own day — Annesley and 
 Neu'stead.
 
 a48 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ANNESLEY HALL AND HUCKNALL. 
 
 Early in the spring of 1 834, we walked over from 
 Nottingham to see Annesley Hall, the birth-place 
 and patrimony of Mary Chaworth ; a place made of 
 immortal interest by the early attachment of Lord 
 Byron to this lady, and by the graphic strength and 
 deep passion with which he has recorded in his poems 
 this most influential circumstance of his youth. 
 
 Annesley lies about nine miles north of Notting- 
 ham, itself — the scene of his first and most lasting 
 attachment — Newstead, his patrimonial abode — and 
 Hucknall, his burial-place; forming the three points 
 of a triangle, each of whose sides may be about two 
 miles in length. Yet although Newstead and Huck- 
 nall have been visited by shoals of admirers, this 
 place, perhaps altogether the most interesting of the 
 three, has been wholly neglected. Few, or none of 
 them, have thought it worth while to go so little out 
 of their way to see it ; perhaps not one in a hundred 
 has known that it was so near ; probably to those who 
 inquired about it, it might be replied, " you see that 
 wooded ridge — there lies Annesley. You see all that
 
 ANNESLEY AND HUCKNALL. 349 
 
 is worth seeing ; it is a poor tumble-down place :" 
 and so they have been satisfied, and have returned in 
 their wisdom to their own place, at a hundred, or a 
 thousand miles distance. But what is still more re- 
 markable, while Mr. Murray has sent down an artist 
 into this neighbourhood to make drawings of Huck- 
 nall church and Newstead for his Life and Poems of 
 Lord Byron ; and while others have encompassed sea 
 and land to give us thrice reiterated landscapes illus- 
 trative of his biography and writings, and have even 
 presented us with fictitious portraits of the most 
 interesting: characters connected with his fortunes, — 
 they have totally passed over Annesley as altogether 
 unworthy of their notice, though it is a spot, at once, 
 full of a melancholy charm ; of a sad, yet old English 
 beauty; a spot, where every sod, and stone, and tree, 
 and hearth is rife with the most strange and touching 
 memories in human existence ; and where the genuine 
 likeness of Mary Chaworth, in the most lovely and 
 happy moments of her life, is to be found. 
 
 Need I pause a moment to account for this ? Does 
 not the discerning public always tread in one track? 
 As sheep follow one leader, and traverse the heath in 
 a long-extended line, so does the public follow the 
 first trumpeter of the praises of one place. It has 
 been fashionable to visit Newstead, and it has been 
 visited ; — but as Annesley was not at first thought of, 
 it has not been visited at all. Well ! we have visited 
 it; and if there be any power in the most melancholy 
 of mortal fortunes — in the retracing the day-dreams 
 of an illustrious spirit — in the gathering of all English 
 feelings round the strongest combination of the glories 
 of nature, with the aspect of decay in the fortunes
 
 350 ANNESLEY HALL 
 
 and habitation of an ancient race, we sliall visit it 
 again and again.* 
 
 TJiat wooded ridge was our land-mark from the first 
 step of our journey, and we soon reached HucknaU. 
 The approach to HucknaU is pleasant ; the place itself 
 is a long and unpicturesque village. Count Gamba is 
 said to have been struck with its resemblance to 
 Missolonghi. Thirteen years have now passed since 
 the funeral of Lord Byron took place here, and yet it 
 seems to me but as yesterday. His admirers, in after 
 ages, will naturally picture to themselves the church, 
 on that occasion, overflowing with the intelligent and 
 poetical part of the population of the neighbourhood. 
 A poet who had spent a good deal of his boyhood and 
 youth in it — whose patrimonial estate lay here — who 
 had gone hence, and won so splendid a renown — 
 whose life had been a series of circumstances and 
 events as striking and romantic as his poetry — who 
 had finally been cut down in his prime, in so brilliant 
 an attempt to restore the freedom and ancient glory 
 of Greece — would naturally be supposed to come 
 back to the tomb of his ancestors, amidst the con- 
 fluence of a thousand strongly-excited hearts. But it 
 was not so. There was a considerable number of 
 persons present, but the church was by no means 
 crowded, and the spectators were, with very few excep- 
 tions, of that class which is collected by idle curiosity 
 on the approach of any not very wonderful procession ; 
 who would have collected to gaze as much at the 
 funeral of his lordship's grandfather, or his own, though 
 
 * Since this was published in the Athenasum in the autumn of 
 1834, Wasliington living has published his interesting visit to New- 
 stead and Annedey.
 
 AND HUCKNALL. 351 
 
 he had not written a line of poetry, or lifted the sword 
 of freedom ; — probably, with threefold eagerness at 
 that of a wealthy eit, because there would have been 
 more of bustle and assuming- blazonry about it. With 
 the exception of the undertaker's hired company ; of 
 Sir John Cam Hobhouse, and his lordship's attorney, 
 Mr. Hanson ; his Greek servant Tita, and his old fol- 
 lower Fletcher, the rest of the attendants were the 
 villagers, and a certain number of people from Not- 
 tingham, of a similar class, and led by similar motives. 
 There was not a score of those who are called "the 
 respectable " from Nottingham ; scarcely one of the 
 gentry of the county. This strange fact can only be 
 accounted for by the circumstance that Nottingham 
 and its vicinity are famous for the manufacture of lace 
 and stockings, but, like many other manufacturing- 
 districts, possess no such decided attachment to 
 literature. Many readers there are, undoubtedly, in 
 both town and country, but readers chiefly for pas- 
 time — for the filling up of a certain space between and 
 after business — and a laudable way too of so filling it; 
 but not readers from any unconquerable passion for, 
 or attachment to, literature for its own sake. A few 
 literary persons have lived in or about the neighbour- 
 hood, but these are the exception ; the character of 
 the district is manufacturing and political, but by no 
 means literary, nor ever was ; therefore, the strongest 
 feeling with which Lord Byron was regarded there, 
 was a political one. Though an aristocrat in birth 
 and bearing, he was a very thorough radical in prin- 
 ciple. Hence, he had only the sympathy of the 
 radicals with him, those consisting chiefly of the 
 working classes. The whigs of the town and the
 
 352 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 gentry of the county, chiefly tories, regarded him only 
 in a political light, and paid him not the respect of 
 their presence. 
 
 The religious world had a high prejudice against 
 him for his manifold sins of speech, opinion, and life ; 
 they of course were not there. No party had so much 
 more admiration of genius — conception of the lofty, 
 intellectual achievements of the noble poet, discern- 
 ment of the abundant qualifying, and, in fact, over- 
 balancing grace and beauty, and even religious senti- 
 ment, which breathed through many of his writings 
 — for no man had more ennobling and truly religious 
 feelings rooted in his soul by the contemplation of the 
 magnificence of God's handiworks in creation ; or felt 
 occasionally, more deeply the spiritualizing influence 
 that pervades nature ; — no party had so much more 
 of this tone of mind, than of their political or secta- 
 rian bias, as to forget all those minor things in his 
 wonderful talent — his early death — his redeeming 
 qualities, and last deeds — and the honour he had con- 
 ferred, as an everlasting heritage, on this country. 
 
 In the evening, after the people who had attended 
 the funeral were dispersed, I went down to the church 
 and entered the vault. There was a reporter from 
 one of the London newspapers, copying the inscrip- 
 tions on the coffins, by the light of a lamp ; and a 
 great hobble-de-hoy of a farmer's lad was kneeling on 
 the case that contained the poet's heart, and lolling 
 on the coffin with his elbows, as he watched the re- 
 porter, in a manner that indicated the most perfect 
 absence of all thought of the place where he was, or 
 the person on whose remains he was perched. 
 
 In the church-yard, a group of the villagers were
 
 AND HUCKNALL. 353 
 
 eagerly discussing the particulars of the funeral, and 
 the character of tlie deceased. One man attempted to 
 account for the apparently indifferent manner in which 
 the clergyman performed the burial service, by his 
 having understood that he felt himself disgraced by 
 having to bury an atheist, "An atheist !" exclaimed 
 an old woman, "tell me that he was an atheist ! D'ye 
 think an atheist would be beloved by his servants as 
 this man was? Why, they fret themselves almost to 
 death about him. And d'ye think they would have 
 made so much of him in foreign parts? Why, they 
 almost worshipped him as a god in Grecia !" giving 
 the final a a sound almost as long as one's finger. 
 This was conclusive — the wondering auditors had 
 nothing to reply — they quietly withdrew their several 
 ways, and I mine. 
 
 The church was broken into soon after the funeral, 
 and the black cloth with which the pulpit was hung on 
 this occasion, carried away : and this is not the only 
 forcible entry that has been made through Lord 
 Byron's being buried there ; for the clerk told me, 
 that when Moore came to see it, with Colonel Wild- 
 man, being impatient of the clerk's arrival, who lives 
 at some distance, the poet had contrived to climb up 
 to a window, open it, and get in, where the worthy 
 bearer of the keys found him, to his great astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 The indifference shewn by the people of Nottingham 
 towards the great poet, would not seem to have abated, 
 if we are to judge by the entries in an album kept by 
 the clerk, and which was presented for that purpose 
 about twelve years ago by Dr. Bowring. The signa- 
 tures of visitors in 1834 amounted to upwards of eight
 
 354 ANNESLEY HALL 
 
 hundred, amongst which appear the names of people 
 from North and South America, Russia, the Indies 
 and various other distant places and countiies, but few 
 from Nottingham or its shire, who might be supposed 
 to be amongst the best read and best informed portion 
 of its population. This, however, must be allowed, 
 that the names entered in the clerk's book afford no 
 just criterion of the number or quality of the visitors 
 to the poet's tomb, as many of the most poetical and 
 refined minds might naturally feel reluctant to place 
 their signatures in such a medley of mawkish senti- 
 ment as is always found in such albums. A few cler- 
 gymen, we, however, M^ere pleased to see, had there 
 placed their names; and some dissenting ministers 
 had ventured so far as to do likewise, and to preach 
 some pretty little sermons over him in the book, which 
 opens thus : 
 
 TO THE 
 
 Immortal and Illustrious Fame 
 
 OF 
 
 LORD BYRON, 
 
 THE FIRST POET OF THE AGE IN WHICH HE LIVED, 
 
 THESE TRIBUTES, 
 
 WEAK, AND UNWORTHY OF HIH, 
 
 BUT IN THEMSELVES SINCERE, 
 
 Are Inscribed, 
 
 WITH THE DEEPEST REVERENCE. 
 
 July, 1825. 
 
 At this period no monument — not even so simple a 
 slab as records the death of the humblest villaa-er in 
 the neighbourhood, — had been erected to mark the 
 spot in which all that is mortal of the greatest man of 
 our day reposes ; and he has been buried more than 
 twelve months. — July^ 1825.
 
 AND HUCKNALL. 355 
 
 So should it be : let o'er this grave 
 No monumental banners wave ; 
 Let no word speak — no trophy tell 
 Aught that may break the charming spell, 
 By which, as on this sacred ground 
 He kneels, the pilgrim's heart is bound. 
 
 A still, resistless influence, 
 Unseen, but felt, binds up the sense ; 
 While every whisper seems to breathe 
 Of the mighty dead who sleeps beneath. 
 — And though the master-hand is cold, 
 And though the lyre it once controlled 
 Rests mute in death ; yet, from the gloom 
 Whicli dwells about this holy tomb. 
 Silence breathes out more eloquent. 
 Than epitaph or monument. 
 One laurel wreath — the poet's crown — 
 Is here by hand unworthy tlnown ; 
 One tear that so mucli worth should die. 
 Fills, as I kneel, my sorrowing eye ; 
 This the simple offering. 
 Poor, but earnest, which I bring. 
 The tear has dried ; the wreath shall fade, 
 The hand that twined it soon be laid 
 In cold obstruction — but the fame 
 Of him who tears and wreath shall claim 
 From most remote posterity. 
 While Britain lives, can never die! — J. B. 
 
 The following list contains almost all the names 
 that are known to the public, or are distinguished by 
 rank or peculiarity of circumstance ; — 
 
 The Count Pietro Gamba, Jan. 31st, 1825. 
 
 The Duke of Sussex visited Lord Byron's tomb, October 1824. 
 
 Lieut. -Colonel Wildman. 
 
 Lieut.- Colonel Charles Lallemand. 
 
 The Count de Blankensee, Chamberlain to the King of Prussia, 
 
 Sept. 7th, 1825. 
 1825, Sept. 2-3. William Fletcher visited his ever-to-be-lamented 
 lord and master's tomb.
 
 356 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 1825, 10th itiontli. Jeremiah WifFen, Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire. 
 
 1826, July 30. C. R. Pemberton, a wanderer. 
 
 1828. Jan. 21. Thomas Moore. 
 
 Sept. 12. Sir Francis S. Darwin, and party, 
 
 Nov. 21. Lieut.-Colonel D'Aguilar. 
 
 Eliza D'Aguilar. 
 
 Dec. 1. Lieut.-Colonel James Hughes, of Llysdulles. 
 
 1829, Sept. 3. Lord Byron's Sister, the Honourable Augusta Mary 
 
 Leigh, visited this church, 
 
 1831, May 17. Rev. Joseph Gilbert, Nottingham. 
 
 Ann Gilbert, (formerly Ann Taylor of Ongar). 
 
 Aug. 22. Lieut. -Gen. and Mrs. Need, Fountain Dale, 
 
 1832, Jan. 8. M. Van Buren, Minister Plenipotentiary from the 
 
 United States. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 John Van Buren, New York, U. S. America. 
 
 Dec. 27. Lady Lammine, Salendale. 
 
 1834, Feb. 15. Domingo Maria Ruiz de la Vega, Ex- Deputy of the 
 Spanish Cortes, from Granada. 
 Feb. 2.3. J. Bellairs, Esq., visited Newstead Abbey, and Lord 
 Byron's tomb, such as it is — one of his greatest 
 admirers of the day ! 
 
 W. Arundale, of London, accompanied the said J. B. ! 
 
 March 8. J. Murray, Jun., Albemarle Street, London, 
 
 Although we did not, at this time, enter even the 
 churchyard, thoughts and feelings which had pre- 
 sented themselves in this very spot, on the day of 
 Lord Byron's funeral, again returned. 
 
 His birth, his death, dark fortunes, and brief life, 
 Wondrous and wild as his impetuous lay. 
 Passed through ray mind ; his wanderings, loves, and strife ; 
 I saw him marching on from day to day : 
 The kilted boy, roaming mid mountains grey ; 
 The noble youth, whose life-blood was a flame, 
 In the bright land of demi-gods astray ; 
 Tlie monarch of the lyre, whose haughty name 
 Spread on from shore to shore, the watchword of all fame ;
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 357 
 
 And then, a lifeless form ! The spell was broke ; 
 The wizard's wild enchantment was destroyed ; 
 He who at will did dreadful forms invoke, 
 And called up beautiful spirits from the void, 
 Back to the scenes in wliich he early joyed, 
 He came, but knew it not. In vain earth's bloom — 
 In vain the sky's clear beauty, which oft buoyed 
 His spirit to delight ; an early doom 
 Brought him in glory's arms to the awaiting tomb. 
 
 He lies — how quietly that heart which yet 
 Never could slumber, slumbers now for aye ! 
 He lies — where first, love, fame, his young soul set 
 With passionate power on flame ; where gleam the grey 
 Turrets of Newstead, through the solemn sway 
 Of verdurous woods ; and where that hoary crown 
 Of lofty trees, " in circular array," 
 Shrouds Mary's Hall, who thither may look down, 
 And think how he loved her, ay, more than his renown. 
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 From Hucknall we ascended chiefly through open, 
 wild lands: — to our right the wooded valley of New- 
 stead, every moment spreading itself cut more broadly; 
 and before us the forest heights of Annesley, growing 
 more bold and attractive. A wild gusty breeze, and 
 dark flying clouds, added sensibly to the deep solitude 
 and picturesque character of the scene. We soon 
 passed a cottage, having beside it an old brick pillar 
 surmounted with a stone ball, and before it an avenue 
 of lime trees, which appeared some time to have 
 formed the boundary or place of entrance to the park; 
 then a new lodge, and found ourselves at the foot of 
 the steep hill, styled in Byron's Dream 
 
 A gentle hill, 
 Green, and of mild declivity.
 
 358 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 The greenness and mildness of declivity, however, 
 we afterwards found were on the side by which Byron 
 and Mary Chaworth had ascended it from her house ; 
 on this side it is a remarkably barren and extremely 
 steep hill. However, up we went, and on the summit 
 discovered the strict accuracy of his delineation of it. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth, 
 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 
 Green, and of mild declivity ; the last, 
 
 As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such. 
 
 Save that there was no sea to kve its base. 
 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 
 Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
 
 Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 
 Arising from such rustic roofs : — the hill 
 
 Was crowned with a peculiar diadem 
 
 Of trees in circular array, so fixed. 
 
 Not by the sport of Nature, but of man. 
 
 A most living landscape it is indeed, including all 
 the objects so vividly here given ; amongst them, the 
 most conspicuous, the house of his living ancestors, 
 and the house where he has joined them in death; 
 and extending from the woody skirts of Sherwood 
 Forest to the mill-crowned heights of Nottingham. 
 By the way, a strange mistake of Moore's here pre- 
 sented itself. Immediately after the passage just 
 quoted, Byron proceeds to speak further of this young- 
 pair, and says : — 
 
 Even now she loved another, 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood. 
 Looking afar, if yet her lover's steed 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 Moore, commenting on this, tells us that the image 
 of the lover's steed was suggested by the Nottingham 
 race-ground, — a race-ground actually nine miles oiF,
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 359 
 
 and moreover lying in a hollow, and totally hidden 
 from view ; had the lady's eyes, indeed, been so mar- 
 vellously good as to discern a horse nine miles off? 
 Mary Chaworth, in fact, was looking for her lover's 
 steed along the road as it winds up the common from 
 Hucknall. 
 
 But a stranger discovery soon made us forget this 
 Irish hull. We had no sooner reached the summit of 
 the hill, than to our inexpressible astonishment we 
 found the very trees so strikingly pointed out in this 
 most interesting poem, " the trees in circular array" — 
 cut down ! These trees, and none else, cut down ! 
 There were the trees crowning the whole length of 
 the " long ridge" standing in their grayness ; and 
 there were the stumps of " the trees in circular array" 
 in the earth at our feet ! An immediate and irresist- 
 able conviction forced itself on our minds; but we 
 write it not; we merely state the fact, that that 
 memorable landmark of love, made interesting to every 
 age by the poetry of passion, had been removed. 
 Our indignation may be imagined when we found 
 that not only had the trees been cut down, but there 
 was an actual attempt to cut down the hill itself, by 
 making a gravel-pit there ; — of all places in the world, 
 to think of making a gravel-pit on the top of that 
 steep hill, when it might be got from the bottom of 
 any hill in the neighbourhood. We have since been 
 told that it was the intention of its present possessor, 
 the husband of Mary Chaworth, to have cut down all 
 the trees upon that hill ; but that his design was 
 prevented by the interference of his eldest son, to 
 whom the estate descends by entail ; and that he was 
 compelled by the spirited conduct of the son, to plant
 
 360 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 the hill afresh ; but he has complied with the letter, 
 overlooking the spirit of the agreement, in the most 
 perfect style, having planted the sides of the hill all 
 over with fir-trees, so that it will in a short time 
 shroud the place, and smother it completely from the 
 view.* 
 
 The indignation we felt on this occasion, perhaps, 
 made us more sensibly alive to the character of the 
 place. Byron, in some juvenile verses, exclaims — 
 
 Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren. 
 
 Where my thoughtless childhood strayed, 
 
 How the northern tempests warring, 
 Howl above thy tufted shade. 
 
 So Strongly did the wind drive over this ridge, that 
 we could scarcely make head against it ; and remem- 
 bering to have heard of a temple which formerly 
 crowned this hill, but had been blown down either by 
 tempest or war, we looked amongst the broken ground, 
 and perceived considerable remains of masonry, pro- 
 bably the foundations of the temple : nor can a finer 
 situation for such an erection be imagined. 
 
 The trees which crowned " the ridge," and which, 
 at a distance, appeared large, we soon saw, were of 
 stunted growth, with tops curled, and sturdy, as if 
 accustomed to wrestle with the tempests. An avenue 
 of them stretched away into distant woods. Large 
 decayed branches lay here and there beneath, indi- 
 cating a solitude and neglect of the place pleasing to 
 
 * Mentioning the felling of these trees to a mechanic soon after- 
 wards, — " Trees," I added, " that might be seen so far." " Seen, 
 sir!" he exclaimed, "those trees were seen all over the world!" He 
 meant through the medium of Byron's poetry. It was an expression, 
 and accompanied by energy of feeling, that would have done honour 
 to any man.
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 361 
 
 the imagination. Before us, across a descending 
 slope — the hill of mild and green declivity — extended, 
 right and left, noble woods ; and in the midst of them, 
 in the midst of a smaller crescent of wood, we descried 
 the tall grey chimneys and ivy-covered walls and 
 gables of the old Hall, and the top of the church- 
 tower. We hastened down, observing on our left, in 
 an old forest-slope, a large herd of deer, which had a 
 good effect, — and struck into a footpath that led 
 directly up to\rards the house. As we drew nearer, 
 the old building, hung with luxuriant Ivy and shrouded 
 among tall trees, far over-topping its tall chimneys; 
 amid shrubberies of wondrous growth of evergreens, 
 among which are conspicuous, three remarkable 
 ilexes, with black-green foliage crowning their short 
 thick black trunks, and with grassy openings sloping 
 down to the warm south — struck us forcibly with its 
 picturesque and silent beauty. We found ourselves 
 now, apparently at the back of a high garden-wall, by 
 the side of which ran a row of lime trees, which 
 seemed at one time to have been pollarded and 
 trained espalier-wise, but had now sent up heads of a 
 luxuriant and fantastic growth. On our other hand, 
 lay a wood, from which the thickets being cleared 
 away, left us ample view of its ivy-mantled trees, and 
 the ground beneath them one green expanse of dog's- 
 mercury and fresh leaves of the blue-bell. Tufts of 
 primroses were scattered all about, and the wood- 
 anemonies trembled in the wind. But over all, such 
 a mantle of deep silence seemed cast, that it re- 
 nunded us of some enchanted place in the fairy and 
 forest-stories of Tieck. 
 
 VOL. 1. u
 
 3G2 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 At the top of this road, turning suddenly to the 
 left, we found ourselves before 
 
 The massy gate of tliat old hall, 
 
 from which Byron declares that, 
 
 Mounting his steed he went his way, 
 
 And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. 
 
 But all was silent and lifeless. No person was to be 
 discerned in the court to which it opened ; there were 
 no signs of life except in the cooing of some pigeons 
 and the cawing of certain jackdaws. We went 
 round the outbuildings into the churchyard, which is 
 level with the top of the court-wall, and looks directly 
 into it. We leaned over a massy parapet, and looked 
 down into this court; the spell of an invincible silence 
 seemed to cover the whole place. In the gravel 
 walks which ran round the court, there were traces of 
 carriage wheels; but you felt as if no carriage with 
 the bustle and vivacity of active life could ever more 
 enter there. In the centre of the grass-plot, a basin, 
 surrounded by a hedge of honeysuckle, and which 
 had doubtless once possessed the life and beauty of a 
 fountain, now shewed only water, black, stagnant, and 
 covered with masses of yellow moss. We were close 
 to the house ; its curtained windows gave it an air 
 of habitation ; but no sound nor visible indication of 
 the presence of man was about it. We walked along 
 the green and picturesque churchyard : the back of 
 the buildings on this side of the court bounded part of 
 it ; they vi^ere in the last state of decay ; wide gaps in 
 the roof gave us a view into dark and dreary stables. 
 We came to the farm-yard, also joining the church- 
 yard : it had the same aspect of desertion. There
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. '3QS 
 
 \ras neither cattle nor ricks in it, but the brandreth, 
 or frame on which a rick once stood, littered witli 
 decaying straw, and its air of desolation made more 
 striking by a piece of old wooden balustrade cast upon 
 it. There were barn-doors standing wide open ; 
 and the litter of the yard even appeared dusty and 
 grey with age. You felt sure no human foot could 
 have disturbed it for years. We descended from the 
 churchyard, and went round the farm-buildings once 
 more towards the old "massy gate." At the back of 
 these buildings were nailed the trophies of the game- 
 keeper by hundreds, we might, we think, say thou- 
 sands; wild cats, dried to blackness, stretched their 
 downward heads and legs from the wall ; hawks, 
 magpies, and jays, hung in tattered remnants; but 
 all grey and even green with age ; and the lieads of 
 birds in plenteous rows, nailed beak upward, were 
 dried and shriveled by the sun, and winds, and frosts 
 of many summers and winters, till their distinctive 
 characters were lost. They all seemed to speak the 
 same silent language : — to say, Ay, this was once the 
 abode of a prosperous old family ; here were abun- 
 dance of friends, and dependents going to and fro ; 
 horses and hounds going forth in vociferous joy ; 
 abroad was the chase and the sound of the gun, — 
 wnthin were spits turning, and good fellowship ; but 
 all this is long since over — a blight and a sorrow have 
 fallen here. 
 
 We now approached the " massy gateway" by a 
 wide entrance, which a pair of great doors had once 
 closed — one of these had fallen from its hinges, and 
 the other swung in the wind, banging against its post 
 with a hollow sound, whose echoes told of vacancy.
 
 364 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 Above the gateway, the vane on the cupola turned to 
 and fro in the g-usty air, with a dreary queek-quake, 
 queek-quake : all besides was still. We stood and 
 looked at each other with an expression that said — 
 Did you ever see anything like this? At this mo- 
 ment an old grey dog came softly out of the court — 
 the first living thing we had seen, except the jackdaws 
 and the pigeons; quietly he came, as if he too felt 
 the nature of his abode. It was with no vivacity of 
 action, or noisy bark : he stood and silently wagged 
 his tail ; and as we drew near him, as silently re- 
 treated into the court. We entered this silent place, 
 and looked around. The house formed its western 
 end; stables and coach-houses formed its north and 
 eastern sides; the south was open to the shrubbery. 
 The ivy hung in huge masses from all the walls. In 
 the eastern end was the " massy gateway" mentioned 
 by Byron, arched over, and surmounted by a clock 
 and cupola. So profoundly lifeless and deserted 
 seemed the place, that though the clock -finger point- 
 ed to the true time of the day — exactly half-past 
 twelve o'clock — our imaginations refused for some 
 time to believe that the clock could actually be going: 
 we felt positive astonishment when it proved to us 
 that it really did. 
 
 M'^e now resolved to ascertain at the house itself, if 
 it had any living inhabitants; and on approaching the 
 hall-door, we heard a sound in a stable ; we went in, 
 and descried, in a dismal room adjoining it, a man 
 sitting by a fire in a corner, and a dog lying on the 
 hearth. The man and the place were alike forlorn. 
 They were dirty, squalid, desolate. We had said, 
 who could have supposed so abandoned a spot so near
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 3G5 
 
 Notting-liam ? but who could have imagined so wild 
 and banditti-like a being-, as that man within so short 
 a distance of a large town? His dress and person 
 had every character of reckless neglect ; his black 
 hair hung about his pale face; he had no handker- 
 chief about his neck ; he sate and devoured his dinner, 
 which he appeared to have cooked with his own hands, 
 looking up at us with a ruffian stupidity, as he an- 
 swered our questions with a surly bluntness, without 
 ceasing to help himself, with a large pocket-knife, 
 and no fork, to his meal. He told us we could not 
 see the house — master never let it be seen. When 
 asked, why? he could not tell — but it was so; but 
 we might ask the old woman in the house. Away we 
 went, and a jewel of an old woman we found. 
 
 She was the very beau ideal of an old servant; all 
 simplicity, fidelity, full of the history of the family ; 
 wrapped up in its fortunes and its honours — a part and 
 parcel of the race and place, for she had been in the 
 family above sixty yeai's,— being taken, as she said, 
 when she was ten years old, by Mary Chaworth's 
 grandfather, and put to school, and taught to read and 
 write, to mark and to flower ; for she would, he said, 
 be a nice sharp girl to wait on him. " Oh ! he was a 
 pretty man — a very pretty, well-behaved gentleman," 
 said she with a sigh. Old Nanny Marsland, for such 
 v/as her name, seemed a pure and unsophisticated 
 creature; the regular influx of visitors had not spoiled 
 her ; the curious and the pert, and the idle, the inso- 
 lent and the foolish, had not troubled the clear sincere 
 current of her thoughts ; had not made her heart and 
 spirit turn inward, in self-defence, and converted her 
 into the subtle and parrot shew-woraan.
 
 366 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 She never dreamt of anything being blameable that 
 had been done by any of the family. She delighted 
 to talk of the Hall and its people ; and feeling her 
 solitude, — for she was the sole regular occupant, — 
 some one to talk to was a luxury. Could we have 
 hoped for a creature more to our hearts' desire ? 
 Under her guidance we progressed through this most 
 interesting old place ; thoughts and feelings, never to 
 be forgotten, springing up at every step. 
 
 The house is not large ; and desertion had stamped 
 within, the same characters as on all without. Damp 
 had disfigured the walls; a fire of cheerful pine-logs 
 blazed in the hall and in the kitchen ; but everywhere 
 else was the chill and gloom of the old neglected 
 mansion. All the more modern furniture, and most 
 of the paintings, had been removed, and thereby the 
 keeping of the abode was but the better preserved. 
 We know not how to describe the feelings with which 
 we traversed these rooms. It was as if the hall of 
 one of our old English families had been hidden be- 
 neath a magic cloud for ages, and suddenly revealed to 
 our eyes, now, at a time when everything belonging to 
 this country is so much changed ; — houses, men, man- 
 ners and opinions. When we entered the old-fashioned 
 family hall, standing as it stood ages ago, furnished as 
 it was ages ago, with its antique stove, its antique sofas, 
 if so they can be called, made of wood carved, and 
 curiously painted, and cushioned with scarlet, standing 
 on each side of the fire; the antique French time-piece 
 on its bracket ; its various old cabinets and tables stand- 
 ing by walls ; and its floor of large and small squares of 
 alternating black marble and white stone — the domes- 
 tic sanctuary of a race whom we regard as our pro-
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 367 
 
 genltors, but widely diiFerent to ourselves, seemed 
 suddenly revealed to us, and we could almost have 
 expected to see the rough, boisterous squire, or the 
 stately baron, issue from one of the side-doors ; or to 
 hear the rustling of the silken robe of some long- 
 waisted dame, who could occasionally leap a five- 
 barred gate as readily as she could dance at the 
 Christmas festival ; or one of high and solemn beauty, 
 in whom devotion deep, uninquiring and undoubting, 
 was the great principle and passion of life ; to whom 
 the domestic chapel was a holy place ; the chaplain 
 her daily counsellor ; and the distribution of alms her 
 daily occupation. We saw before us the hearthstone 
 of a race that lived in the full enjoyment of aristo- 
 cratic ascendancy, when rank was old and undisputed ; 
 when neither mercantile wealth had pressed on their 
 nobility on the one hand, nor popular knowledge and 
 rio-hts on the other; wdien the gentry lived only to be 
 reverenced and obeyed, every one in the midst of his 
 own forests and domains as a king, and led forth his 
 tenants and serfs to the wars of his country, or to the 
 chase of his own wide wilds ; when field sports and 
 jovial feastings, and love-making, were the life-em- 
 ployment of men and women, who took rank and 
 power as an unquestioned heritage, and never trou- 
 Ijled their brain with gathering knowledge : and all 
 below them were supposed to be happy, because they 
 \vere ignorant and submissive. 
 
 This hall which occupies the centre of the building, 
 is nearly sixty feet long by thirty wide, supported by 
 two elliptic arches and Ionic pillars. The middle of 
 the room is now occupied by a billiard table, which 
 formerly stood in an upper room, called the terrace-
 
 368 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 room, of which we shall speak presently. At the 
 lower end of this hall an easy flight of steps leads to 
 the upper apartments. Near the fire, at the upper 
 end, a few steps lead into a beautiful little breakfast- 
 room, which looks out into the garden, and forms one 
 of the projections of the building, the staircase at the 
 lower end forming the other : the three large, old- 
 fashioned windows which light the hall, lying on this 
 side, and looking out into a little parterre, fenced off 
 with a trellis-fence, even with the two projections we 
 have spoken of — such a parterre as one often meets 
 with, belonging to old houses — a little favoured 
 sanctuary of garden -ground, where choice flowers 
 were trained, and which was the especial care of page 
 and gardener, before ladies took to gardening them- 
 selves. This, which is now a perfect wilderness, 
 almost overrun with shrubs and the tall tree-like 
 laurels which encumber wall and window, and almost 
 exclude daylight from the hall, to the great annoyance 
 of our good old woman, was once, as was fitting, the 
 favourite flower-garden of Mary Chaworth. 
 
 The little breakfast-room we mentioned, looks out 
 not only by a side window into the parterre, but 
 also by two large, low windows into the garden ; a 
 fine old garden, with a fine stately old terrace, one of 
 the noblest it was ever our good fortune to see, and 
 such a one as Danby or Turner would be proud to 
 enrich their fine pictures with. In this room were a 
 few family portraits. One a small full-length figure, 
 which the old woman very significantly told us was 
 Byron's Chaworth; that is, the Chaworth killed by 
 the poet's grandfather in a duel. Another portrait 
 she informed us was the last Lord Chaworth ; for this
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 369 
 
 estate, •which had been in the family of the Annesleys 
 from the time of the Conquest, came into that of Lord 
 Viscount Chaworth of Armagh, in Ireland, by the 
 marriage of one of his ancestors with the sole heiress, 
 Alice de Annesley, in the reign of Henry VI. " And 
 this," she said, pointing to a female portrait, " was his 
 lawful wife." " What then," we said, " there was an 
 unlawful wife, was there?" " Yes," she added, "she 
 is here." We glanced at the picture placed in the 
 shady corner by the window, next, however, to Lord 
 Chaworth, and exclaimed, " and a good judge was his 
 Lordship too !" A creature of most perfect and won- 
 drous beauty it was that we beheld. What a fine, 
 rich, oval countenance, and noble forehead slightly 
 shaded by auburn locks ! what large dark eyes of in- 
 expressible expression ! what a soft, delicate, yet 
 beautiful and sunny complexion ! what a beautiful 
 rounding of the cheek, chin, and throat ! what exqui- 
 site features ! Mdiat a perfect mixture of nobility of 
 mind, with elegance and simplicity of taste. Never 
 did we behold a more enchanting vision of youth 
 and beauty ; and all this hidden for generations in a 
 dark nook of this old hall, unmentioned, and un- 
 known. It were worth a journey from London but 
 to gaze upon. Beautiful as this portrait is, it repre- 
 sents a mole upon either cheek ; but this, instead of 
 detracting from the loveliness of the face, as might be 
 imagined, only appears to give it character and indi- 
 viduality, and vouches for the fidelity of the likeness. 
 The painting, too, is extremely well done ; far supe- 
 rior to anything else in the house, except it be the 
 satin petticoat of a Miss Burdett in the terrace-room. 
 " And who," we inquired, *' was this charming crea- 
 
 K'2
 
 370 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 ture ?" " She was a girl of the village, sir," was the 
 reply. " What ! could the village produce a creature 
 like her?" "Yes: his Lordship took her into the 
 house as a servant; but she did not like him, and 
 went away : however, he got her afterwards, and 
 built a house for her on the estate, and she had one 
 child. But she died, poor thing ! all was not right 
 somehow ; and all her money she put in a cupboard 
 for her son, — they would shew you the cupboard in the 
 house to this day; and on the very night she died, 
 her own relations came and took away the money ; — 
 things weren't as they should have been, poor thing ! 
 and she came again." " What, was this the lady that 
 we have heard an old man say, came up out of a well, 
 and sat in a tree by moonlight, combing her hair ?" 
 " No, Lord bless you ! that was another ; but the 
 parson laid liei\ and the well is covered in ; but for 
 all that she walks yet !" We smiled at the good 
 woman's very orthodox belief in ghosts ; but we know 
 not Mdiether we should not be apt to catch the con- 
 tagion of superstitious feeling, if we Avere to dwell all 
 alone in this old house as she does, and hear the winds 
 howling and sighing about it at night ; the long ivy 
 rustling about the windows, and dashing against the 
 panes ; and the owls hooting about in many a wild, 
 piercing, and melancholy tone; and feel oneself in the 
 unparticipated solitude of those ancient rooms, with 
 all their strange and sad memories. 
 
 Besides this portrait of the beautiful and unhappy 
 Mrs. Milner, we bestowed a look of great interest on 
 one of much attraction, the daughter of Viscount 
 Chaworth — not beautiful, but full of the fascination of 
 cultivated mind, and of a heart so living and loving,
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 371 
 
 that it caused the eyelids to droop over their beamy- 
 orbs, with an expression that made you tremble for 
 the peace of its possessor. One other picture attracted 
 our attention from its singularity. It represents a 
 landscape, apparently, " the hill of green and mild 
 declivity," the line of trees, and the trees in circular 
 array, from among which rises the temple we spoke 
 of before, and which our cicerone assured us had been 
 considered " the finest in all England, but had been 
 blown down in Oliver Cromwell's days." In the 
 foreground stands, as if painted in enamel, a gentle- 
 man in a strange sort of dress-jerkin, of white satin, 
 with a short petticoat of purple velvet bordered with 
 gold lace. On his right hand his amazonian lady, 
 half the head taller than himself, clad in a riding-dress 
 of green, bordered likewise with gold-lace ; and on 
 either side of them a son, in the full-dress of William 
 and Mary's reign ; with powdered wigs, long-lapped 
 scarlet coats, waistcoats, and breeches, with white silk 
 stockings on their neat little legs, and lace ruiSes at 
 their hands, each with his little head turned on one 
 side ; — the one caressing a fawn, the other a grey- 
 hound ; and the family group completed by the groom 
 standing a little behind, holding tlie lady's palfry 
 ready saddled for her use. These, and a portrait of the 
 son of Lord Chavvorth, are all the family pictures 
 which the house contains. 
 
 Leaving then this room, we re-crossed the hall, and 
 ascending the staircase at the lower end, entered the 
 drawing-room, which is over the hall — a handsome 
 room, and the best furnished in the house. The most 
 interesting piece of furniture it contains, or perhaps, 
 which the house itself contains, is a screen covered
 
 372 
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 over with a great number of cuttings in black paper, 
 done by a Mrs. Goodcliild, and representing a great 
 variety of family incidents and character — those little 
 passing incidents in life, Mdiich, though rarely chroni- 
 cled, are most influential on its fortunes — on which 
 often its very destiny hangs. The receipt of a let- 
 ter — the first meeting — the last parting — how much 
 do these thino^s involve ! Here we were introduced 
 to Mary Chaworth, the lovely and graceful maiden, 
 full of hope, and life, and gaiety; with her friends and 
 dependents about her; at the very time when Lord 
 Byron became attached to her. Of the accuracy of 
 this likeness we have no doubt, from the vs^onderful 
 fidelity of some of the others, with whose persons we 
 are acquainted. 
 
 In one place she is represented as sitting in a room, 
 her attitude one of terror. A man is before her 
 presenting a pistol, and a little terrified page is 
 concealing himself under a table. In another she 
 sits with her mother and a gentleman at tea ; a 
 footman behind waiting upon them. Again, she is in
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 37-) 
 
 the gardens or grounds, walking with l»er cousin, 
 Miss Radford ; her rustic hat thrown back upon her 
 shoulders ; her beautiful head turned aside ; and her 
 hand put forth to receive a letter from a page, kneel- 
 ing on one knee, — a letter from her lover and subse- 
 quent husband. 
 
 Again, she is playing with a little child ; and in all, 
 her figure is full of exquisite grace and viv^acity, and 
 the profile of the face remarkably fine. It is impos- 
 sible to say with what intense interest we examined 
 these memorials of private life ; these passages so full 
 of vitality and character, incidental, but important — 
 the very essence of an autobiography. 
 
 From the drawing-room we passed to the one called 
 the terrace-room, from its opening by a glass door 
 upon the terrace, which runs along the top of the 
 garden at rio^ht anjjles with the house, and level with 
 this second story, descending to the garden by a 
 double flight of broad stone steps, in the middle of its 
 length, which is about eighty yards. This room 
 formerly contained the billiard table, and in it Mary 
 Chavvorth and her noble lover passed much time. He 
 was fond of the terrace, and used to pace backwards 
 and forwards upon it, and amuse himself with shooting 
 with a pistol at a door. It was here that she last saw 
 him, with the exception of a dinner-visit, after his 
 return from his travels. It was here that he took his 
 last leave of Mary Chaworth, when 
 
 He went his way, 
 And ne'er repassed that hoary tlireshold more. 
 
 It was here, then, those ill-fated ones stood, and 
 lingered, and conversed, for at least two hours. Mary
 
 374 ANNESLEY HALL. 
 
 Chaworth was here all life and spirit, full of youth, 
 and beauty, and hope. What a change fell upon her 
 after-life ! She now stood here, the last scion of a 
 time-honoured race, with large possessions, with the 
 fond belief of sharing them in joy with the chosen of 
 her life. Never did human life present a sadder 
 contrast! There are many reasons why we should 
 draw a veil over this mournful history, much of which 
 will never be known; suffice it to say, that it was 
 not without most real, deep, and agonizing causes, 
 that years after, 
 
 In her home, her native home, 
 She dwelt begirt with growing infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of beauty, — but behold ! 
 Upon her face tliere was the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife. 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 As if its lid was charged with unshed tears. 
 
 It was not without a fearful outraging of trusting 
 affections, the desolation of a spirit trodden and 
 crushed by that which should have shielded it, that 
 
 She was changed 
 As by the sickness of the soul : her mind 
 Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 Tlie queen of a fantastic realm; her tlioughts 
 Were combinations of disjointed things; 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 Of others' sight, familiar were to hers. 
 
 There must have come a day, a soul-prostrating 
 day, when she must have felt the grand mistake she 
 had made, in casting away a heart that never ceased 
 to love her and sorrow for her, and a mind that wrapt 
 her, even severed as it was from her, in an imperish- 
 able halo of glory.
 
 ANNESLEY HALL. 375 
 
 There is nothing in all the histories of broken 
 affections and mortal sorrows, more striking and melan- 
 choly than the idea of this lady, so bright and joyous- 
 hearted in her youth, sitting in her latter years, for 
 days and weeks, alone and secluded, uninterrupted by 
 any one, in this old house, weeping over the poems 
 which commented in burning words on the individual 
 fortunes of herself and Lord Byron — 
 
 The one 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
 With this idea vividly impressed on our spirits, a 
 darker shade seemed to settle down on those antiquated 
 rooms; — we passed out into the garden, at the door 
 at which Byron passed ; we trod that stately terrace, 
 and gazed at the old vase placed in the centre of its 
 massy balustrade, bearing the original escutcheon of 
 the Lord Chaworth, and stands a brave object as 
 seen from the garden, into which we descended, and 
 wandered among its high-grown evergreens. But 
 everything was tinged with the spirit and fate of that 
 unhappy lady. The walks were overgrown with grass ; 
 and tufts of snowdrop leaves, now grown wild and 
 shaggy, as they do after the flower is over, grew in 
 them ; and tufts of a beautiful and peculiar kind of 
 fumitory, with its pink bloom, and the daffodils and 
 primroses of early spring looked out from amongst 
 the large forest trees that surround the garden. 
 Everything, even the smallest, seemed in unison with 
 that great spirit of silence and desolation which hovered 
 over the place ; and the gusty winds that swept the 
 long wood-walk by which we came away, gave us a 
 most fitting adieu.
 
 376 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 We left Annesley, as we have said, by that long- 
 wood-walk which leads to the Mansfiekl road; and 
 advancing on that road about a mile, then turned to 
 the right through a deep defile down into the fields. 
 Here we found ourselves in an extensive natural 
 amphitheatre, surrounded by bold declivities — in some 
 places bleak and barren, in others, richly embossed 
 with furze and broom. Before us, at the distance of 
 another mile, lay Newstead amid its woods, across a 
 moory flat. The wind whistled and sighed amongst 
 the dry, white, wiry grass of last year's growth, as 
 we walked along ; and a solitary heron, with slow 
 strokes of its ample wings, flew athwart — not our 
 path, for path we had none, having been tempted into 
 the fields by the beauty of the scene. We followed 
 the course of a little stream, clear as crystal, and 
 swift as human life, and soon found ourselves at the 
 tail of the lake so often referred to by Lord Byron. 
 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 Broad as transparent, deep and freshly fed 
 By a river, which its softened way did take 
 In currents through the calmer water spread
 
 NEWSTEAD. 377 
 
 Around; the wild fowl nestled in tlie brake 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 
 The woods sloped downward to its brink, and stood 
 With their green faces fixed upon the flood. 
 
 It was a scene that would have delighted Bewick 
 for its picturesque sedgyness. The streams that fed 
 it came don-n a woody valley shaggy with sedge — the 
 lake thereabout being bordered with tall masses of it. 
 There was a little island all OA'ergrown with it, and 
 water-loving trees; and wild fowl in abundance were 
 hastening to hide themselves in its covert, or arose 
 and flew around with a varied clangour. Another 
 moment, and we passed a green knoll, and were in 
 front of the Abbey. John Evelyn, who once visited 
 it, was much struck with the resemblance between its 
 situation and that of Fontainbleau. 
 
 Plere all was neat and habitable — had an air of 
 human life and human attention about it, that formed 
 a strong contrast to the scene of melancholy desola- 
 tion we had left ; and also to this same scene when I 
 visited it years ago, at the time when it was sold, I 
 believe, to a Mr. Claughton, who afterwards, for 
 some cause or other, threw up the bargain. To give 
 an idea of the impression this place made upon me, 
 I shall merely refer to an account furnished by me 
 many years ago to a periodical of the time, which 
 account was partly quoted by Gait in his Life of Lord 
 Byron, and made liberal use of by Moore, though 
 without acknowledgment. I was a boy, rambling 
 through the woods nutting, when suddenly, I came 
 in front of the Abbey, which I had never seen before, 
 and learned from a peasant who happened to be near, 
 that I might get to see it for the value of an ounce of
 
 378 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 tobacco given to old Murray, a grey-headed old man 
 — who had been in the family from a boy, and who 
 now, at his own request, lies buried in Hucknall 
 churchyard, as close to the family vault as it was 
 possible to lay him. He and a maid-servant were 
 then the only inmates of the place, being left to 
 superintend the removal of the goods. I marched up 
 to the dismal-looking porch in front, to which you 
 ascended by a flight of steps, and gave a thundering 
 knock, which almost startled me by the hollow sound 
 it seemed to send through the ancient building. 
 After a good waiting, some one approached, and 
 began to withdraw bars and bolts, and to let fall 
 chains; and presently, the old grey-headed man 
 opened the massy door cautiously, to a width just 
 sufficient to enable him to see who was there. Find- 
 ing nothing more formidable than a boy, he opened 
 wide, and I inquired if I could see the place. The 
 old man first looked at me, and then around, and 
 said, " How many are there of you ?" As he was 
 evidently calculating the probable amount of profit, I 
 gave him such evidence of sufficient reward that his 
 doors instantly flew open, and he desired me to wander 
 where I pleased, till he could return to me, having 
 left some important aflkir in medias res. Here then 
 was a wilderness of an old house thrown open to me, 
 and the efi'ect it had on my youthful imagination is 
 indescribable. 
 
 The embellishments which the abbey had received 
 from his lordship, had more of the brilliant conception 
 of the poet in them than of the sober calculations of 
 common life. I passed through many rooms which 
 he had superbly finished, but over which he had per-
 
 NEWSTEAD. 379 
 
 mitted so wretched a roof to remain, that, in about 
 half a dozen years, the rain had visited his proudest 
 chambers ; the paper had rotted on the walls, and fell 
 in comfortless sheets upon glowing carpets and cano- 
 pies ; upon beds of crimson and gold; clogging the 
 glittering wings of eagles, and dishonouring coronets. 
 From many rooms the furniture was gone. In the 
 entrance hall alone remained the paintings of his old 
 friends — the dog and bear. 
 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable. 
 With more of the romantic than had been 
 Elsewhere preserved ; the cloisters still were stable, 
 The cells too and refectory I ween ; 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able 
 Still unimpaired to decorate the scene ; 
 The rest had been reformed, replaced, or sunk, 
 And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 
 
 Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, joined 
 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 
 
 Might shock a connoisseur ; but, when combined, 
 
 Formed a whole, which, irregular in parts. 
 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind. 
 
 At least, of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 
 
 The long and gloomy gallery, which, whoever 
 views will be strongly reminded of Lara, as indeed 
 a survey of this place will awake more than one scene 
 in that poem, — had not yet relinquished the sombre 
 pictures of its ancient race — 
 
 That frowned 
 In rude, but antique portraiture around. 
 
 In the study, which is a small chamber overlooking 
 the garden, the books were packed up; but there 
 remained a sofa, over which hung a sword in a gilt 
 sheath ; and at the end of the room opposite the 
 window, stood a pair of light fancy stands, each sup-
 
 380 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 porting a couple of the most perfect and finely- 
 polished skulls I ever saw ; most probably selected, 
 along with the far-famed one converted into a drinking- 
 cup, and inscribed with some well-known verses, from 
 a vast number taken from the abbey cemetery, and 
 piled up in the form of a mausoleum, but since re- 
 committed to the ground. Between them hung a gilt 
 crucifix. 
 
 To those skulls he evidently alludes in Lara, where 
 he makes his servants ask one another — 
 
 Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head, 
 Which hands profane had gathered from the dead, 
 That still beside his open volume lay, 
 As if to startle all save him away ? 
 
 And they most probably suggested that fine passage 
 in Childe Harold — 
 
 Remove yon skull from out those shattered heaps : 
 
 Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
 
 Why, even the worm at last disdains her slialtered cell ! 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, 
 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul ; 
 
 Yes, this was once ambition's airy hall. 
 
 The dome of thought, the palace of the soul ; 
 
 Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
 
 The gay recess of wisdom and of wit, 
 
 And passion's host, that never brooked control : 
 
 Can all, saint, sage, or sophist ever writ. 
 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 
 
 In the servants' hall, lay a stone coffin, in which 
 were fencing gloves and foils ; and on the wall of the 
 ample but cheerless kitchen, was painted in large 
 letters, " Waste not, want not." 
 
 During a great part of his Lordship's minority, the 
 abbey was in the occupation of Lord Grey de lluthen,
 
 NEWSTEAD. 3,^1 
 
 his hounds, and divers colonies of jackdaws, swallows, 
 and starling's. The internal traces of this Goth M^ere 
 swept away; but without, all appeared as rude and 
 unreclaimed as he could have left it. I must confess, 
 that if I was astonished at the heterogeneous mixture 
 of splendour and ruin within, I was more so at the 
 perfect uniformity of waldness without. I never had 
 been able to conceive poetic genius in its domestic 
 bower, without figuring it, diffusing the polish of its 
 delicate taste on everything about it. But here the 
 spirit of beauty seemed to have dwelt, but not to have 
 been caressed ; — it was the spirit of the wilderness. 
 The gardens were exactly as their late owner described 
 them in his earliest poems: — 
 
 Through tliy battlements, Newstead, tlie liollow winds whistle; 
 
 Thou the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay ; 
 In thy once-smiling gardens the hemlock and thistle, 
 
 Now choke up the rose, that late bloomed in the way. 
 
 With the exception of the dog's tomb — a conspi- 
 cuous and elegant object, placed on an ascent of 
 several steps, crowned with a lambent flame, and 
 panelled with white marble tablets, of which that con- 
 taining the celebrated epitaph was removed, I do not 
 recollect the slightest trace of culture, or improve- 
 ment. The late lord, a stern and desperate character, 
 who is never mentioned by the neighbouring peasants 
 without a significant shake of the head, might have 
 returned and recognized everything about him, ex- 
 cept, perchance, an additional crop of weeds. There 
 still gloomily slept the old pond, into which he is 
 said to have hurled his lady in one of his fits of fury, 
 whence she was rescued by the p-ardener: a couraire- 
 ous blade, who was the lord's master, and chastised
 
 382 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 him for his barbarity. There still, at the end of the 
 garden, in a grove of oak, two towering satyrs — he 
 with his club, and Mrs. Satyr, with her chubby, 
 cloven-footed brat, placed on pedestals at the inter- 
 sections of the narrow and gloomy pathways, struck 
 for a moment, with their grim visages, and silent, 
 shaggy forms, the fear into your bosoms, which is 
 felt by the neighbouring peasantry at " the old lo7^d's 
 devils." 
 
 In the lake below the abbey, the artificial rock, 
 which he piled at a vast expense, still reared its lofty 
 head; but the frigate which fulfilled old Mother Ship- 
 ton's prophecy, by sailing on dry land to this place 
 from a distant port, had long vanished ; and the only 
 relics of his naval whim were this rock, and his ship- 
 boy, the venerable old Murray, who accompanied me 
 round the premises. The dark, haughty, impetuous, 
 and mad deeds of this nobleman, the poet's grandfather, 
 no doubt, by m.aking a vivid impression on his youth- 
 ful fancy, furnished some of the principal materials 
 for the formation of his lordship's favourite and ever- 
 recurring poetical hero. His manners and acts .are 
 the theme of many a winter's evening in that neigh- 
 bourhood. In one of his paroxysms of wrath, he 
 shot his coachman, for giving, in his opinion, an 
 improper precedence, threw the corpse into the car- 
 riage, to his lady, mounted, and drove himself. In a 
 quarrel, which originally arose out of a dispute between 
 their gamekeepers, he killed his neighbour, Mr. 
 Chaworth, the lord of the adjoining manor. This 
 rencontre took place at the Star and Garter, Pall-Mail, 
 after a convivial meeting — a club of Nottinghamshire 
 gentlemen. His lordship was committed to the Tower,
 
 NEWSTEAD. 383 
 
 and on April 16th, 1765, placed at the bar of the 
 House of Lords, and without one dissentient voice, 
 convicted of manslaughter, and discharged on paying 
 his fees, having pleaded certain privileges under a 
 statute of Queen Anne. The particulars may be 
 seen in Vol. X. of State Trials, published by order of 
 the House of Peers. 
 
 The old lord, from some cause of irritation against 
 his son, said to be on account of his marriage, who 
 died before coming to the title, did all he could to 
 injure the estate. He is said to have pulled down a 
 considerable part of the house, and sold the materials; 
 he cut down very extensive plantations, and sold the 
 young trees to the bakers of Nottingham to heat their 
 ovens with, or to the nurserymen ; two of which, 
 Lombardy poplars, bought at that time, now stand at 
 the head of a fish-pond of my father's, grown to an 
 immense size. 
 
 Mr. Moore has justly remarked, that Lord Byron 
 derived the great peculiarities of his character from his 
 ancestors. After I came away from the abbey, I 
 asked many people in the neighbourhood what sort of 
 a man the noble poet had been. The impression of 
 his energetic but eccentric character was obvious in 
 their reply. '« He is the deuce of a fellow for strange 
 fancies ; he flogs the old lorxl to nothing : but he is a 
 hearty good fellow for all that." 
 
 One of- these fancies, as related by the miller at the 
 head of the lake, was, to get into a boat, with his two 
 noble Newfoundland dogs, row into the middle of the 
 lake, then dropping the oars, tumble into the water. 
 The faithful animals would immediately follow, seize 
 him by the collar, one on each side, and bear him to
 
 384 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 land. This miller told me that every month he came 
 to be weighed, and if he found himself lighter, he 
 appeared highly delighted ; but if heavier, he went 
 away in obvious ill humour, and without saying a 
 word. At this time even, L e. before he came of age, 
 he had the greatest horror of corpulency, to which 
 he deemed himself hereditarily prone, and used to lie 
 a certain time every day in a hot-bed, made on pur- 
 pose, to reduce himself. The master-builder, who 
 had been engaged in the restoration of the abbey, 
 said much about a certain Kaled, who then was with 
 him, — probably the same that accompanied him to 
 Brighton, as his younger brother, — and of the wild 
 life kept up, and mad pranks played off, by him and 
 his companions. He described the mornings passing 
 in the most profound quiet, for his Lordship and his 
 guests did not rise till about one o'clock; in the after- 
 noon, the place was all alive with them; — they were 
 seen careering in all directions ; at midnight, the old 
 abbe)'^ was all lit up, and resounded with their jollity. 
 On one occasion, they were called up to extricate an 
 unfortunate wight from the old stone coffin, where, in 
 some of their mad pranks, he had secreted himself, 
 and fitted it so well, that it was with difficulty he was 
 drawn out, amid the merriment of his comrades. No 
 person, indeed, could form any correct notion of Byron 
 from his poetry, till the publication of his Don Juan, 
 which exhibits more of the style of his youthful con- 
 versational manner than any other of his writings, 
 except his journal. I have heard a lady M'ho used to 
 see him at Mrs. Byron's, at Nottingham, say that he 
 was then, in his teens, a most rackety fellow; was 
 very fond of going into the kitchen, and baking oat-
 
 NEWSTEAD. 385 
 
 meal cakes on the fireshovel ; on which occasions, the 
 cook would sometimes pin a napkin to his coat, which 
 being discovered on his return to the parlour, he would 
 rush out and pursue the maids in all directions, and, 
 to use the lady's phrase, turn the house upside down. 
 When they went away, he always took care to ask the 
 servants if his mother had given them anything ; and 
 on their replying in the negative, he would say, " No, 
 no ! I knew that well enough;" when he would make 
 them a handsome present. 
 
 Such anecdotes of his youth abound ; but one is too 
 characteristic to be omitted. An old man of the name 
 of Kemp, of Farnsfield, was one day in Southwell, 
 when a dog in the minster-yard fell upon his little dog. 
 He was beating it off, when a genteel boy came up, 
 and in a very decided tone said, " Let them fight it 
 out — they find their own clothes, don't they?" The 
 old man said, clothes or no clothes, his dog should not 
 be worried. A stander-by asked him if he knew to 
 ■whom he spoke. The old man said he neither knew 
 nor cared. " It is Lord Byron," said the person ; but 
 the old man said he did not care whether he was a lord 
 or a duke, they should not worry his dog ; and having 
 got his little dog under his arm, he marched off in 
 none of the best humour. Some tine afterwards, how- 
 ever, seeing " Hours of Idleness and other Poems, by 
 Lord Byron," advertised, he recollected the spirit of 
 the lad with so much admiration, that he took his stick 
 and set off to Newark to purchase the book, and al- 
 ways afterwards remained a great admirer of his works. 
 
 Such was my acquaintance with the place then ; it 
 is now a good, substantial, and very comfortable family 
 mansion. With its external appearance the public is 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 386 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 well acquainted through various prints ; and the only 
 objects in the interior, which can much interest 
 strangers as connected with the history of Lord Byron 
 are equally familiar. The picture of his wolf-dog, and 
 his Newfoundland-dog — the living Newfoundland-dog 
 which he had with him in Greece ; the skull-cup kept 
 in a cabinet in the drawing-room, and the little chapel 
 and cloisters mentioned by him. There are also in a 
 lumber-room the identical stone coffin and the foils I 
 saw there twenty years ago, and a portrait of old Mur- 
 ray smoking his pipe. There is also the well-known 
 portrait by Phillips. A full-length likeness of him as 
 about to embark on his first travels, which was in the 
 drawing-room at that time, is now gone, but has been 
 engraved for Mr. Murray's edition of his Life and 
 Works. 
 
 It is fortunate for the public that the place has fallen 
 into the hands of a gentleman who affords the utmost 
 facility for the inspection of it by strangers. Nothing 
 can exceed the easy courtesy with which it is thrown 
 open to them ; and, as an old schoolfellow of Lord 
 Byron's, we believe Colonel Wildman is as desirous 
 as any man can be not to obliterate any traces of his 
 Lordship's former life here. There are some particu- 
 lars, however, in which I think this care might have 
 been carried more thoroughly into act. In the first 
 place, I think a style of architecture in restoring the 
 abbey might have been adopted more abbey-like — more 
 in keeping with the old part of it — and more conso- 
 nant to the particular state of feeling with which ad- 
 mirers of the noble poet's genius would be likely to 
 approach it. To my taste it is too square and massy 
 in its tout ensemble. I do not see why the architect,
 
 NEWSTEAD. 387 
 
 whoever he was, should have gone back in the date of 
 his style beyond that of the ancient remains. The 
 old western front is a specimen of what Rickman calls 
 the early English order of Anglo-Gothic architecture ; 
 so light, so airy, so pure and beautiful, that the juxta- 
 position of a heavy Norman style, and especially of 
 the ponderous, square, and stunted tower at the south- 
 west corner, is strange, and anything but pleasing. 
 A greater variety of outline — the projection of porches 
 and buttresses — the aspiring altitude of pointed gables 
 — clustered chimneys, and slender, sky-seeking turrets 
 would certainly have given greater effect. Instead of 
 a square mass of stone, as it appears at a distance, it 
 would have proclaimed its own beauty to the eye 
 from everj^ far-off point at which it may be discovered. 
 Any one who has seen Fonthill, Abbotsford from the 
 Galashiel's road, or Ham from the entrance of Dove- 
 dale, may imagine how much more that effect would 
 be in accordance, not only with a low situation, but 
 with the mental impressions of a poetic visitor. 
 
 1 cannot help, too, regretting that the poet's study 
 should now be converted into a common bed-room ; 
 and most of all, that the antique fountain which stood 
 in front of the abbey, and makes so strong a feature 
 in the very graphic picture of the place drawn in Don 
 Juan, should be removed. It now adorns the inner 
 quadrangle, or cloister court, and is certainly a very 
 beautiful object there, as may be seen by the print in 
 Murray's edition of Byron's Works. I do not wonder 
 at Colonel Wildman desiring to grace this court with 
 a fountain, but I wonder extremely at his gracing it 
 with this fountain. I must for ever deplore its
 
 388 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 removal, as the breaking up of that most vivid pic- 
 ture of the front, given by the poet to all posterity : — 
 
 A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile, 
 
 While yet the church was Rome's, stood half apart. 
 
 In a grand arch, which once screened many an aisle. 
 
 These last had disappeared — a loss to art ; 
 
 The first yet frowned superbly o'er the soil, 
 
 And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
 
 Which mourned the power of time's or tempest's march. 
 
 In gazing on that venerable arch. 
 
 Witliin a niche nigh to its pinnacle, 
 
 Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone : 
 
 And these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 
 
 But in the war which struck Charles from his throne. 
 
 » * » « • # « 
 
 But in a higher niche, alone, but crowned, 
 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-born child. 
 
 With her son in her blessed arms, looked round. 
 
 Spared by some chance, when all beside was spoiled ; 
 
 She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
 
 This may be superstition weak, or wild ; 
 
 But even the painted relics of a shrine 
 
 Of any worship, wake some thoughts divine. 
 
 A mighty window, hollow in the centre ; 
 Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings. 
 Through which the deepened glories once could enter. 
 Streaming from ofi" the sun like seraph's wings, 
 Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork; and oft sings 
 The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quenched like fire. 
 
 Amid the court a Gothic fountain played. 
 
 Symmetrical, but decked with carvings quaint — 
 
 Strange fiices, like to men in masquerade. 
 
 And here, perhaps, a monster, there a saint : 
 
 The spring gushed through grim mouths, of granite made. 
 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles. 
 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles.
 
 NEWSTEAD. 389 
 
 It was seeing how exactly all this was a copy of the 
 original — how there stood the mighty window, show- 
 ing through it the garden and dog's tomb — how the 
 Virgin there still stood aloft with her child, distinct, 
 bold, and beautiful — but the fountain was gone, that 
 we could not help loudly expressing our regret. 
 When the valet who attended us came to the inner- 
 court, " there," he said, " you see is the fountain — it 
 is all there, quite perfect." "Yes, yes," we could 
 not help replying, "that is the very thing we are sorry 
 for — its being all there. A man might cut off his 
 nose, and put it in his pocket, and when any one won- 
 dered at his mutilated face, cry, ' O, it is all here ; 
 I have it in my pocket.' The mischief would be, it 
 would be in the wrong place, and his face would be 
 spoiled for ever. To every visiter of taste, the abbey 
 front must be thus injured whilst it and the poet's 
 description of it, last together. 
 
 These are things to regret; for the rest, the place 
 is a very pleasant place. The new stone-work is 
 very substantially and well done; there is a great 
 deal of modern elegance about the house ; a fortune 
 must have been spent upon it. The grounds before 
 the new front are extremely improved ; and the old 
 gardens, with very correct feeling, have been suffered 
 to retain their ancient character. An oak planted by 
 Lord Byron is shewn ; and why should he not have a 
 tree as well as Shakspeare, Milton, and Johnson? 
 The initials of himself and his sister upon a tree in 
 the satyr-grove at the end of the garden, are said to 
 have been pointed out by his sister herself, the Ho- 
 nourable Mrs. Leigh, on her visit there some time
 
 390 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 ago. The tree has two boles issuing from one root, 
 a very appropriate emblem of their consanguinity. 
 
 The scenery around presents many features that 
 recall incidents in his life, or passages in his poems. 
 There are the houses where Fletcher and Rushton 
 lived — the two followers of his, who are addressed in 
 the ballad in the first canto of Childe Harold, begin- 
 ning at the third stanza — 
 
 Come hither, hither, my little page ! 
 
 But in the progress of improvement, the mill, where 
 he used to be weighed, is just now destroyed. 
 Down the valley, in front of the Abbey, is a rich 
 prospect over M^oods, and around are distant slopes 
 scattered with young plantations, that in time will 
 add eminently to the beauty of this secluded spot; 
 and supply the place, in some degree, of those old 
 and magnificent woods in which the Abbey was for- 
 merly embosomed. 
 
 Here ended our ramble, having gone over ground 
 and through places that the genius of one man in a 
 brief life has sanctified to all times ; for like us — 
 
 Hither romantic pilgrims shall betake 
 Themselves from distant lands. When we are still 
 In centuries of sleep, his fame will wake. 
 And his great memory with deep feelings fill 
 These scenes that he has trod, and hallow every hill.
 
 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 391 
 
 Here too we leave the Old Houses of England, in 
 the words of John Evelyn : — " Other there are, sweet 
 and delectable country-seats and villas of the noblesse, 
 and rich and opulent gentry, built and environed with 
 parks, paddocks, plantations, etc. : adapted to country 
 and rural seats, dispersed through the whole nation, 
 conspicuous, not only for the structure of their houses, 
 built upon the best rules of architecture, but for situa- 
 tion, gardens, canals, walks, avenues, parks, forests, 
 ponds, prospects, and vistas; groves, woods, and large 
 plantations; and other the most charming and de- 
 lightful recesses, natural and artificial ;" but to enu- 
 merate and describe what were extraordinary in these 
 and the rest would furnish volumes, for who has not 
 either seen, admired, or heard of — 
 
 Audley-End, Althorpe, Auckland, Aqualate-Hall, Alnwick, Al- 
 lington, Ampthill, Astwell, Aldermaston, Aston, Alveston, Alton- 
 Abbey. 
 
 Bolsover, Badminster, Breckley, Burghly-on-the Hill, and the 
 other Burglily, Breton, Buckhurst, Buckland, Bulvoii-, Blechington, 
 Blenheim, Blythfield, Bestwood, Broomhall, Beaudesert. 
 
 Castle- Rising, Castle- Ashby, Castle-Donnington, Castle-Howard, 
 Chalsworlh, Cliartley, Cornbury, Casiobury, Cobham, Cowdrey, Ca- 
 versham, Cranbourn-Park, Clumber, Charlton, Copt- Hall, Claverton, 
 famous for Sir William Bassett's vineyard, producing forty hogsheads 
 of wine yearly ; nor must I forget that of Deepden, planted by the 
 Honourable Charles Howard, of Norfolk, my worthy neighbour in 
 Surrey. 
 
 Drayton, Donnington-Park, Dean. 
 
 Eastwell, Euston, Eccleswould, Edscombe, Easton, Epping. 
 
 Falston, Flankford, Fonthill, Fountains-Abbey. 
 
 Greystock, Goodrick, Grooby, Grafton, Gayhurst, Golden-Grove. 
 
 Hardwick, Hadden, Hornby, Hatfield, Haland, Heathfield, Hinton, 
 Holme-Pierrepont, Horslmounceaux, Houghton. 
 
 Ichinfield, Ham, Ingestre. 
 
 Kirby, Knowsley, Keddleston. 
 
 Longleat, Latham, Lensal, Latimer, Lyne-Hall, Lawnsborough.
 
 392 NEWSTEAD. 
 
 Moiepark, Mulgrave, Marlborough, Margum, Mount Edgcombe. 
 
 Norraanby, Nortli-Hall, Norborough, Newnham, Newstead. 
 
 St. Ostlo, Oxnead. 
 
 Petworth, I'enshurst, Paston-Hall. 
 
 Quorndon, Quickswood. 
 
 Ragland, Retford, Ragley, Ricot, Rockingham, Raby. 
 
 Sherbourn, Sherley, Swallowfield, Stanton - Harold, Shasford, 
 Shaftbury, Shugborough, Sandon, Stowe, Stansted, Scots-Hall, Sands 
 of the Vine. 
 
 Theobalds, Thornkill, Thornhill, Trentham. 
 
 Up-Park. 
 
 Wilton, Wrest, Woburn, WoUaton, Worksop-Manor, Woodstock, 
 which, as Camden tells us, was the first park in England, Wimburn, 
 Writtle-Park, Warwick- Castle, Wentwortli. '
 
 393 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF PARK SCENERY. 
 
 How delicious is our old park scenery. How wise 
 that such places as Richmond, Greenwich, and such 
 old parks in the neighbourhood of the metropolis, are 
 kept up and kept open, that our citizens may occa- 
 sionally get out of the smoke and noise of the great 
 Babel, and breathe all their freshness, and feel all 
 their influence ! Who does not often, in the midst 
 of brick-and-mortar regions, summon up before his 
 imagination this old park or forest scenery ? The 
 ferny or heathy slopes, under old, stately, gnarled 
 oaks, or thorns as old, with ivy having stems nearly as 
 thick as their own, climbing up them, and clinging to 
 them, and sometimes incorporating itself so com- 
 pletely with their heads, as to make them look entirely 
 ivy-trees. The foot-paths, with turf short and soft as 
 velvet, running through the bracken. The sunny 
 silence that lies on the open glades and brown up- 
 lands ; the cool breezy feeling under the shade ; the 
 grashopper chithering amongst the bents; the hawk 
 hovering and whimpering over-head; the keeper, 
 lounging along in velveteen jacket, and with his gun,
 
 394 PARK SCENERY. 
 
 at a distance, or firing at some destructive bird. The 
 herds of deer, fallow or red, congregated beneath the 
 shadow of the trees, or lying in the sun if not too 
 warm, their quick ears and tails keeping up a per- 
 petual twinkle; the belling of scattered deer, as 
 they go bounding and mincing daintily across the 
 openings, here and there, — the old ones, hoarse and 
 deep, the young shrill and plaintive. Cattle with 
 whisking tails, grazing sedately ; the wood-pecker's 
 laughter from afar ; the little tree-creeper running up 
 the ancient boles, always beginning at the bottom, 
 and going upwards with a quick, gliding progress — 
 the quaint cries of other birds and wild creatures, the 
 daws and the rooks feeding together, and mingling 
 their different voices of pert and grave accent. The 
 squirrel running with extended tail along the ground, 
 or flourishing it over his head, as he sits on the tree ; 
 or fixing himself, when suddenly come upon, in the 
 attitude of an old, brown, decayed branch by the tree 
 side, as motionless as the deadest branch in the forest. 
 The hum of insects all around you, the low still mur- 
 mur of sunny music, 
 
 Nature's ceaseless hum, 
 Voice of the desert, never dumb. 
 
 The pheasant's crow ; the pheasant with all her brood 
 springing around you, one by one, from the turf where 
 you are standing amid the bracken — here one ! there 
 one ! close under your feet, with a sudden, startling 
 whirr, — to compare nature with art, country scenes 
 with city ones, like so many squibs and crackers fired 
 oflf about you in smart succession, where you don't 
 look for them. That most ancient and most original
 
 PARK SCENERY. 395 
 
 of all ladders, a boug-h with some pegs driven through 
 it, reared against a tree for the keeper to reach the 
 nests of hawks or magpies, or to fetch down a brood 
 of young jackdaws for a pie, quite as savoury a dish 
 as one made with young rooks or pigeons; or for him 
 to sit aloft amongst the foliage, and watch for the 
 approach of deer, or fawn M^hen he is commissioned to 
 shoot one. The profound and basking silence all 
 around you, as you sit on some dry ferny mound, and 
 look far and wide through the glimmering heat, or the 
 cool shadow. The far-off sounds — rooks, telling of 
 some old Hall that stands slumberously amid the woods; 
 or dogs, sending from their hidden kennel amongst 
 the trees, their sonorous yelling. Forest smells, that 
 rise up deliciously as you cross dim thickets, or tread 
 the spongy turf all fragrant with thyme, and sprinkled 
 with the light hare-belL Huge limbs of oak riven off 
 by tempests, or the old oak itself, a vast, knotty, and 
 decayed mass, lying on the ground, and perhaps the 
 woodmen gravely labouring upon it, lopping its 
 boughs, riving its huge, misshapen stem, piling it in 
 stacks of cord-wood, or binding them into billets. The 
 keeper's house near, in its own paled enclosure ; and 
 all about, old thorns hung with the dried and haggard 
 remains of wild-cats, pole-cats, weasels, hawks, owls, 
 jays, and other vermin, as he deems them ; or the 
 same most picturesquely displayed on the sturdy boles 
 of the vast oaks ; and lastly, the mere, the lake, in 
 the depth of the woodlands, shrouded in screening 
 masses of flags and reeds, the beautiful flowering-rush, 
 the magnificent great water-dock, with leaves as huge 
 and green as if they grew by some Indian river — the 
 tall club-mace, the thousands of wild-ducks, teals, or
 
 396 PARK SCENERY. 
 
 wigeonSj that start up at your approach with clattering 
 wings, and cries of quick alarm. 
 
 Who that has wandered through our old parks and 
 forests, is not familiar with all these sights and sounds? 
 does not long to witness them again, ever and anon, 
 when he has been " long in city pent," till he is fain 
 to mount his horse and ride off into some such ancient, 
 quiet, and dreamy region, as Crabbe suddenly mounted 
 his, and rode forty miles to see again the sea? 
 
 END OF VOLUME I. 
 
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