 | JOHN BULL. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. |  |
JOHN BULL.
There is no species of humour in which the English
more excel, than that which consists in caricaturing and
giving ludicrous appellations, or nicknames. In this
way they have whimsically designated, not merely individuals,
but nations; and in their fondness for pushing
a joke, they have not spared even themselves. One
would think that, in personifying itself, a nation would
be apt to picture something grand, heroic, and imposing;
but it is characteristic of the peculiar humour of the
English, and of their love for what is blunt, comic and
familiar, that they have embodied their national oddities in
the figure of a sturdy corpulent old fellow, with a
three-cornered hat, red waistcoat, leather breeches, and
stout oaken cudgel. Thus they have taken a singular
delight in exibiting their most private foibles in a laughable
point of view; and have been so successful in their
delineations, that there is scarcely a being in actual existence
more absolutely present to the public mind than
that eccentric personage, John Bull.
Perhaps the continual contemplation of the character
thus drawn of them, has contributed to fix it upon the
nation; and thus to give reality to what at first may
have been painted in a great measure from imagination.
Men are apt to acquire peculiarities that are continually
ascribed to them. The common orders of English seem
wonderfully captivated with the beau ideal which they
have formed of John Bull, and endeavour to act up to the
broad caricature that is perpetually before their eyes. Unluckily,
they sometimes make their boasted Bull-ism an
apology for their prejudice or grossness; and this I have
sons of the soil who have never migrated beyond the
sound of Bow-bells. If one of these should be a little
uncouth in speech, and apt to utter impertinent truths,
he confesses that he is a real John Bull, and always speaks
his mind. If he now and then flies into an unreasonable
burst of passion about trifles, he observes, that John
Bull is a choleric old blade, but then his passion is over
in a moment, and he bears no malice. If he betrays a
coarseness of taste, and an insensibility to foreign refinements,
he thanks heaven for his ignorance—he is a plain
John Bull, and has no relish for frippery and nicknacks,
his very proneness to be gulled by strangers, and to pay
extravagantly for absurdities, is excused under the plea
of munificence—for John is always more generous than
wise.
Thus, under the name of John Bull, he will contrive to
argue every fault into a merit, and will frankly convict
himself of being the honestest fellow in existence.
However little, therefore, the character may have
suited in the first instance, it has gradually adapted itself
to the nation, or rather they have adapted themselves to
each other; and a stranger who wishes to study English
peculiarities, may gather much valuable information from
the innumerable portraits of John Bull, as exhibited in
the windows of the caricature shops. Still, however, he
is one of those fertile humourists, that are continually
throwing out new portraits, and presenting different aspects
from different points of view; and, often as he has
been described, I cannot resist the temptation to give a
slight sketch of him, such as he has met my eye.
John Bull, to all appearance, is a plain downright matter-of-fact
fellow, with much less of poetry about him
than rich prose. There is little of romance in his nature,
but a vast deal of strong natural feeling. He excels in
humour more than in wit; is jolly rather than gay; melancholy
rather than morose; can easily be moved to a
sudden tear, or surprised to a broad laugh; but he loathes
sentiment, and has no turn for light pleasantry. He is
a boon companion, if you allow him to have his humour,
and to talk about himself; and he will stand by a friend
in a quarrel, with life and purse, however soundly he
may be cudgelled.
In this last respect, to tell the truth, he has a propensity
to be somewhat too ready. He is a busy-minded
but for all the country round, and is most generously disposed
to be every body's champion. He is continually,
volunteering his services to settle his neighbour's affairs,
and takes it in great dudgeon if they engage in any matter
of consequence without asking his advice; though he
seldom engages in any friendly office of the kind without
finishing by getting into a squabble with all parties, and
then railing bitterly at their ingratitude. He unluckily
took lessons in his youth in the noble science of defence,
and having accomplished himself in the use of his limbs
and his weapons, and become a perfect master at boxing
and cudgel play, he has had a troublesome life of it ever
since. He cannot hear of a quarrel between the most
distant of his neighbours, but he begins incontinently to
fumble with the head of his cudgel, and to consider
whether his interest or honour does not require that he
should meddle in the broil. Indeed he has extended his
relations of pride and policy so completely over the whole
country, that no event can take place, without infringing
some of his finely-spun rights and dignities. Couched in
his little domain, with these filaments stretching forth in
every direction, he is like some choleric, bottle-bellied old
spider, who has woven his web over a whole chamber, so
that a fly cannot buzz, nor a breeze blow, without startling
his repose, and causing him to sally forth wrathfully
from his den.
Though really a good-hearted, good-tempered old fellow
at bottom, yet he is singularly fond of being in the
midst of contention. It is one of his peculiarities, however,
that he only relishes the beginning of an affray; he
always goes into a fight with alacrity, but he comes out of
it grumbling even when victorious; and though no one
fights with more obstinacy to carry a contested point,
yet, when the battle is over, and he comes to the reconciliation,
he is so much taken up with the mere shaking of
hands, that he is apt to let his antagonist pocket all that
they have been quarrelling about. It is not, therefore,
fighting that he ought to be so much on his guard against,
as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a
farthing; but put him in a good humour, and you may bargain
him out of all the money in his pocket. He is
like one of his own ships, which will weather the roughest
storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard in the succceding
calm.
He is a little fond of playing the magnifico abroad; of
pulling out a long purse; flinging his money bravely about
at boxing matches, horse races, and cockfights, and carrying
a high head among “gentlemen of the fancy;” but
immediately after one of these fits of extravagance, he will
be taken with violent qualms of economy; stop short at
the most trivial expenditure; talk desperately of being
ruined, and brought upon the parish; and in such moods,
he will not pay the smallest tradesman's bill without
violent altercation. He is, in fact, the most punctual
and discontented paymaster in the world; drawing his
coin out of his breeches' pocket with infinite reluctance;
paying to the uttermost farthing, but accompanying every
guinea with a growl.
With all this talk of economy, however, he is a bountiful
provider, and a hospitable housekeeper. His economy is
of a whimsical kind, its chief object being to devise how
he may afford to be extravagant; for he will begrudge
himself a beafsteak and a pint of port one day, that he
may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale, and
treat all his neighbours on the next.
His domestic establishment is enormously expensive:
not so much from any great outward parade, as from the
great consumption of solid beef and pudding; the vast
number of followers he feeds and clothes; and his singular
disposition to pay hugely for small services. He is a
most kind and indulgent master, and, provided his servants
humour his peculiarities, flatter his vanity a little
now and then, and do not peculate grossly on him before
his face, they may manage him to perfection. Every
thing that lives on him seems to thrive and grow fat.
His house servants are well paid, and pampered, and
have little to do. His horses are sleek and lazy, and
prance slowly before his state carriage; and his house
dogs sleep quietly before his door, and will hardly bark
at a house-breaker.
His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house,
grey with age, and of a most venerable, though weather
beaten appearance. It has been built upon no regular
plan, but is a vast accumulation of parts, erected in various
tastes and ages. The centre bears evident traces of
Saxon architecture, and is as solid as ponderous stone and
old English oak can make it. Like all the relics of that
style, it is full of, obscure passages, intricate mazes, and
dusky chambers; and though these have been partially
where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have
been made to the original edifice from time to time and
great alterations have taken place; towers and battlements
have been erected during the wars and tumults;
wings built in times of peace; and out-houses, lodges,
and offices, run up according to the whim or convenience
of different generations: until it has become one of the
most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire
wing is taken up with a family chapel; a reverend
pile that must once have been exceedingly sumptuous,
and, indeed, in spite of having been altered and simplified
at various periods, has still a look of solemn religious
pomp. Its walls within are storied with the monuments
of John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted up with soft
cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of his family
as are inclined to church services, may doze comfortably
in the discharge of their duties.
To keep up this chapel has cost John much money;
but he is staunch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal,
from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have
been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbours,
with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.
To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large
expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a
most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well
bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in
his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes
the children when refractory, and is of great use in
exhorting the tenants to read their bibles, say their prayers,
and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, and
without grumbling.
The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste,
somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the
solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich
though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of
massy gorgeous old plate. The vast fire-places, ample
kitchens, extensive cellars, and sunptuous banqueting
halls—all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore,
of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but
a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms
apparently deserted and time worn; and towers and turrets
that are tottering to decay; so that in high winds
there is a danger of their tumbling about the ears of the
household.
John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice
thoroughly overhauled; and to have some of the useless
parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with
their materials; but the old gentleman always grows
testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent
house—that it is tight and weather proof, and not
to be shaken by tempests—that it has stood for several
hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble
down now—that as to its being inconvenient, his family
is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be
comfortable without them—that as to its unwieldy size
and irregular construction, these result from its being the
growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom
of every generation—that an old family like his, requires
a large house to dwell in; new upstart families may live
in modern cottages and snug boxes, but an old English
family should inhabit an old English manor-house. If
you point out any part of the building as superfluous, he
insists that it is material to the strength or decoration of
the rest, and the harmony of the whole; and swears that
the parts are so built into each other, that, if you pull
down one, you run the risk of having the whole about your
ears.
The secret of the matter is, that John has a great disposition
to protect and patronize. He thinks it indispensible
to the dignity of an ancient and honourable family,
to be bounteous in its appointments, and to be eaten up
by dependants; and so, partly from pride, and partly from
kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter
and maintainance to his superannuated servants.
The consequence is, that, like many other venerable
family establishments, his manor is encumbered by old
retainers whom he cannot turn off, and an old style which
he cannot lay down. His mansion is like a great hospital
of invalids, and, with all its magnitude, is not a whit
too large for its inhabitants. Not a nook or a corner but
is of use in housing some useless personage. Groups
of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired
heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling
about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its
trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its
doors. Every office and out-house is garrisoned by these
supernumeraries and their families; for they are amazingly
prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave
John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A
tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or
loop-hole, the grey pate of some superannuated hanger-on,
who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes
the most grievous outcry, at their pulling down the roof
from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family.
This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand;
so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef
and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a
pipe and tankard in his old days.
A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks
where his broken down chargers are turned loose to graze
undisturbed for the remainder of their existence—a worthy
example of grateful recollection, which, if some of
his neighbours were to imitate, would not be to their discredit.
Indeed, it is one of his greatest pleasures to
point out these old steeds to his visiters, to dwell on their
good qualities, extol their past services, and boast with
some little vain-glory, of the perilous adventures and
hardy exploits, through which they have carried him.
He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for
family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical
extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gipsies; yet
he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they
have infested the place time out of mind, and been regular
poachers upon every generation of the family. He
will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the
great trees that surround the house, lest it should molest
the rooks, that have bred there for centuries. Owls
have taken possession of the dovecote; but they are hereditary
owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows
have nearly choked up every chimney with their nests;
martins build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter
about the towers, and perch on every weathercock; and
old grey-headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the
house, running in and out of their holes undauntedly, in
broad daylight. In short, John has such a reverence for
every thing that has been long in the family, that he will
not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are
good old family abuses.
All these whims and habits have concurred wofully
to drain the old gentleman's purse; and as he prides
himself on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to
maintain his credit in the neighbourhood, they have
caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements.
heart-burnings which are continually taking place in his
family. His children have been brought up to different
callings, and are of different ways of thinking; and as
they have always been allowed to speak their mind freely,
they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously
in the present posture of his affairs. Some stand
up for the honour of the race, and are clear that the old
establishment should be kept up in all its state, whatever
may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and considerate,
entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses,
and to put his whole system of housekeeping on
a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times,
seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their
wholesome advice has been completely defeated by the
obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy
rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects
his business to frequent ale-houses—is the orator of village
clubs, and a complete oracle, among the poorest of
his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his
brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he
jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars
out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going,
nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors
the old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules his
tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the old
servants out of doors; give the broken down horses to
the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a
field preacher in his place—nay, that the whole family
mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain
one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at
every social entertainment and family festivity, and
skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage
drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining
of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples
not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations,
and even runs up scores, for the liquor over
which he preaches about his father's extravagance.
It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting
agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He
has become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the
mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for
a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter
is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline,
having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent
high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom,
an officer who was served abroad, but is at present living
at home, on half pay. This last is sure to stand by the
old gentleman, right or wrong; likes nothing so much
as a racketing roystering life; and is ready, at a wink or
nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head,
if he dares to array himself against paternal authority.
These family dissensions, as usual, have got abroad,
and are rare food for scandal in John's neighbourhood.
People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever
his affairs are mentioned. They all “hope that
matters are not so bad with him as represented; but
when a man's own children begin to rail at his extravagance,
things must be badly managed. They understand
he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually
dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed
old gentleman, but they fear he has lived too
fast; indeed, they never knew any good come of this
fondness for hunting, racing, revelling, and prize-fighting.
In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and
has been in the family a long while; but for all that, they
have known many finer estates come to the hammer.”
What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary
embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on
the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation,
and snug rosy face, which he used to present,
he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten
apple. His scarlet gold-laced waistcoat, which
bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he
sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like
a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds
and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up
the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy
legs.
Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered
hat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and
bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump
upon the ground; looking every one sturdily in the face,
and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song;
he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself,
with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under
his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches
pockets, which are evidently empty.
Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet
as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy
or concern, he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is
the richest, and stoutest fellow in the country; talks of
laying out large sums to adorn his house or to buy
another estate; and, with a valiant swagger and grasping
of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at
quarterstaff.
Though there may be something rather whimsical in
all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation
without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd
humours and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling hearted
old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow
as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good
as his neighbours represent him. His virtues are all
his own; all plain, home-bred and unaffected. His very
faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His
extravagance savours of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness
of his courage; his credulity of his open faith; his
vanity of his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity.
They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character.
He is like his own oak; rough without, but
sound and solid within; whose bark abounds with excrescences
in proportion to the growth and grandeur of
the timber; and whose branches make a fearful groaning
and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude
and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the
appearance of his old family mansion, that is extremely
poetical and picturesque; and, as long as it can be rendered
comfortably habitable, I should almost tremble to
see it meddled with during the present conflict of tastes
and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good
architects that might be of service; but many I fear are
mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work
with their mattocks on the venerable edifice, would never
stop until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps
buried themselves among the ruins. All that I
wish is, that John's present troubles may teach him
more prudence in future. That he may cease to distress
his mind about other people's affairs; that he may give
up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his neighbours,
and the peace and happiness of the world, by dint
of the cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home;
gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich estate
according to his fancy; husband his income—if he
he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and
long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honourable,
and a merry old age.
| JOHN BULL. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. | |