 | THE COCKLOFT FAMILY. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. |  |
THE COCKLOFT FAMILY.
The Cockloft family, of which I have made such frequent
mention, is of great antiquity, if there be any truth
in the genealogical tree which hangs up in my cousin's
library. They trace their descent from a celebrated Roman
Knight, cousin to the progenitor of his Majesty of
Britain, who left his native country on occasion of some
disgust; and coming into Wales, became a great favourite
of Prince Madoc, and accompanied that famous argonaut
in the voyage which ended in the discovery of this continent.—Though
a member of the family, I have sometimes
ventured to doubt the authenticity of this portion
of their annals, to the great vexation of cousin Christopher,
who is looked up to as the head of our house; and
who, though as orthodox as a bishop, would sooner give
up the whole decalogue than lop off a single limb of the
family tree. From time immemorial, it has been the rule
for the Cocklofts to marry one of their own name; and
as they always bred like rabbits, the family has increased
and multiplied like that of Adam and Eve. In truth
their number is almost incredible; and you can hardly
go into any part of the country without starting a warren
of genuine Cocklofts. Every person of the least observation,
or experience, must have observed that where
this practice of marrying cousins, and second cousins,
prevails in a family, every member, in the course of a
few generations, becomes queer, humourous, and original;
as much distinguished from the common race of mongrels
as if he were of a different species. This has happened in
our family, and particularly in that branch of it of which
Christopher Cockloft, Esq. is the head—Christopher, is,
in fact, the only married man of the name who resides in
town; his family is small, having lost most of his children
when young, by the excessive care he took to bring
them up like vegetables. This was one of the first whim-whams,
and a confounded one it was; as his children
might have told, had they not fallen victims to his experiment
before they could talk. He had got from some
quack philosopher or other, a notion that there was a
complete analogy between children and plants, and that
they ought to be both reared alike. Accordingly he sprinkled
them every morning with water, laid them out in the
dry, repeated this wise experiment three or
four times of a morning. The consequence was, the
poor little souls died one after another, except Jeremy
and his two sisters; who, to be sure, are a trio of as odd,
runty, mummy-looking originals as ever Hogarth fancied
in his most happy moments. Mrs. Cockloft, the larger
if not the better half of my cousin, often remonstrated
against this vegetable theory;—and even brought the parson
of the parish, in which my cousin's country house is
situated, to her aid; but in vain, Christopher persisted,
and attributed the failure of his plan to its not having
been exactly conformed to. As I have mentioned Mrs.
Cockloft, I may as well say a little more about her while I
am in the humour. She is a lady of wonderful notability,
a warm admirer of shining mahogany, clean hearths
and her husband: whom she considers the wisest man in
the world, bating Will Wizard and the parson of our
parish; the last of whom is her oracle on all occasions.
She goes constantly to church every Sunday and saint's
day, and insists upon it that no man is entitled to ascend
a pulpit unless he has been ordained by a bishop; nay,
so far does she carry her orthodoxy, that all the arguments
in the world will never persuade her that a Presbyterian
or Baptist, or even a Calvinist, has any possible
chance of going to heaven. Above every thing else, however,
she abhors Paganism; can scarcely refrain from laying
violent hands on a Pantheon when she meets with it;
and was very nigh going into hysterics, when my cousin
insisted that one of his boys should be christened after
our laurcate, because the parson of the parish had told
her that Pindar was the name of a Pagan writer, famous
for his love of boxing-matches, wrestling, and horse-racing.
To sum up all her qualifications in the shortest
possible way, Mrs. Cockloft is, in the true sense of the
phrase, a good sort of a woman; and I often congratulate
my cousin on possessing her. The rest of the family
consists of Jeremy Cockloft, the younger, who has already
been mentioned, and the two Miss Cocklofts, or rather
the young ladies, as they have been called by the servants
time out of mind; not that they are really young, the
younger being somewhat on the shady side of thirty—
but it has ever been the custom to call every member of
the family young under fifty. In the south-east corner
of the house, I hold quiet possession of an old-fashioned
to amuse ourselves undisturbed, save at meal times. This
apartment old Cockloft has facetiously denominated Cousin
Launce's Paradise; and the good old gentleman has
two or three favourite jokes about it, which are served up
as regularly as the standing family dish of beefsteaks and
onions, which every day maintains its station at the foot
of the table, in defiance of mutton, poultry, or even venison
itself.
Though the family is apparently small, yet, like most
old establishments of the kind, it does not want for honorary
members. It is the city rendezvous of the Cocklofts;
and we are continually enlivened by the company
of half a score of uncles, aunts, and cousins in the fortieth
remove, from all parts of the county, who profess a wonderful
regard for Cousin Christopher; and overwhelm
every member of his household, down to the cook in the
kitchen, with their attentions. We have for three weeks
past been greeted with the company of two worthy old
spinsters, who came down from the country to settle a
law suit. They have done little else but retail stories of
their village neighbours, knit stockings, and take snuff,
all the time they have been here: the whole family are bewildered
with church-yard tales of sheeted ghosts, white
horses without heads, and with large goggle eyes in their
buttocks; and not one of the old servants dare budge an
inch after dark without a numerous company at his heels.
My cousin's visiters, however, always return his hospitality
with due gratitude, and now and then remind him
of their fraternal regard, by a present of a pot of apple
sweetmeats, or a barrel of sour cider at Christmas.
Jeremy displays himself to great advantage among his
country relations, who all think him a prodigy, and often
stand astounded, in “gaping wonderment,” at his
natural philosophy. He lately frightened a simple old
uncle almost out of his wits, by giving it as his opinion
that the earth would one day be scorched to ashes by the
eccentric gambols of the famous comet, so much talked
of; and positively asserted that this world revolved round
the sun, and that the moon was certainly inhabited.
The family mansion bears equal marks of antiquity
with its inhabitants. As the Cocklofts are remarkable
for their attachment to every thing that has remained
long in the family, they are bigoted towards their old
edifice, and I dare say would sooner have it crumble
it has been so patched up and repaired, that it has become
as full of whims and oddities as its tenants; requires
to be nursed and humoured like a gouty old codger
of an alderman; and reminds one of the famous ship
in which a certain admiral circumnavigated the globe,
which was so patched and timbered, in order to preserve
so great a curiosity, that at length not a particle of
the original remained. Whenever the wind blows,
the old mansion makes a most perilous groaning; and
every storm is sure to make a day's work for the carpenter,
who attends upon it as regularly as the family physician.
This predilection for every thing that has been
long in the family shows itself in every particular. The
domestics are all grown grey in the service of our house.
We have a little, old, crusty, grey-headed negro, who has
lived through two or three generations of the Cocklofts,
and, of course, has become a personage of no little importance
in the household. He calls all the family by their
christian names; tells long stories about how he dandled
them on his knee when they were children: and is a complete
Cockloft chronicle for the last seventy years.
The family carriage was made in the last French war,
and the old horses were most indubitably foaled in
Noah's ark—resembling marvellously, in gravity of demeanour,
those sober animals which may be seen any day
of the year in the streets of Philadelphia, walking their
snail's pace, a dozen in a row, and harmoniously jingling
their bells. Whim-whams are the inheritance of
the Cocklofts, and every member of the household is a
humourist sui generis, from the master down to the footman.
The very cats and dogs are humourists; and we
have a little runty scoundrel of a cur, who, whenever the
church bells ring, will run to the street door, turn up his
nose in the wind and howl most piteously. Jeremy insists
that this is owing to a peculiar delicacy in the organization
of his ears, and supports his position by many
learned arguments which nobody can understand: but
I am of opinion that it is a mere Cockloft whim-wham,
which the little cur indulges, being descended from a
race of dogs which has flourished in the family ever since
the time of my grandfather. A propensity to save every
thing that bears the stamp of family antiquity has
accumulated an abundance of trumpery and rubbish
with which the house is encumbered, from the cellar to
crammed with three-legged chairs, clocks without hands,
swords without scabbards, cocked hats, broken candle-sticks,
and looking glasses with frames carved into fantastic
shapes, of feathered sheep, woolly birds, and other
animals that have no name except in books of heraldry.
The ponderous mahogany chairs in the parlour are of
such unwieldy proportions, that it is quite a serious undertaking
to gallant one of them across the room; and
sometimes make a most equivocal noise when you sit down
in a hurry: the mantle-piece is decorated with little
lacquered earthen shepherdesses—some of which are without
toes, and others without noses; and the fire-place
is garnished out with Dutch tiles, exhibiting a great variety
of Scripture pieces, which my good old soul of a
cousin takes infinite delight in explaining. Poor Jeremy
hates them as he does poison; for while a younker, he
was obliged by his mother to learn the history of a tile
every Sunday morning before she would permit him to
join his play-mates: this was a terrible affair for Jeremy,
who by the time he had learned the last had forgotten
the first, and was obliged to begin again. He assured
me the other day, with a round college oath, that if the
old house stood out till he inherited it he would have
these tiles taken out, and ground into powder, for the perfect
hatred he bore them.
My cousin Christopher enjoys unlimited authority in
the mansion of his forefathers; he is truly what may be
termed a hearty old blade—has a florid, sunshiny countenance,
and, if you will only praise his wine, and laugh
at his long stories, himself and his house are heartily at
your service. The first condition is indeed easily complied
with, for, to tell the truth, his wine is excellent;
but his stories, being not of the best, and often repeated,
are apt to create a disposition to yawn, being, in addition
to their other qualities, most unreasonably long. His
prolixity is the more afflicting to me, since I have all his
stories by heart; and when he enters upon one, it reminds
me of Newark causeway, where the traveller sees
the end at the distance of several miles. To the great
misfortune of all his acquaintance cousin Cockloft is
blessed with a most provoking retentive memory, and
can give day and date, and name and age and circumstance,
with most unfeeling precision. These, however,
are but trivial foibles, forgotten, or remembered only
with what a rich redundant harvest of kindness and generosity
his heart is stored. It would delight you to see
with what social gladness he welcomes a visiter into his
house; and the poorest man that enters his door never
leaves it without a cordial invitation to sit down and
drink a glass of wine. By the honest farmers round his
country seat, he is looked up to with love and reverence;
they never pass him by without his inquiring after
the welfare of their families, and receiving a cordial shake
of his liberal hand. There are but two classes of people
who are thrown out of the reach of his hospitality—and
these are Frenchmen and Democrats. The old gentleman
considers it treason against the majesty of good
breeding to speak to any visiter with his hat on; but the
moment a Democrat enters his door, he forthwith bids
his man Pompey bring his hat, puts it on his head, and
salutes him with, an appalling “Well, sir, what do you
want with me?”
He has a profound contempt for Frenchmen, and
firmly believes that they eat nothing but frogs and soupmaigre
in their own country. This unlucky prejudice
is partly owing to my great aunt Pamelia having been,
many years ago, run away with by a French Count, who
turned out to be the son of a generation of barbers; and
partly to a little vivid spark of toryism, which burns in
a secret corner of his heart. He was a loyal subject of
the crown; has hardly yet recovered the shock of independence;
and, though he does not care to own it, always
does honour to his majesty's birth day, by inviting a few
cavaliers, like himself, to dinner; and gracing his
table with more than ordinary festivity. If by chance
the revolution is mentioned before him, my cousin shakes
his head; and you may see, if you take good note, a lurking
smile of contempt in the corner of his eye, which
marks a decided disapprobation of the sound. He once,
in the fullness of his heart, observed to me that green
peas were a month later than they were under the old
government. But the most eccentric manifestation of loyalty
he ever gave was making a voyage to Halifax for no
other reason under heaven but to hear his majesty prayed
for in church, as he used to be here formerly. This he
never could be brought fairly to acknowledge, but it is
a certain fact I assure you.—It is not a little singular
that a person, so much given to long story-telling as my
but so it is with the old gentleman—his prime favourite
and companion is Will Wizard, who is almost a
member of the family, and will sit before the fire, with
his feet on the massy handirons, and smoke his cigar, and
screw his phiz, and spin away tremendous long stories
of his travels, for a whole evening, to the great delight
of the old gentleman and lady, and especially of the
young ladies, who, like Desdemona, do “seriously incline,”
and listen to him with innumerable “O dears,”
“is it possibles,” “good graciouses,” and look upon him
as a second Sinbad the sailor.
The Miss Cocklofts, whose pardon I crave for not
having particularly introduced them before, are a pair of
delectable damsels; who having purloined and locked
up the family-bible, pass for just what age they please to
plead guilty to. Barbara, the eldest, has long since resigned
the character of a belle, and adopted that staid,
sober, demure, snuff-taking air, becoming her years and
discretion. She is a good-natured soul, whom I never
saw in a passion but once; and that was occasioned by
seeing an old favourite beau of hers kiss the hand of a
pretty blooming girl; and, in truth she only got angry
because, as she very properly said, it would spoil the
child. Her sister Margery, or Maggie, as she is familiarly
termed, seemed disposed to maintain her post as a
belle, until a few months since; when accidentally hearing
a gentleman observe that she broke very fast, she
suddenly left off going to the assembly, took a cat into
high favour, and began to rail at the forward pertness of
young misses. From that moment I set her down for
an old maid; and so she is, “by the hand of my body.”
The young ladies are still visited by some half dozen of
veteran beaux, who grew and flourished in the haut ton,
when the Miss Cocklofts were quite children, but have
been brushed rather rudely by the hand of time, who,
to say the truth, can do almost any thing but make people
young. They are, notwithstanding, still warm candidates
for female favour; look venerably tender, and repeat
over and over the same honeyed speeches and sugared
sentiments to the little belles that they poured so
profusely into the ears of their mothers. I beg leave
here to give notice, that by this sketch I mean no reflection
on old bachelors; on the contrary, I hold, that next
to a fine lady, the ne plus ultra, an old bachelor is the
in “single blessedness,” he of course does just as he
pleases; and if he has any genius must acquire a plentiful
stock of whims, and oddities, and whalebone habits:
without which I esteem a man to be mere beef without
mustard, good for nothing at all, but to run on errands
for ladies, take boxes at the theatre, and act the part of
a screen at tea-parties, or a walking stick in the streets.
I merely speak of those old boys who infest public walks,
pounce upon the ladies from every corner of the street,
and worry and frisk and amble, and caper before, behind,
and round about the fashionable belles, like old ponies
in a pasture, striving to supply the absence of youthful
whim and hilarity, by grimaces and grins, and artificial
vivacity. I have sometimes seen one of these “reverend
youths” endeavouring to elevate his wintry passions into
something like love, by basking in the sunshine of beauty;
and it did remind me of an old moth attempting to
fly through a pane of glass towards a light without ever
approaching near enough to warm itself, or scorch its
wings.
Never I firmly believe, did there exist a family that
went more by tangents than the Cocklofts.—Every thing
is governed by whim; and if one member starts a new
freak, away all the rest follow like wild geese in a string.
As the family, the servants, the horses, cats, and dogs,
have all grown old together, they have accommodated
themselves to each other's habits completely; and though
every body of them is full of odd points, angles, rhomboids,
and ins and outs, yet somehow or other, they harmonize
together like so many straight lines; and it is truly
a grateful and refreshing sight to see them agree so well.
Should one, however, get out of tune, it is like a cracked
fiddle, the whole concert is ajar; you perceive a cloud over
every brow in the house, and even the old chairs seem to
creak affettuoso. If my cousin, as he is rather apt to do,
betray any symptons of vexation or uneasiness no matter
about what, he is worried to death with inquiries, which
answer no other end but to demonstrate the good will of
the inquirer, and put him in a passion; for every body
knows how provoking it is to be cut short in a fit of the
blues, by an impertinent question about “what is the
matter?” when a man can't tell himself. I remember a
few months ago the old gentleman came home in quite
a squall; kicked poor Cæsar, the mastiff, out of his way
with most violent emphasis, and pulling out his box,
took three huge pinches of snuff, and threw a fourth
into the cat's eyes as he sat purring his astonishment by
the fire-side. This was enough to set the body politic
going; Mrs. Cockloft began “my dearing” it as fast as
tongue could move; the young ladies took each a stand
at an elbow of his chair: Jeremy marshalled in rear;
the servants came tumbling in; the mastiff put up an inquiring
nose; and even grimalkin, after he had cleansed
his whiskers and finished sneezing, discovered indubitable
signs of sympathy. After the most affectionate inquiries
on all sides, it turned out that my cousin, in crossing,
the street, had got his silk stockings bespattered with
mud by a coach which it seems belonged to a dashing
gentleman who had formerly supplied the family with
hot rolls and muffins! Mrs. Cockloft thereupon turned
up her eyes, and the young ladies their noses; and it
would have edified a whole congregation to hear the
conversation which took place concerning the insolence
of upstarts, and the vulgarity of would be gentlemen and
ladies, who strive to emerge from low life by dashing
about in carriages to pay a visit two doors off, giving parties
to people who laugh at them, and cutting all their old
friends.
| THE COCKLOFT FAMILY. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. | |