University of Virginia Library

138. LETTER CXXXVIII.

If Scott had done nothing else, he would have deserved
well of his country for giving an interest to the
barren wastes by which Scotland is separated from
England. “A' the blue bonnets” must have had a
melancholy march of it “Over the Border.” From
Gala-Water to Carlisle it might be anywhere a scene
for the witches' meeting in Macbeth. We bowled
away at nearly twelve miles in the hour, however,
(which would unwind almost any “serpent of care”
from the heart), and if the road was not lined with
witches and moss-troopers, it was well macadamized.
I got a treacherous supper at Howick, where the
Douglas pounced upon Sir Alexander Ramsay; and,
recovering my good-humor at Carlisle, grew happier
as the fields grew greener, and came down by Kendal
and its emerald valleys with the speed of an arrow and
the light-heartedness of its feather. How little the
farmer thinks when he plants his hedges and sows his
fields, that the passing wayfarer will anticipate the
gleaners and gather sunshine from his ripening harvest.

I was admiring the fine old castle of Lancaster
(now desecrated to the purposes of a county jail),
when our thirteen-mile whip ran over a phaeton
standing quietly in the road, and spilt several women
and children, as you may say, en passant. The coach
must arrive, though it kill as many as Juggernaut,
and Jehu neither changed color, nor spoke a word,
but laid the silk over his leaders to make up the
back-water of the jar, and rattled away up the
street, with the guard blowing the French horn to the
air of “Smile again, my bonny lassie.” Nobody
threw stones after us; the horses were changed in a
minute and three quarters, and away we sped from
the town of the “red nose.” There was a cool, you-know-where-to-find-me
sort of indifference in this adventure,
which is peculiarly English. I suppose if
his leaders had changed suddenly into griffins, he
would have touched them under the wing and kept
his pace.

Bound on a visit to — Hall in Lancashire, I
left the coach at Preston. The landlady of the Red
Lion became very suddenly anxious that I should not
take cold when she found out the destination of her
post-chaise. I arrived just after sunset at my friend's
lodge, and ordering the postillion to a walk, drove
leisurely through the gathering twilight to the Hall.
It was a mile of winding road through the peculiarly
delicious scenery of an English park, the game visible
in every direction, and the glades and woods disposed
with that breadth and luxuriance of taste that make
the country-houses of England palaces in Arcadia.
Anxious as I had been to meet my friend, whose hospitality
I had before experienced in Italy, I was almost
sorry when the closely-shaven sward and glancing
lights informed me that my twilight drive was near its
end.

An arrival in a strange house in England seems, to
a foreigner, almost magical. The absence of all the
bustle consequent on the same event abroad, the
silence, respectfulness, and self-possession of the servants,
the ease and expedition with which he is installed
in a luxurious room, almost with his second
breath under the roof—his portmanteau unstrapped,
his toilet laid out, his dress-shoes and stockings at his
feet, and the fire burning as if he had sat by it all
day—it is like the golden facility of a dream. “Dinner
at seven!” are the only words he has heard, and
he finds himself (some three minutes having elapsed
since he was on the road), as much at home as if he
had lived there all his life, and pouring the hot water
into his wash-basin with the feeling that comfort and
luxury in this country are very much matters of
course.

The bell rings for dinner, and the new-comer finds
his way to the drawing-room. He has not seen his
host, perhaps, for a year, but his entrée is anything
but a scene. A cordial shake of the hand, a simple
inquiry after his health, while the different members
of the family collect in the darkened room, and the
preference of his arm by the lady of the house to
walk into dinner, are all that would remind him that
he and his host had ever parted. The soup is criticised,
the weather “resumed,” as the French have it,
gravity prevails, and the wine that he used to drink is
brought him without question by the remembering
butler. The stranger is an object of no more attention
than any other person, except in the brief “glad
to see you,” and the accompanying just perceptible
nod with which the host drinks wine with him; and,
not even in the abandon of after-dinner conversation,
are the mutual reminiscences of the host and his
friend suffered to intrude on the indifferent portion of
the company. The object is the general enjoyment,
and you are not permitted to monopolize the sympathies
of the hour. You thus escape the aversion
with which even a momentary favorite is looked upon
in society, and in your turn you are not neglected, or
bored with a sensation, on the arrival of another. In
what other country is civilization carried to the same
rational perfection?

I was under the hands of a physician during the
week of my stay at — Hall, and only crept out
with the lizards for a little sunshine at noon. There
was shooting in the park for those who liked it, and
fox hunting in the neighborhood for those who could
follow, but I was content (upon compulsion) to be innocent
of the blood of hares and partridges, and the
ditches of Lancashire are innocent of mine. The
well-stocked library, with its caressing chairs, was a
paradise of repose after travel; and the dinner, with
its delightful society, sufficed for the day's event.

My host was himself very much of a cosmopolite;
but his neighbors, one or two most respectable squires
of the old school among them, had the usual characteristics
of people who have passed their lives on one
spot, and though gentlemanlike and good humored,
were rather difficult to amuse. I found none of the
uproariousness which distinguished the Squire Western
of other times. The hale fox-hunter was in
white cravat and black coat, and took wine and politics
moderately; and his wife and daughters, though
silent and impracticable, were well-dressed, and marked
by that indefinable stamp of “blood” visible no
less in the gentry than in the nobility of England.

I was delighted to encounter at my friend's table
one or two of the old English peculiarities, gone out
nearer the metropolis. Toasted cheese and spiced
ale—“familiar creatures” in common life—were here
served up with all the circumstance that attended them
when they were not disdained as the allowance of
maids of honor. On the disappearance of the pastry,
a massive silver dish, chased with the ornate elegance
of ancient plate, holding coals beneath, and protected
by a hinged cover, was set before the lady of the
house. At the other extremity of the table stood a
“peg tankard” of the same fashion, in the same massive
metal, with two handles, and of an almost fabulous
capacity. Cold cheese and port were at a discount.
The celery, albeit both modish and popular,
was neglected. The crested cover erected itself on
its hinge and displayed a flat surface, covered thinly
with blistering cheese, with a soupçon of brown in its
complexion, quivering and delicate, and of a most

stimulating odor. A little was served to each guest
and commended as it deserved, and then the flagon's
lid was lifted in its turn by the staid butler, and the
master of the house drank first. It went around with
the sun, not disdained by the ladies' lips in passing,
and came to me, something lightened of its load. As
a stranger I was advised of the law before lifting it to
my head. Within, from the rim to the bottom, extended
a line of silver pegs, supposed to contain, in
the depth from one to the other, a fair draught for
each bibber. The flagon must not be taken from the
lips, and the penalty of drinking deeper than the first
peg below the surface, was to drink to the second—a
task for the friar of Copmanhurst. As the visible
measure was of course lost when the tankard was
dipped, it required some practice or a cool judgment
not to exceed the draught. Raising it with my two
hands, I measured the distance with my eye, and
watched till the floating argosy of toast should swim
beyond the reach of my nose. The spicy odor ascended
gratefully to the brain. The cloves and cinnamon
clung in a dark circle to the edges. I drank
without drawing breath, and complacently passed the
flagon. As the sea of all settled to a calm, my next
neighbor silently returned the tankard. I had exceeded
the draught. There was a general cry of “drink!
drink!” and sounding my remaining capacity with the
plummet of a long breath, I laid my hands once more
on the vessel, and should have paid the penalty or
perished in the attempt, but for the grace shown me
as a foreigner, at the intercession of that sex distinguished
for its mercy.

This adherence to the more hearty viands and customs
of olden time, by the way, is an exponent of a
feeling sustained with peculiar tenacity in that part of
England. Cheshire and Lancashire are the stronghold
of that race peculiar to this country, the gentry.
In these counties the peerage is no authority for gentle
birth. A title unsupported by centuries of honorable
descent, is worse than nothing; and there is
many a squire, living in his immemorial “Hall,” who
would not exchange his name and pedigree for the
title of ninety-nine in a hundred of the nobility of
England. Here reigns aristocracy. Your Baron
Rothschild, or your new-created lord from the Bank
or the Temple, might build palaces in Cheshire, and
live years in the midst of its proud gentry unvisited.
They are the cold cheese, celery, and port, in comparison
with the toasted cheese and spiced ale.