1819-20
THE SKETCH BOOK
JOHN BULL
by Washington Irving
Electronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
JOHN BULL
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An old song, made by an aged old pate,
Of an old worshipful gentleman who had a great estate,
That kept a brave old house at a bountiful rate,
And an old porter to relieve the poor at his gate.
With an old study fill'd full of learned old books,
With an old reverend chaplain, you might know him by his looks,
With an old buttery hatch worn quite off the hooks,
And an old kitchen that maintained half-a-dozen old cooks.
Like an old courtier, etc.
OLD SONG.
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THERE is no species of humor in which the English more excel, than
that which consists in caricaturing and giving ludicrous
appellation, 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 humor 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
exhibiting 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
the 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 endeavor 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 especially noticed among those truly homebred and genuine
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 humorists, 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 humor more than in wit; is jolly rather than
gay; melancholy rather than morose; can easily be moved to a sudden
tear, or surprised into 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 humor, 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 personage, who thinks not
merely for himself and family, but for all the country round, and is
most generously disposed to be everybody's champion. He is continually
volunteering his services to settle his neighbors' 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 neighbors, but he
begins incontinently to fumble with the head of his cudgel, and
consider whether his interest or honor 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 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 so much to be on his guard
against, as making friends. It is difficult to cudgel him out of a
farthing; but put him in a good humor, and you may bargain him out
of all the money in his pocket. He is like a stout ship, which will
weather the roughest storm uninjured, but roll its masts overboard
in the succeeding 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, cock fights, 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, 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 his 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 beefsteak and pint of port
one day, that he may roast an ox whole, broach a hogshead of ale,
and treat all his neighbors 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 humor 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 about the door, and
will hardly bark at a house-breaker.
His family mansion is an old castellated manor-house, gray 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 lighted up in modern days, yet there are
many places 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 wars and tumults: wings built in time 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 that most
spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken up
with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that must 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 stanch 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 neighbors, 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 fun 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 fireplaces,
ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous 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 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 indispensable to the dignity of an
ancient and honorable family, to be bounteous in its appointments, and
to be eaten up by dependents; and so, partly from pride, and partly
from kind-heartedness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter and
maintenance 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 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 mattock cannot be struck against
the most mouldering tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some
cranny or loop-hole, the gray 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 neighbors were to imitate, would
not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to
point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good
qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some little
vainglory, 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 gypsies; 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
weather-cock; and old gray-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 neighborhood, they
have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This,
too, has been increased by the altercations and 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 minds
freely, they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in
the present posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor 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 scenes of
wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call
in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has 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, are rare food
for scandal in John's neighborhood. 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 time; 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 smug 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 for all
this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant 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 buy
another estate; and with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel,
longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarter-staff.
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 humors 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
neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own; all plain,
homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his
good qualities. His extravagance savors 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 this 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 neighbors, 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
thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order- if he can;
renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and long enjoy, on
his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry old age.
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THE END
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