Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 424, February 1851

"I think – that is – I am strongly of opinion," faltered the other, "that the whole thing is a mere misconception."

"A what?" roared the Squire.

"A misconception," quavered the Juggler. "As I read this document, which I confess is not so well worded as it might have been, I conclude that Peter merely wishes to provide for the spiritual wants of his own people, not that he in the least degree intends to question your lawful authority. And further – "

"Hark-ye!" interrupted the Squire, his eye kindling like a coal, "I am not going to stand any of your nonsense. I, John Bull, stand here as the sole proprietor of Bullockshatch, and no man alive shall presume to question my title with impunity. Look to it, Master Juggler, for I know you better than you think. I may be at times too easy and careless, but I have an eye in my head notwithstanding, and I know what your friends Gray and Claretson have been doing. Mind this – you as head-steward are responsible to me, and if I find you playing false in this matter, by the Lord Harry you shall answer for it!"

"Me!" cried the Juggler, in the shrill tones of injured innocence. "How could such an idea enter into your blessed brain? I protest that never man served master with more entire devotion. May my next tragedy be worse than my first, if it does not bring tears into my eyes, to hear you talking in this way of your affectionate Juggling Johnny!" Here he went through a little bit of pantomime similar to that performed by Mr T. P. Cooke when bidding farewell to Shewsan, immediately before his execution. "As for Gray and Claretson, or any other of them, if they have been doing anything contrary to the rules of the household, it is wholly unbeknownst to me. O! if your honour only knew the trouble they give me sometimes, and the watch I am obliged to keep over them to see that they do their duty! I really think that the labour is telling upon my precious health. If it be your pleasure that they should be packed about their business, I'll do it – only don't break my heart by doubting my devotion in your service."

"Well, well!" quoth the Squire, who was always easily mollified, "let's say no more about that at present. The main thing is to put down that insolent varlet, Peter. And, as you say you are determined to uphold my authority, it will be just as well that you should tell that to the household. So just step into my closet – you will find paper and ink on the table – and write me a handsome letter to Martin, expressive of your indignation at Peter, and your determination to give him a ribroasting at the earliest opportunity."

At this the Juggler hemmed and coughed, said something about a whitlow in his finger, and would fain have postponed writing for the present. But the Squire was peremptory, and would listen to no excuse; so nolens volens, Johnny was obliged to walk into the closet and do his master's bidding.

Having secured the door, he first of all took out of his waistcoat pocket a thimble and peas, and began trying to cheat himself, as was his wont whenever he found himself in a scrape. After his ideas were clarified by that ingenious process, he broke out into the following soliloquy: —

"Am I done for, or am I not? Gadzooks! I must say that it looks extremely like it. That old blockhead Bull is in a thorough passion, and I need never expect to talk him round. What an ass that fellow Peter is! If he had only waited a little, we could have managed the whole matter quite easily, but now he has put his foot in it, and must even take the consequences. But how am I to manage with Gray and Claretson? They are both committed as deeply as can be to Peter, and I suspect that he can prove it by their own letters. I wonder if I could persuade them to quit the Squire's service without making any noise about it! No – that they won't do; and the mischief is that they know a thing or two more than is convenient. Then what am I to write to that old pantaloon Martin, whom I have not spoken to for many a day? If I commit myself against Peter, Gray and Claretson will be down upon me to a dead certainty, and I shall have to account for all Mat-o'-the Mint's blunders, which would puzzle any conjurer living. If I don't, the whole household will suppose that I have been in regular league with Peter, and then I lose my place. They suspect me already; for no later than yesterday that stupid errand-boy of mine, Hips, came down with a tester towards buying a new hat for Hippopotamus; and, to say the truth, I have a letter from that same individual at this moment in my pocket. Couldn't I manage to temporise about Peter, and throw the blame on somebody else? Not a bad idea! There's that noodle Augustine with a back providentially fitted for the burden! If I can make him the scapegoat, I may still contrive to throw dust in the eyes of the Squire!"

So saying, Johnny pocketed his thimble and peas, and straightway indited this doughty epistle to Martin.

"Reverend and Dear Sir, – I have this moment learned with great astonishment and surprise, the insidious attempt which has been made by Peter to extend his authority in Bullockshatch. This gives me the greater surprise, because I consider myself ill used by Peter, having on previous occasions behaved with marked civility to his people, and having moreover shown myself anything but hostile to his exercising his functions here, moderately and discreetly, and within due limits. However, you may rely upon it, that the matter shall be thoroughly sifted, and such steps adopted as may vindicate the proper position of my honoured master, not forgetting your own. What these steps may be, I cannot yet say, because it will be necessary in a matter of this importance to consult an attorney. However, you may keep your mind at ease. What Peter shall or shall not have, will be determined in proper time; till when, it would be premature to enter into further explanations.

"Having thus explicitly stated my sentiments with regard to this unusual matter, it would be wrong in me to conceal from you that I regard your son Augustine as a dangerous enemy to the tranquillity of Bullockshatch. I write this with unfeigned sorrow, but my natural candour renders it impossible for me to maintain any disguise. The Peterizing tendency of the practices adopted by Mr Augustine have long been the subject of serious remark in the household, and have doubtless contributed very much to the difficulties which have now arisen. To be plain with you, I regard your son as being actually more culpable than Peter.

"You will farther pardon me, Reverend Sir, for remarking that your own conduct is not altogether without reproach, seeing that you might have used your authority more decidedly in cautioning your son against imitating the mummeries of Peter. – I am, Reverend and Dear Sir, your best adviser and friend,

    (Signed) "J. Juggler."
    "For Dr Martin, These."

"If that letter does not succeed," quoth the Juggler after he had read it over for the second time, "I surrender all faith in human gullibility. It shall appear to-morrow morning in the newspapers; and as to what may follow after, why – we shall just leave that to the chapter of accidents."

CHAPTER VIII

HOW AUGUSTINE RETORTED ON THE JUGGLER; AND HOW HIPPOPOTAMUS CAME OVER TO BULLOCKSHATCH

Next morning, the letter appeared in print, and was circulated all over Bullockshatch. You have no idea what a commotion it created. Some people who knew the Juggler well from old experience, pronounced it at once to be a mere tub thrown out to catch a whale, and argued that in reality it meant nothing. But others, who detested Peter from the bottom of their hearts, and yet felt a sort of sneaking kindness for the Juggler, were loud in their commendation and praise of his spirited, straightforward conduct; and declared their firm conviction that he would go on, and give Peter such a trouncing for his insolence, as he had not received for many a day. Those who were of the Gray and Claretson faction, looked exceedingly glum; swore that they had always considered the Juggler as little better than a time-serving fellow; and that, notwithstanding his braggadocio, he durst not take a single step against Peter. "If we are in for it," said they, "so is he. Let him clear up those doings of Mat-o'-the-Mint as he best can." Peter's friends, of course, were furious; at least the majority of them, who did not comprehend the truth of the axiom, that the main use of language is to conceal ideas. Others, who were more learned in Jesuitry, winked and hinted at a dispensation.

But the man, of all others, who was the most astounded – and no wonder – was poor Augustine. You must know that, for several years, the Juggler had been on extremely cool terms with Dr Martin, and seldom, if ever, set foot within his church. But, as it had always been considered a point of etiquette that the Squire's head-steward should attend some place of worship, the Juggler, who could do nothing like other people, compromised the matter by joining two congregations at once. Of a Sunday forenoon he was a regular attendant on the ministrations of Augustine; in the afternoon, he went to a meeting-house where the minister was a relative of Jack's. He had helped Augustine to set up his nick-nackeries; assisted at the most suspicious of his ceremonies; and never made the slightest objection to the practices, which he now thought fit to denounce to Martin! Augustine, at the first sight of the letter, doubted the evidence of his eyesight.

"Bones of Saint Thomas-à-Beckett!" said he, "is it possible that he can have written this? Supposing that I was to blame – which I am not – is it for him to turn against me at the last hour, after all that he has said and done, and throw the whole blame of Peter's delinquencies at my door? But I won't stand it – that's flat. I'll write him a tickler that shall touch him to the quick, if he has any spark of conscience remaining; and, now that I think on't, I'll just step over to the vestry, where I shall be less disturbed."

I don't know what kind of disturbance Augustine contemplated at home, but it must have been slight indeed compared with that which he was doomed to meet at the chapel. All the ragamuffins in the neighbourhood, who took their cue from the Juggler, were congregated around the door; and no sooner did Augustine appear, than he was saluted with yells of "No candles! no sham Peters! down with the humbug!" and so forth; so that the poor gentleman had much difficulty in elbowing his way to the vestry, where he locked himself in, not altogether, as you may easily believe, in a comfortable frame of mind. When he attempted to perform service, matters grew worse and worse. There was shouting, braying, and hissing, both inside and outside the door, so that a large posse of constables was required to keep the mob in order; and, at last, the chapel was shut up.

Augustine, however, wrote his letter, which was a stinger, though rather too long, and published it. It is just possible that he may have received an answer; but if so, I have not seen it, nor can I therefore undertake to clear up the mystery which envelopes this remarkable episode. This much is certain, that if Augustine's statement was true, the Juggler gave ample proof, if proof was necessary, that he was still eminently qualified to exhibit feats of dexterity at any booth in Bartholomew Fair, and could turn his back upon himself with any man in the kingdom.

It is my opinion that the Juggler, after having written his famous letter to Martin, would very willingly have held his tongue, until he was compelled to address the household. But it is not easy, when a fire is once kindled, to put it out. Not that the kindling was the work of Johnny, for Peter's insolent proclamation was of itself enough to raise a conflagration in Bullockshatch; but now that the head-steward had declared himself – or was supposed to have done so – it was necessary that he should go through with it. It so happened, that a day or two afterwards he was engaged, along with others of the Squire's servants, to eat custard with one of the village magistrates; and the good man, in proposing his health, could not help alluding to the very noble, magnificent, and satisfactory letter which had been written by the honourable head-steward on the subject of Peter's unwarrantable attack on the liberties of the Squire. At this the whole company rose and cheered, so that the Juggler could not very well forbear touching on the topic, though he handled it with as much caution as he would have used towards a heated poker. He talked about his determination to uphold the just rights of Esquire Bull, and so forth; but what those rights were, he did not specify, neither did he drop any hint as to the nature of the steps which he proposed to adopt. But you may conceive his disgust, when he heard two of the servants whom he had brought along with him, fall foul of Peter in the most unqualified terms! The first of these, one Kewpaw, so named after his habitual pronunciation of his birthplace in the North farm, had the exquisite taste to say that he, being a Justice of the Peace, would be but too happy and proud to preside at the trial either of Peter, or of his delegate Hippopotamus, for the insult offered to Squire Bull, and would give them a practical insight into the nature of a mittimus; while the other, who had been wild in his youth, but now sat at the head of the upper servants' table, declared his intention of dancing a fandango on the hat of Hippopotamus on the first convenient opportunity. These dignified speeches were of course enthusiastically cheered, though they were as bitter as wormwood to the Juggler, who felt himself every hour more and more compromised before he had made up his mind to any definite course of action.

Meanwhile Martin, who knew from old experience how little dependence could be placed in the Juggler at any time, bestirred himself to take the sense of the people of Bullockshatch as to Peter's arrogant pretensions. He was fully conscious that a general demonstration on their part would not only be highly gratifying to the Squire, but extremely useful in influencing the views of the servants. Meetings were accordingly held in every corner of the estate, at which both tenantry and villagers signified their readiness to stand by Squire Bull to the last, and voted him addresses to that effect. It was true that Obadiah, though he durst not declare openly for Peter, took every occasion of carping at the proceedings of Martin – insinuating, in his sneaking way, that this access of zeal might be traced to a wholesome regard to the maintenance of his tithes, "wherein," quoth Obadiah, "I, though a humble labourer in the vineyard, have neither part nor portion." But Martin, who knew the man, and valued his remarks accordingly, proceeded in the performance of his duty; being well aware that even an angel of light would have been subjected to the malignant criticisms of Obadiah.

A day was presently fixed when Squire Bull was to receive the addresses of the tenantry at the manor-house. Nobody doubted that the answers would have been bluff, hearty, and decided, as was the Squire's usual manner; and that Peter would receive more than a hint of the probable reward of his impertinence. And, most assuredly, had the matter depended alone upon the disposition of the Squire, they would have been abundantly gratified. But there was an old rule of the estate, that, on such occasions, the answer to the addresses should be written by the head-steward, not by the Squire, who was seldom allowed to look at the paper before he was required to read it. When the day came, there was an immense concourse of deputations, from all parts of the estate, gathered in the lobbies, and each was successively ushered into the drawing-room, where the Squire was seated, with the Juggler standing at his elbow. When the first address was finished, the Juggler slipped a sheet of paper into the hand of the Squire, who forthwith began to read it as follows: —

"Gentlemen, I feel very much obliged to you for the trouble you have taken in this matter, which, let me observe, is personal to myself. You may rely upon it, I can maintain my own position, and will try to do so, provided that position is tenable. I am resolved to maintain Martin in his rights whenever these rights are ascertained; and to do to Peter exactly what shall seem most proper under the present perplexing circumstances. In the mean time, you had better return to your families, and look after their education; and I have the honour to wish you a good morning."

This, with a little variation, was the answer given to all the addresses; and I wish you had seen the faces of the deputations when they found themselves thus soused over, as it were, with a bucket of cold water! The most extraordinary circumstance of all was, that the Juggler seemed to think that he had done a very clever thing, and produced a masterpiece; for he stood the whole while the answer was being read with his finger at his mouth, and a leer upon his face, prying into the countenances of the honest people, like a magpie scrutinising a marrow-bone. This was all the satisfaction which the men of Bullockshatch received at that time in return for their trouble; and had they not known perfectly well who was at the bottom of the answers, it is highly probable that few more addresses would have found their way to the mansion-house. Indeed, many folks are of opinion that the Juggler would have liked nothing better than a total stoppage of these addresses, and that the answers were purposely framed to put an end to them. In the midst of all this commotion, who should appear in Bullockshatch but our old friend Hippopotamus, whom Peter had appointed arch-superintendent of Smithfield. Little he cared for the Squire, or for any one else in the world, except his master Peter; and as to the Juggler, he considered that he had him entirely under his thumb, on account of certain transactions which had previously taken place between them. So he too set himself down to write and publish a letter, which was exceedingly humble and vain-glorious, (the two qualities being more nearly allied than many people suppose,) but withal sarcastical; and you may be sure that he did not spare either the Juggler or Mat-o'-the-Mint, whom he flatly accused of being privy to the designs of Peter. By this time a perfect mania for writing letters had seized the whole population of Bullockshatch. The newspapers contained nothing else but long columns of epistles; and even Mat-o'-the-Mint could not resist trying his hand at composition. It seems that some gentleman had thought it worth his while to inquire whether there was really any truth in the reports which were currently circulated, and Matthew replied as follows: —

"Sir, – If I were at liberty to tell you what I could tell you, you would know more than you do at present. But it is unnecessary to remark that confidential communications are to be considered as things strictly private until they are divulged; and in a matter connected with the interests of Esquire Bull, I must be permitted to maintain that reserve which is not incongruous with an explicit declaration of the truth. Further, I would suggest that the fallibility of Peter having been impugned, renders the point at issue still more dubious. Hoping that this explanation will prove satisfactory, I remain, &c.

    (Signed) "Mat-o'-the-Mint."

And this was absolutely published in the papers as an entire vindication of Matthew!

Hippopotamus, however, did not care a rush either for addresses or epistles. He was perfectly convinced in his mind that so long as the Squire's household remained without change, he had nothing earthly to fear; and, accordingly, he snapped his fingers and laughed at the whole opposition. He had brought over with him from foreign parts such a collection of tapestry, brocades, images, pyxes, censers, and gilded sheep-hooks, as utterly eclipsed the glory of poor Augustine's paraphernalia, and these he took occasion to display with all the pride and satisfaction possible. Then he issued addresses to the people of Bullockshatch, congratulating them on their emancipation from the thraldom of Martin, and comparing them to a brood of goslings shadowed by the infallible pinions of Peter. He kept altogether out of sight hair-shirts, flagellations, incremations, holocausts, and such other spiritual stimulants; but promised them any amount of pardons, indulgences, and whitewashing. Some of his friends and followers went even further. Among these was a certain Father Ignition, who had taken a fancy to dress himself in serge with a rope round his waist, and to walk barefooted about the streets. This cleanly creature devised and promulgated a plan, by means of which he engaged, under the penalty of washing himself in the case of failure, to bring round every mother's son in Bullockshatch to Peter's fold and obedience. He proposed that a stout strapping country wench, of approved principles, from the farm on the other side of the pond, should be smuggled into each family on the Squire's estate, as laundry maid, scullion, or to take charge of the nursery. These hussies were to act as general spies, reporting all that passed in the household to him, Father Ignition; and were, moreover, to pervert the children, conveying them secretly to Peter's schools, and stuffing them with Roman toffy; and to get as intimate as possible with the young gentlemen, especially such as might have been inclined to Augustine's persuasion. In this way, the morality of which he held to be unquestionable, Father Ignition volunteered to raise a large crop of converts, to be ready, like asparagus, in the spring.

In this position stood matters in Bullockshatch towards the expiry of the holidays, during which no business was ever transacted in the household. You shall learn anon what took place after the servants were re-assembled; and I promise you, that you will hear something fit to make your hair stand on end. But these things are too important to be narrated at the end of a chapter.

HARRY BOLTON'S CURACY

One of the greatest enjoyments which are likely to fall to the lot of a man in middle life, is to spend a week or so with the old school-and-college companion whom he has not seen since the graver page of life has turned over for both parties. It is as unlike any ordinary visit-making as possible. It is one of the very few instances in which the complimentary dialogue between the guest and his entertainer comes to have a real force and meaning. One has to unlearn, for this special occasion, the art so necessary in ordinary society, of interpreting terms by their contraries. And in fact it is difficult, at first, for one who has been used for some years to a social atmosphere, whose warmth is mainly artificial, to breathe freely in the natural sunshine of an old friend's company; just as a native Londoner is said sometimes to pine away, when removed into the fresh air of the country. We are so used to consider the shake of the hand, and the "Very glad to see you," of the hundred and one people who ask us to dinner, as merely a polite and poetical form of expressing, "You certainly are a bore; but as you are here, I must make the best of you" – that it costs us an effort to comprehend that "How are you, old fellow?" does, in the present case, imply a bonâ fide hope that we are as sound in health and heart, if not as young, as formerly. And especially when a man's pursuits have led him a good deal into the world, and many of his warmer feelings have been, insensibly perhaps, chilled by the contact, the heartiness of his reception by some old college friend who has led a simple life, the squire of his paternal acres, or the occupant of a country parsonage, and has gained and lost less by the polishing process of society, will come upon him with a strangeness almost reproachful. But once fairly fixed within the hospitable walls, the natural tone is recognised, and proves contagious; the formal incrustations of years melt in the first hour of after-dinner chat, and the heart is opened to feelings and language which it had persuaded itself were long forgotten. And when the end of your three weeks' holiday arrives at last, which you cannot persuade yourself has been more than three days, (though you seem to have lived over again the best half of your life in the time,) you have so far forgotten the conventional rules of good-breeding, that when your friend says to you on the last evening, "Must you really go? Can't you stay till Monday?" you actually take him at his word, and begin to cast about in your mind for some possible excuse for stealing another couple of days or so, though you have heard the same expression from the master of every house where you have happened to visit, and never dreamt of understanding it in any other than its civilised (i. e., non-natural) sense – as a hint to fix a day for going, and stick to it, that your entertainer may "know the worst."

I was heartily glad, therefore, when at last I found that there was nothing to prevent me from paying a visit (long promised, and long looked forward to, but against which, I began to think, gods and men had conspired) to my old and true friend Lumley. I dare say he has a Christian name; indeed, I have no reason to doubt it, and, on the strength of an initial not very decipherable, prefixed to the L in his signature, I have never hesitated to address him, "J. Lumley, Esq.;" but I know him as Long Lumley, and so does every man who, like myself, remembers him at Oxford; and as Long Lumley do all his cotemporaries know him best, and esteem him accordingly; and he must excuse me if I immortalise him to the public, in spite of godfathers and godmothers, by that more familiar appellation. A cousin was with him at college, a miserable, sneaking fellow, who was known as "Little Lumley;" and if, as I suspect, they were both Johns or Jameses, it is quite desirable to distinguish them unmistakably; for though the other has the best shooting in the country, I would not be suspected of spending even the first week of September inside such a fellow's gates.

But Long Lumley was and is of a very different stamp; six feet three, and every inch a gentleman. I wish he was not, of late years, quite so fond of farming: a man who can shoot, ride, and translate an ode of Horace as he can, ought to have a soul above turnips. It is almost the only point on which we are diametrically opposed in tastes and habits. We nearly fell out about it the very first morning after my arrival.

Breakfast was over – a somewhat late one in honour of the supposed fatigues of yesterday's journey, and it became necessary to arrange proceedings for the day. What a false politeness it is, which makes a host responsible for his guests' amusement! and how often, in consequence, are they compelled to do, with grimaces of forced satisfaction, the very thing they would not! However, Lumley and myself were too old friends to have any scruples of delicacy on that point. I had been eyeing him for some minutes while he was fastening on a pair of formidable high-lows, and was not taken by surprise when the proposal came out, "Now, old fellow, will you come and have a look at my farm?"

"Can't I see it from the window?"

"Stuff! come, I must show you my sheep: I assure you they are considered about the best in this neighbourhood."

"Well, then, I'll taste the mutton any day you like, and give you my honest opinion."

"Don't be an ass now, but get your hat and come along; it's going to be a lovely day; and we'll just take a turn over the farm – there's a new thrashing machine I want to show you, too, and then back here to lunch."

"Seriously then, Lumley, I won't do anything of the kind. I do you the justice to believe, that you asked me here to enjoy myself; and that I am quite ready to do in any fairly rational manner; and I flatter myself I am in nowise particular; but as to going bogging myself among turnips, or staring into the faces and poking the ribs of short-horns and south-downs – why, as an old friend, you'll excuse me."

"Hem! there's no accounting for tastes," said Lumley, in a half-disappointed tone.

"No," said I, "there certainly is not."

"Well, then," said he – he never lost his good humour – "what shall we do? I'll tell you – you remember Harry Bolton? rather your junior, but you must have known him well, because he was quite in our set from the first – to be sure, didn't you spill him out of a tandem at Abingdon corner? Well, he is living now about nine miles from here, and we'll drive over and see him. I meant to write to ask him to dine here, and this will save the trouble."

"With all my heart," said I; "I never saw him since I left Oxford. I fancied I heard of his getting into some mess – involved in some way, was he not?"

"Not involved exactly; but he certainly did make himself scarce from a very nice house and curacy which he had when he first left Oxford, and buried himself alive for I don't know how long, and all for the very queerest reason, or rather without any reason at all. Did you never hear of it?"

"No; only some vague rumour, as I said just now."

"You never heard, then, how he came into this neighbourhood? Have the dog-cart round in ten minutes, Sam, and we dine at seven. Now, get yourself in marching order, and I'll tell you the whole story as we go along."