LORD ROLAND CHEYNE. Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again.-Sir Walter Scott. THIS is a strange age:-men have called my true and accurate narratives wild imaginings-and characters as real, and circumstances as sure, as the noonday sun, have been treated as unnatural and visionary inventions. From the imputation of being a creator of idle fictions I am anxious to free myself. I love not the greeting, though it be scriptural, of "Behold! that dreamer cometh." Fiction, I would urge, is often less romantic than truth; and events are almost daily occurring, equal to, and surpassing the creations of the happiest or the wildest fancy. To obtain credence from the unbelieving or the doubting is, I am afraid, beyond my power; and when I honestly assure them that for the truth of the following story testimony may be had on oath, I hardly expect to be believed. Men now have faith in nothing, and women are hard of belief-the world is far too wise-invention has run its race, and fancy has flown its flight-our learning has left us nothing to know, and our curiosity nothing to discover. There is now no undiscovered land which the fancy of man can cover with precious stones, and the credulity of mankind can believe in-there is a map for every shore, and a chart for every sea-and poets can sing no more of islands of the blessed. Over the lands of the earth the genius of every country has spread forth its wings; and its voice has been heard in all dominions, and kindreds, and tongues. All that can be said is said, and all that can be sung is sung. The original harvest of the earth is reaped; and the gleanings here an ear, and there an ear-are left for the sons of little men. I am a plain man, and not fortunate in figurative speech; so let me drop this metaphorical and ambitious style, and content myself with telling, in homely words, a homely tale. Let it be my practice, as it is my wish, to walk behind truth, rather than run before her. On the 14th day of last July, and far in the afternoon, I found myself in the little beautiful village of Chariswold. It was not the time of a fair, nor yet was it a holiday-no battle had been won, nor prince been born, on this humble and plebeian morning; yet I found all the people in motion, and parading up and down the long narrow central street, with ribbons flowing from their hats, flags flying above their heads, and with shout and song and all manner of music and mirth. Every alehouse was full-every window was crowded with women-every door-threshold filled with aged men-boys had climbed up to the house-tops and into the trees-all those who stood, stood on tiptoe, and those who walked went with eager looks; while at every rush of the multitude hasty and eager inquiries, "Is he coming? Is he coming?" flew from mouth to mouth. I stood, and looked towards the south end of the village-for from the south something strange or important seemed expected; in that direction all eyes were turned; and when the sound of a coming carriage was heard, the moving mass of people stood still; each individual raised himself above his walking height; and there arose a general murmur of anxiety and expectation. What all this might mean I had yet to learn; and those who know the wrapt-up and incommunicative spirit of a multitude need not be told that this I was long in learning. A look of compassion, or a loud laugh at my ignorance, or an exclamation of "Goles and goggers! where were you born, master?" admonished me to restrain my curiosity, and let the secret of the multitude be revealed of its own accord. There are certain signs and tokens by which mysterious events are characterized-the days of mirth and good fellowship, which distinguish the people of England, have a stamp and mark of their own. An election carousal has no resemblance to a church feast-it matters not if you read fast-and though there is but one way of imbibing wine, and one way of eating venison, and one way of laughing, still a man curious in the matter of feasting and revelry can easily judge between the profane merriment of laymen and the hallowed mirth of divines. This, then, I concluded, was no saint's day; for the devout dead have seldom left aught to excite the joy of the living; neither could it be the anniversary of the birth of one of our ancient worthies: those who shed most glory on Old England had little of world's :wealth to leave; and a man's memory soon ceases here, unless it be annually steeped in ale and wine, and revived with the smoke of roast ed oxen. Sir Guy of Warwick was the most fortunate of all our heroes his exploits on Ludgate-hill are forgotten; but the slaughter of the dun cow has hallowed his name among an eating and a drinking people. The dead have had their day-so let them go; it is for the living alone that the fatted calf is slain and the ale-flagons and wine-cups are set aflowing, and that mirth and music come to our firesides. Whether the cause of all this stir and merriment came from the dead or the living, many a merry fellow in Old Chartswold neither" kenned nor cared." Some were already be yond the power of thought, and more were fast hastening-ale, and joy, and release from labour and from care, had combined to confuse clear thought, and render men's steps unsteady. In the middle of the village, where a stone cross once rose, I saw a riotous crowd of both sexes gathered round several hogsheads of ale; the heads of the vessels were staved in; while innumerable cups and dishes, of all shapes and metals, were dipped into the foaming beveragea hundred heads were held up at once-a hundred cups were emptied at a breath; while others, weary of this dilatory mode of enjoyment, fairly stooped their heads into it; and the cry of" Foul, foul!" and "Pitch it into them, Jack!" resounded on every side. In the middle of all this tumult and outcry I saw an old man, who had been confined to his cabin for months, come tottering to his door-the shout, and the revelry, and the clattering of the ale-flagons, had put life and mettle into him he uttered a cough and a hilloah, and made his way into the erowd. "As sure as the church!" exclaimed a rustic, who held a foaming can of ale in his hand, with which he was in the very act of moistening his lips ;-" As sure as the church, here comes old Gaffer Gurton-the ale has done more for him than all the drugs of the dispensary. Come along, old ninety-three-this is better for thee than Lady Lamentable's shin-bone soup-better than Saint William's long grace and lean diet. Hold up thy mouth, man; and I will pour the gallant ale into thee-thy hand shakes too much to be trusted with the tankard." The old man's face gleamed with joy; he held up his head; and his charitable friend poured out, with a steady and unreluctant hand, the best of Barclay's fermentation. "The saints be with thee, Gaff Gurton," said the rustic, marvelling to see the liquor vanish so rapidly; "I give thee joy o' thy swallow-thou hast never a tooth to stop it; it's just like pouring ale down an empty shirt-sleeve." And he shook the foam out of the bottom of the flagon, and hastened to replenish it for his own use. Nor was it in the middle of the street that the good ale had alone done its good office. One man leaned against a tree, and staggered round it and round it, vowing that Barclay and Perkins were princes, and their ale nectar. Another beat on the church-door with an empty quart-pot, mistaking it for the door of the alehouse; and at every knock he shouted out, "A pot of old Barclay, ho! What! Dan Fosset, you're as fast asleep as mother Church." Another had made his way to the door of a burial vault, and there lisping, and nearly blind with liquor, he stood balancing himself, and holding out his hand as if he wished to speak. He probably thought himself in a tap-room-but the dead would profit as much as the living by his singular and disjointed speech: "Gentlemen," said he, "I have but one word to say-but that one word is the best of all words: Reformreform-reform. Ye are silent-ye answer not-still I say, Reform. Reform will turn our rags into silks and our copper into gold, and our sour ale into sweet wine. Reform will make two sabbaths in the week, and half holidays of all the Tuesdays and Fridays. Huzza, Gentlemen, three times three for reform. Hang ye for dumb dogs! Rise up, and huzza; or lie still and rot. And striking against the door with both hands, it suddenly flew open; and our alehouse orator descended, head foremost, among his silent audience. I know not that any one thought it worth while to carry him out. An old man at the extremity of the village sat at his door, leaning over a staff, and looking with a grave yet a pleasant face on the crowd as it moved and rolled to and fro. A tankard of ale stood by his side; his hat lay beside it; and his remaining hairs, very white and long, strayed on his shoulders. I never saw a look so perfectly patriarchal. I went near, and inquired the meaning of all the mirth and carousal. "" Meaning, master!" said this Chartswold worthy," why it means that old days are coming back again. Plague rot 'em that they came not sooner, that I might have had a view on 'emthat's what it means, master." "Is any one dead," I said, " or any one born, or any one married, that you make all this din and stir?" "Me make din and stir, master!" answered he; "Devil burn the stir can I make with these old rascally limbs o' mine-here must I sit like a milestone, for every one to look at that passes by. D'ye think, if my dirty old legs would have carried me, that I would have sat here as dry as a lime-kiln, answering questions like my grannam's catechism? May I be chopt up into Bologna sausages first. What's the use of a merry day now to old Jacob Roulson?" "But, Jacob, my friend," I said, "since you cannot go after mirth, mirth shall come after you; and as I wish to ask a question or two, what say you to a tankard of strong ale, or a cup of good brandy?" "Oh! both, both, master," cried Jacob; "blessings on ye! both, both half a pint of brandy to a pint of ale makes the noblest drink for either old or young. Questions? I will answer ye questions as though ye were a bishop." The drink came, and the old man mixed it with huge satisfaction. "Ah! glorious! better brandy never crossed the herringbrook. Ah! delightful! richer ale was never enticed from barley-the breath of life might be made of such stuff; so here's to the donor, quoth old Jacob Roulson." And a deep and a zealous pull the old man took. "But, Jacob, my friend,” said I, you have yet to tell me the cause of all this marching and mirth: these ribbons flying, and flags displayed, I suppose mean something and these hogsheads of ale, which I saw a thousand cups and flagons emptying, must have been given by some-one." "Ye say right, master," said he; "for hogsheads of ale grow not out of the pavement, and roast beef springs not from boulder-stones. If the doors of Cheyne-hall are opened by the hand of fullness and joy, they have been long enough closed by the hand of sadness and sorrow. So here's to the hand that opens them, master. May it have a fair lady's hand with a gold ring to squeeze soon for this. And may the churlish hand that closes them ever grip the handle of an empty cup, and the hand of a faithless love-and that's the worst wish of Jacob Roulson. So here's to thee again, master. Blessings on the heart of all who have questions to ask, say I; for this be precious good stuff!" and his action justified his opinion of the liquor. he had compounded-he drained the tankard dry. "I am a stranger here," I said; "and though I have heard of Lord Cheyne, I know not why his hall has been closed, nor know I why it is to be opened. A short question wants a long answer," said Jacob, "Confound all questions, say I. Eat, drink, and be merry, says King Solomon, or some one as wise: and speak sparingly when the roast smokes, and the ale flagon goes round, says old Jacob Roulson. If old Lord Cheyne has a hand of iron, young Lord Cheyne has a fist of gold. And isn't that true, Cis Shortbread, my dear?" said he to a very handsome young woman, with bare head and neck, who presented him with some cakes to his ale. "My blessings on thy sweet face-thou must give me a kiss, as thy grandame has done afore thee, wench." She stooped her head with a blush, and submitted to a couple of clamorous, if not rapturous smacks. Jacob threw his hat into the air, and his staff after it, shouting out "A dance! a dance!" Fiddlers, and a multitude of merry spirits, flocked to the place. "Hurrah, for -young Lord Cheyne!" cried the old man, endeavouring to imitate the agility of more youthful spirits; "here's old seventy-seven come to shake his leg at thy return. Girls, have a care of your hearts." And the clapping of hands, the smacking of lips, and the din of many merry feet, resounded far and wide. To extract any farther information from old Jacob was hopeless nownay, I was even compelled to join in the dance, and salute three wrinkled old dames, and a rosy young lass, to show that I had no ill-will to Charts.wold. I extricated myself from the multitude as quickly as I could, and strayed out to the extremity of the village. A far different scene presented itself. Opposite the door of an ale-house, which was filled-room, and tap-room, and kitchen .with strong-ale commentators, stood a large stone curiously ornamented with figures of saints and angels, and exhibiting on each corner a devil playing on a bagpipe. It had formerly belonged to Chartswold-abbey, and now served the purpose of a leaping-on-stone to heavy or intoxicated riders; and I am not sure that I should consider it as something like a return to its original purpose that at present it supported the person of a travelling preacher-one of those self-elected divines who wander about, preaching up the coming of the millennium, and a community of goods to the wicked towns of England. The preacher stood with his face turned to the alehouse, a Bible in one hand, and a slip of paper in the other, whereon was written the leading points of his invective; and he protested, in a clear and audible voice, against the vanities of this world-the joys and pleasures of life-against dancing, and drinking, and dicing. He had taken for his text the parable of the prodigal son -he arrayed him like a modern lord -and surrounded him with pandars and parasites, sharpers and operagirls; and led him through the Vanity Fair of France-through the mass houses and nunneries of Spainand through the palaces and hovels of dancing, and singing, and slavish Italy. Having accomplished him with all the spare virtues and unap→ propriated graces of those countries, he spread his sail, and landed him in Far his native land." And now," said he, "behold the prodigal cometh to open his paternal gates, and cast wide his doors; and all the sons and daughters of men go forth to welcome him with dancing, and with joy, and with flowing cups. better that they welcomed him with fasting and humiliation-with dust on their garments, and with deep sighs and sore sorrowings. I hear a profane outcry-I feel the smell of the fatted kine, and I see the floods of intoxicating liquor. Shout your shouts-let the smoke of the feast ascend-and let the liquor of sin and oblivion flow. Even now ye listen for the sound of Lord Cheyne's chariot-wheels: but long shall ye listen, and long shall ye look, before ye see his feasting lights shining in his chamber-windows. An ancient curse clings to his name; and his generation is limited, and the sons and daughters of his house are numbered. Shut your doors and weep, ye maidens of England; for your lover will no more return; the sound of his dancings shall cease, his hearth shall be cold for ever; the towers where his fathers dwelt shall fall to dust, and none shall raise them; his banner shall go forth no more, and his name shall perish among the people." Thus far had he proceeded with untired speed; and I had eagerly listened, catching here and there a word and an allusion which threw some light on the present mirth of Chartswold, when the loud voice of a peasant at my side compelled me to attend to him. With an empty quart-pot in his hand, and a reeling frame, he balanced himself with some difficulty, hearkening to the wandering enthusiast-he flourished the drinking vessel round his head, and exclaimed, "I say, Bill, this here parson's preaching down strong ale and roast beef, and mirth and good fellowship-he deserves a duckingand by Jupiter he shall catch it." "Right, Jack," exclaimed Bill, "down with all parsons, says I. They wish to turn ale-houses into chapels, and merry songs into psalms. Shall I stand here, and hear drouth and diversion preached or prayed down-may I be chopt into road rubbish first, and have the Archbishop of Canterbury's carriage driven over me at the rate of ten miles to the hour." "Come here, Bell, my bouncer," said his companion to a ripe girl with sunny hair, and merry eyes, and a kirtle wondrous scant in longitude; "Come here, and hearken to this man preaching against soft couches and rosy cheeks does he think that blue eyes will no more shine, or ruddy cheeks glow, in old England? Bell came, and stood beside him, and leaning one hand on his shoulder, said, "Why this is the Flying Parson, Jack, who preached against silks in Spitalfields, and the folly of straw hats at Dunstable. What! must men be born with blood as cold as Chertsey ditches, and as icy as the blood of a Thames salmon! Must a light foot, and a white hand, and a squeeze in the dark, be no more current among us! Must flowered petticoats and openstitched bodice be the fashion no longer, and kid slippers be cried down in the land! When he can preach down weeds from growing, and the canker from coming among corn, then let him hope to preach mirth and gladness out of the country." "Bravo, Bell, my wench," said her companion; "why you can preach down a parson yourself confound me if I don't buy thee the best gown in London, and redeem thy skyblue mantle from little Wright the pawnbroker, free of all expense. Come, my merry wench, let us dance-let us crack our thumbs, and shake our legs, under the parson's nose. Let him help his congregation to slumber on Sunday as if he were a dean, and not come here to cheat poor folks out of an hour of honest mirth!" In a moment, shout and laughter, and huge uproar, ascended in one din far above the mild voice of the preacher, and a crowd of men and women danced with discordant glee round him and round him. Musicians came the mob moved thicker and faster, and the wondering admonisher of evil doers was fain to compound for his escape by dancing a reel, and swallowing a bumper of brandy to the health of old Goody Church. the crowd augmented, and the uproar increased. I had for some time observed a few of the more grave and staid people straying out towards a very magnificent house which was almost buried in a wilderness of trees in the immediate vicinity of the village. I followed, and came to an iron gate which seemed not to have been opened for many years; an immense torch blazed upon each of the pillars to which it was fastened, and threw a long stream of light down a broad and bewildered avenue, on which no human footstep seemed to have been impressed within the memory of man. An attempt had indeed been made to open the gates; but they had resisted the strength that was applied to them—a slender footmark on the soft ground told that a woman had wished to open the paternal gates of his mansion to the returning heir. It was indeed a woman who had made the attempt, and there she sat within the gate upon a chair of stone where the porters sat in former days. She was yet young-and yet beautiful-her locks were dishevelled, and her dress disordered, and she sat pressing her forehead with her hand. She appeared not to notice the lights which streamed down upon her, nor the strangers, who marvelled what her errand might be there:-none present seemed to know her; and could her father have risen from the grave, into which sorrow for her misfortunes had brought him, he would hardly have known his child. When the sound of coming wheels was heard, and the mistaken shouts of the intoxicated mob arose, she lifted her brow from her hand, threw back her tresses, and listened-yet she never once looked to the gate— but the throbbing of her bosom told how deeply she felt interested in the coming of the new heir. As she moved her hand from her face, one old man looked to another, and whispered something in his ear, and then stood a little apart and shook his head, and said, "Ah! poor unhappy lady! little did I think, when I last saw thee shining in jewels, and While all this passed, the twilight glowing in youth and beauty, that I came, and then the evening; every was so soon to see thee in sorrow window was filled with candles, and and in wretchedness. Often have I men with torches paraded the streets; seen thee laughing among these fresh hogsheads of ale were broached, groves, and often have I seen thee |