CHARLES WATER TON 
33 
attacking the Church, which soared above, under the travesty of a beautiful bird, 
but all in fun and not in malice, and when, as often happened, the Squire accom- 
panied Protestant friends or visitors over his collection he would say with a roguish 
twinkle in his eye, * Ye needn’t look that way if ye’d rather not.’ ” 
It will be remembered that Waterton, following the traditions of his family, 
was a very faithful son of the Roman Catholic Church. 
Mrs. Byrne was invited to visit the room which was both his studio and bed- 
room. It was actually in the roof and open to the rafters. The furniture con- 
sisted of three crazy chairs, an old deal table (on which lay a pheasant under 
preparation) and a chest of drawers. There was no carpet, anil no bed. His 
visitor ventured to remark on the bedroom lacking its essential “ property.” 
“ ‘ Bed !’ said he, ‘aye, aye, that’s always a puzzle to the few confidential 
friends I bring in here ; but it’s very simple ; I’ll soon show ye how I manage. 
Life in the wild woods,’ he continued, ‘ teaches us to dispense with many things 
which encumber us in civilised life, though we get to consider them necessary, but 
I’ve long learnt that a bed is an absolutely useless luxury.’ 
“ While speaking he drew out from some remote corner an oblong block of root 
of oak about two feet long, some nine or ten inches wide, perhaps eight inches 
deep ; it appeared to be worn slightly hollow and was also much polished in the 
middle, but I did not guess its employment till the Squire, having pulled down the 
striped blanket I mentioned before, rolled it round him and lay down on the bare 
boards, for carpet there was none, resting his head on the block by way of illus- 
trating his nightly practice. 
“‘There,’ said he, ‘it’s soon done and very simple, and I'll answer for it 
none of you sleep more soundly than I, and after all,’ he continued, ‘ my couch 
might be even less luxurious ; don’t you remember the story of the old Highland 
Chief in one of Waller Scott’s prelaces, who finding his youngest son, a mere 
boy, sleeping on the battle-field with a huge snowball under his head, kicked it 
away, exclaiming, “ What do ye want wi’ a pillow? I’ll naehaesuchefleeminacy 
in my family ” ?’ 
“ For thirty years this had been Charles Waterton’s only sleeping accommoda 
tion, summer or winter, in health or in sickness.” 
Waterton was generally ascetic in his habits. On the death of his wife he 
was bent on leaving the world for a monastery, but was dissuaded by his confessor 
on the ground of the duty he owed to his infant son. He determined, however, 
to follow a monastic rule, though in an unostentatious way. 
“The privations he imposed on himself were very hard, but unflinchingly 
carried out. I believe he wore a cilice, and as I have said above he never slept 
in a bed. He rose at five every morning at all times of the year, and passed 
two hours in his chapel, which was within the house. Already in early youth 
he had forsworn the use of fermented liquors of all kinds and hardened himself 
to other abstemious habits. His household moved like clockwork, and was 
regulated by a venerable old clock, very curious and antique in its workmanship, 
which had belonged to Sir Thomas More, from whom he was collaterally 
descended. 
“ At eight o’clock the breakfast-bell was rung, and on entering the spacious 
breakfast-room the Squire was always to be found before the fire toasting his 
own slice of bread, although he kept a regular establishment, including butler 
and footman. His breakfast consisted besides this dry toast of a basin of hot 
water in which he allowed himself one spoonful of tea, a minute quantity of 
sugar and no milk. For others, the table was loaded with well served, well 
cooked, Yorkshire fare, and a handsome cat of good old English breed, but of 
colossal size, named Whittington, or at least ‘Whittle,’ always sat beside him 
or on his knees and lapped cream and sugar out of a china bowl.” 
He was impatient of departure from the appointed rules of the house. “ I 
once heard him say, that if the Queen, God bless her, liked to come to Walton, 
she should have the best of his homage and the best of his substance ; but he 
should have to intimate to her Majesty that one o’clock dinner with tea at seven 
were the meal hours at the Hall. 
“ ‘ How if it were the Holy Father, Squire,’ said I. 
“ ‘As soon as His Holiness has set foot on British soil I’ll let ye know,’ he 
answered warily.” 
