to be a gala-day, those tall gentlemen at present attired in Oxford
mixture will issue forth with flour plastered on their heads, yellow
coats, pink breeches, sky-blue waistcoats, silver lace, buckles in their
shoes, black silk bags on their backs, and I don't know what insane
emblems of servility and absurd bedizenments of folly. Their very manner
of speaking to what we call their masters and mistresses will be a like
monstrous masquerade. You know no more of that race which inhabits the
basement floor, than of the men and brethren of Timbuctoo, to whom some
among us send missionaries. If you met some of your servants in the
streets (I respectfully suppose for a moment that the reader is a person
of high fashion and a great establishment), you would not know their
faces. You might sleep under the same roof for half a century and know
nothing about them. If they were ill, you would not visit them, though
you would send them an apothecary and of course order that they lacked
for nothing. You are not unkind, you are not worse than your neighbours.
Nay, perhaps, if you did go into the kitchen, or to take the tea in the
servants'-hall, you would do little good, and only bore the folks
assembled there. But so it is. With those fellow-Christians who have been
just saying Amen to your prayers, you have scarcely the community of
Charity. They come, you don't know whence; they think and talk, you don't
know what; they die, and you don't care, or vice versa. They answer the
bell for prayers as they answer the bell for coals: for exactly three
minutes in the day you all kneel together on one carpet--and, the desires
and petitions of the servants and masters over, the rite called family
worship is ended.
Exeunt servants, save those two who warm the newspaper, administer the
muffins, and serve out the tea. Sir Brian reads his letters, and chumps
his dry toast. Ethel whispers to her mother, she thinks Eliza is looking
very ill. Lady Anne asks, which is Eliza? Is it the woman that was ill
before they left town? If she is ill, Mrs. Trotter had better send her
away. Mrs. Trotter is only a great deal too good-natured. She is always
keeping people who are ill. Then her ladyship begins to read the Morning
Post, and glances over the names of the persons who were present at
Baroness Bosco's ball, and Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns's soiree dansante in
Belgrave Square.
"Everybody was there," says Barnes, looking over from his paper.
"But who is Mrs. Toddle Tompkyns?" asks mamma. "Who ever heard of a Mrs.
Toddle Tompkyns? What do people mean by going to such a person?"
"Lady Popinjoy asked the people," Barnes says gravely. "The thing was
really doosed well done. The woman looked frightened; but she's pretty,
and I am told the daughter will have a great lot of money."
"Is she pretty, and did you dance with her?" asks Ethel.
"Me dance!" says Mr. Barnes. We are speaking of a time before casinos
were, and when the British youth were by no means so active in dancing
practice as at this present period. Barnes resumed the reading of his
county paper, but presently laid it down, with an execration so brisk and
loud, that his mother gave a little outcry, and even his father looked up
from his letters to ask the meaning of an oath so unexpected and
ungenteel.
"My uncle, the Colonel of sepoys, and his amiable son have been paying a
visit to Newcome--that's the news which I have the pleasure to announce
to you," says Mr. Barnes.
"You are always sneering about our uncle," breaks in Ethel, with
impetuous voice, "and saying unkind things about Clive. Our uncle is a
dear, good, kind man, and I love him. He came to Brighton to see us, and
went out every day for hours and hours with Alfred; and Clive, too, drew
pictures for him. And he is good, and kind, and generous, and honest as
his father. And Barnes is always speaking ill of him behind his back."
"And his aunt lets very nice lodgings, and is altogether a most desirable
acquaintance," says Mr. Barnes. "What a shame it is that we have not
cultivated that branch of the family!"
"My dear fellow," cries Sir Brian, "I have no doubt Miss Honeyman is a
most respectable person. Nothing is so ungenerous as to rebuke a
gentleman or a lady on account of their poverty, and I coincide with
Ethel in thinking that you speak of your uncle and his son in terms
which, to say the least, are disrespectful."
"Miss Honeyman is a dear little old woman," breaks in Ethel. "Was not she
kind to Alfred, mamma, and did not she make him nice jelly? And a Doctor
of Divinity--you know Clive's grandfather was a Doctor of Divinity,
mamma, there's a picture of him in a wig--is just as good as a banker,
you know he is."
"Did you bring some of Miss Honeyman's lodging-house cards with you,
Ethel?" says her brother, "and had we not better hang up one or two in
Lombard Street; hers and our other relation's, Mrs. Mason?"
"My darling love, who is Mrs. Mason?" asks Lady Anne.
"Another member of the family, ma'am. She was cousin----"
"She was no such thing, sir," roars Sir Brian.
"She was relative and housemaid of my grandfather during his first
marriage. She acted, I believe, as dry nurse to the distinguished Colonel
of sepoys, my uncle. She has retired into private life in her native town
of Newcome, and occupies her latter days by the management of a mangle.
The Colonel and young pothouse have gone down to spend a few days with
their elderly relative. It's all here in the paper, by Jove!" Mr. Barnes
clenched his fist, and stamped upon the newspaper with much energy.
"And so they should go down and see her, and so the Colonel should love
his nurse, and not forget his relations if they are old and poor," cries
Ethel, with a flush on her face, and tears starting into her eyes.
"Hear what the Newcome papers say about it," shrieks out Mr. Barnes, his
voice quivering, his little eyes flashing out scorn. "It's in both the
papers, I dare say. It will be in the Times to-morrow. By --- it's
delightful. Our paper only mentions the gratifying circumstance; here is
the paragraph. 'Lieutenant-Colonel Newcome, C.B., a distinguished Indian
officer, and younger brother of our respected townsman and representative
Sir Brian Newcome, Bart., has been staying for the last week at the
King's Arms, in our city. He has been visited by the principal
inhabitants and leading gentlemen of Newcome, and has come among us, as
we understand, in order to pass a few days with an elderly relative, who
has been living for many years past in great retirement in this place.'"
"Well, I see no great harm in that paragraph," says Sir Brian. "I wish my
brother had gone to the Roebuck, and not to the King's Arms, as the
Roebuck is our house: but he could not be expected to know much about the
Newcome inns, as he is a new comer himself. And I think it was very right
of the people to call on him."
"Now hear what the Independent says, and see if you like that, sir,"
cries Barnes, grinning fiercely; and he began to read as follows:--
"'Mr. Independent--I w
as born and bred a Screwcomite, and am naturally
proud of everybody and everything which bears the revered name of
Screwcome. I am a Briton and a man, though I have not the honour of a
vote for my native borough; if I had, you may be sure I would give it to
our admired and talented representative, Don Pomposo Lickspittle
Grindpauper, Poor House Agincourt, Screwcome, whose ancestors fought with
Julius Caesar against William the Conqueror, and whose father certainly
wielded a cloth yard shaft in London not fifty years ago.
"' Don Pomposo, as you know, seldom favours the town o Screwcome with a
visit.--Our gentry are not of ancient birth enough to be welcome to a
Lady Screwcome. Our manufacturers make their money by trade. Oh, fie I
how can it be supposed that such vulgarians should be received among the,
aristocratic society of Screwcome House? Two balls in the season, and ten
dozen o gooseberry, are enough for them.'"
"It's that scoundrel Parrot," burst out Sir Brian; "because I wouldn't
have any more wine of him--No, it's Vidler, the apothecary. By heavens!
Lady Anne, I told you it would be so. Why didn't you ask the Miss Vidlers
to your ball?"
"They were on the list," cries Lady Anne, "three of them; I did
everything I could; I consulted Mr. Vidler for poor Alfred, and he
actually stopped and saw the dear child take the physic. Why were they
not asked to the ball?" cries her ladyship bewildered; "I declare to
gracious goodness I don't know."
"Barnes scratched their names," cries Ethel, "out of the list, mamma. You
know you did, Barnes; you said you had gallipots enough."
"I don't think it is like Vidler's writing," said Mr. Barnes, perhaps
willing to turn the conversation. "I think it must be that villain Duff
the baker, who made the song about us at the last election;--but hear the
rest of the paragraph," and he continued to read:--
"'The Screwcomites are at this moment favoured with a visit from a
gentleman of the Screwcome family, who, having passed all his life
honour! This distinguished gentleman, this gallant soldier, has come
among us, not merely to see our manufactures--in which Screwcome can vie
with any city in the North--but an old servant and relation of his
family, whom he is not above recognising; who nursed him in his early
days; who has been living in her native place for many years, supported
by the generous bounty of Colonel N------. The gallant officer,
accompanied by his son, a fine youth, has taken repeated drives round our
beautiful environs in one of friend Taplow's (of the King's Arms) open
drags, and accompanied by Mrs. ------, now an aged lady, who speaks, with
tears in her eyes, of the goodness and gratitude of her gallant soldier!
"'One day last week they drove to Screwcome House. Will it be believed
that, though the house is only four miles distant from our city--though
Don Pomposo's family have inhabited it these twelve years for four or
five months every year--Mrs. M----- saw her cousin's house for the first
time; has never set eyes upon those grandees, except in public places,
since the day when they honoured the county by purchasing the estate
which they own?
"'I have, as I repeat, no vote for the borough; but if I had, oh,
wouldn't I show my respectful gratitude at the next election, and plump
for Pomposo! I shall keep my eye upon him, and am, Mr. Independent,--Your
Constant Reader, Peeping Tom.'"
"The spirit of radicalism abroad in this country," said Sir Brian
Newcome, crushing his egg-shell desperately, "is dreadful, really
dreadful. We are on the edge of a positive volcano." Down went the
egg-spoon into its crater. "The worst sentiments are everywhere publicly
advocated; the licentiousness of the press has reached a pinnacle which
menaces us with ruin; there is no law which these shameless newspapers
respect; no rank which is safe from their attacks; no ancient landmark
which the lava-flood of democracy does not threaten to overwhelm and
destroy."
"When I was at Spielburg," Barnes Newcome remarked kindly, "I saw three
long-bearded, putty-faced blaguards pacin up and down a little courtyard,
and Count Keppenheimer told me they were three damned editors of Milanese
newspapers, who had had seven years of imprisonment already; and last
year when Keppenheimer came to shoot at Newcome, I showed him that old
thief, old Batters, the proprietor of the Independent, and Potts, his
infernal ally, driving in a dogcart; and I said to him, Keppenheimer, I
wish we had a place where we could lock up some of our infernal radicals
of the press, or that you could take off those two villains to Spielburg;
and as we were passin, that infernal Potts burst out laughin in my face,
and cut one of my pointers over the head with his whip. We must do
something with that Independent, sir."
"We must," says the father, solemnly, "we must put it down, Barnes, we
must put it down."
"I think," says Barnes, "we had best give the railway advertisements to
Batters."
"But that makes the man of the Sentinel so angry," says the elder
persecutor of the press.
"Then let us give Tom Potts some shootin at any rate; the ruffian is
always poachin about our covers as it is. Speers should be written to,
sir, to keep a look-out upon Batters and that villain his accomplice, and
to be civil to them, and that sort of thing; and, damn it, to be down
upon them whenever he sees the opportunity."
During the above conspiracy for bribing or crushing the independence of a
great organ of British opinion, Miss Ethel Newcome held her tongue; but
when her papa closed the conversation by announcing solemnly that he
would communicate with Speers, Ethel turning to her mother said, "Mamma,
is it true that grandpapa has a relation living at Newcome who is old and
poor?"
"My darling child, how on earth should I know?" says Lady Anne. "I
daresay Mr. Newcome had plenty of poor relations."
"I am sure some on your side, Anne, have been good enough to visit me at
the bank," said Sir Brian, who thought his wife's ejaculation was a
reflection upon his family, whereas it was the statement of a simple fact
in natural history. "This person was no relation of my father's at all.
She was remotely connected with his first wife, I believe. She acted as
servant to him, and has been most handsomely pensioned by the Colonel."
Ethel; "the very day I go to Newcome I'll go to see her." She caught a
look of negation in her father's eye--"I will go--that is, if papa will
give me leave," says Miss Ethel.
"By Gad, sir," says Barnes, "I think it is the very best thing she could
do; and the best way of doing it, Ethel can go with one of the boys and
take Mrs. What-do-you-call'em a gown, or a, tract, or that sort of thing,
and stop that infernal Independent's mouth."
"If we had gone sooner," said Miss Ethel, simply, "ther
e would not have
been all this abuse of us in the paper." To which statement her worldly
father and brother perforce agreeing, we may congratulate good old Mrs.
Mason upon the new and polite acquaintances she is about to make.
CHAPTER XV
The Old Ladies
The above letter and conversation will show what our active Colonel's
movements and history had been since the last chapter in which they were
recorded. He and Clive took the Liverpool mail, and travelled from
Liverpool to Newcome with a post-chaise and a pair of horses, which
landed them at the King's Arms. The Colonel delighted in post-chaising--
the rapid transit through the country amused him and cheered his spirits.
Besides, had he not Dr. Johnson's word for it, that a swift journey in a
post-chaise was one of the greatest enjoyments in life, and a sojourn in
a comfortable inn one of its chief pleasures? In travelling he was as
happy and noisy as a boy. He talked to the waiters, and made friends with
the landlord; got all the information which he could gather regarding the
towns into which he came; and drove about from one sight or curiosity to
another with indefatigable good-humour and interest. It was good for
Clive to see men and cities; to visit mills, manufactories, country
seats, cathedrals. He asked a hundred questions regarding all things
round about him; and any one caring to know who Thomas Newcome was, and
what his rank and business, found no difficulty in having his questions
answered by the simple and kindly traveller.
Mine host of the King's Arms, Mr. Taplow aforesaid, knew in five minutes
who his guest was, and the errand on which he came. Was not Colonel
Newcome's name painted on all his trunks and boxes? Was not his servant
ready to answer all questions regarding the Colonel and his son? Newcome
pretty generally introduced Clive to my landlord, when the latter brought
his guest his bottle of wine. With old-fashioned cordiality, the Colonel
would bid the landlord drink a glass of his own liquor, and seldom failed
to say to him, "This is my son, sir. We are travelling together to see
the country. Every English gentleman should see his own country first,
before he goes abroad, as we intend to do afterwards--to make the Grand
Tour. And I will thank you to tell me what there is remarkable in your
town, and what we ought to see--antiquities, manufactures, and seats in
the neighbourhood. We wish to see everything, sir--everything. Elaborate
diaries of these home tours are still extant, in Clive's boyish
manuscript and the Colonel's dashing handwriting--quaint records of
places visited, and alarming accounts of inn bills paid."
So Mr. Taplow knew in five minutes that his guest was a brother of Sir
Brian, their member; and saw the note despatched by an ostler to "Mrs.
Sarah Mason, Jubilee Row," announcing that the Colonel had arrived, and
would be with her after his dinner. Mr. Taplow did not think fit to tell
his guest that the house Sir Brian used--the Blue house--was the Roebuck,
not the King's Arms. Might not the gentlemen be of different politics?
Mr. Taplow's wine knew none.
Some of the jolliest fellows in all Newcome use the Boscawen Room at the
King's Arms as their club, and pass numberless merry evenings and crack
countless jokes there.
Duff, the baker; old Mr. Vidler, when he can get away from his medical
labours (and his hand shakes, it must be owned, very much now, and his
nose is very red); Parrot, the auctioneer; and that amusing dog, Tom
Potts, the talented reporter of the Independent--were pretty constant
attendants at the King's Arms; and Colonel Newcome's dinner was not over
before some of these gentlemen knew what dishes he had had; how he had
called for a bottle of sherry and a bottle of claret, like a gentleman;