Next door to us, in Portland-place, lived the Right Honourable the Earl
of Kilblazes, of Kilmacrasy Castle, county Kildare, and his mother, the
Dowager Countess. Lady Kilblazes had a daughter, Lady Juliana Matilda
Mac Turk, of the exact age of our dear Jemimarann; and a son, The
Honourable Arthur Wellington Anglesea Blucher Bulow Mac Turk, only ten
months older than our boy, Tug.
My darling Jemmy is a woman of spirit, and, as became her station, made
every possible attempt to become acquainted with the Dowager Countess of
Kilblazes, which her ladyship (because, forsooth, she was the daughter
of the Minister, and the Prince of Wales's great friend, the Earl of
Portansherry) thought fit to reject. I don't wonder at my Jemmy growing
so angry with her, and determining, in every way, to put her ladyship
down. The Kilblazes' estate is not so large as the Tuggeridge property,
by two thousand a-year, at least; and so my wife, when our neighbours
kept only two footmen, was quite authorized in having three; and she
made it a point, as soon as ever the Kilblazes' carriage-and-pair came
round, to have her own carriage-and-four.
Well, our box was next to theirs at the Opera; only twice as big.
Whatever masters went to Lady Juliana, came to my Jemimarann; and what
do you think Jemmy did? she got her celebrated governess, Madam de
Flicflac, away from the Countess, by offering a double salary. It was
quite a treasure, they said, to have Madame Flicflac; she had been (to
support her father, the Count, when he emigrated) a _French_ dancer at
the _Italian Opera_. French dancing, and Italian, therefore, we had at
once, and in the best style: it is astonishing how quick and well she
used to speak—the French especially.
Master Arthur Mac Turk was at the famous school of the Reverend Clement
Coddler, along with a hundred and ten other young fashionables, from the
age of three to fifteen; and to this establishment Jemmy sent our Tug,
adding forty guineas to the hundred and twenty paid every year for the
boarders. I think I found out the dear soul's reason, for, one day,
speaking about the school to a mutual acquaintance of ours and the
Kilblazes, she whispered to him, that "she never would have thought of
sending her darling boy at the rate which her next-door neighbour paid;
_their_ lad, she was sure, must be starved: however, poor people! they
did the best they could on their income."
Coddler's, in fact, was the tip-top school near London; he had been
tutor to the Duke of Buckminster, who had set him up in the school, and,
as I tell you, all the peerage and respectable commoners came to it. You
read in the bill (the snopsis, I think Coddler called it), after the
account of the charges for board, masters, extras, &c.: "Every young
nobleman (or gentleman) is expected to bring a knife and fork, spoon,
and goblet, of silver (to prevent breakage), which will not be returned;
a dressing-gown and slippers; toilet-box, pomatum, curling-irons, &c.
&c. The pupil must, on NO ACCOUNT, be allowed to have more than ten
guineas of pocket-money, unless his parents particularly desire it, or
he be above fifteen years of age. _Wine_ will be an extra charge; as are
warm, vapour, and _douche_ baths; _carriage exercise_ will be provided
at the rate of fifteen guineas per quarter. It is _earnestly requested_
that no young nobleman (or gentleman) be allowed to smoke. In a place
devoted to _the cultivation of polite literature_, such an ignoble
enjoyment were profane
"CLEMENT CODDLER, M.A.,
"Chaplain and late tutor to his Grace the
Duke of Buckminster.
"Mount Parnassus, Richmond, Surrey."
To this establishment our Tug was sent. "Recollect, my dear," said his
mamma, "that you are a Tuggeridge by birth, and that I expect you to
beat all the boys in the school, especially that Wellington Mac Turk,
who though he is a lord's son, is nothing to you, who are the heir of
Tuggeridgeville."
Tug was a smart young fellow enough, and could cut and curl as well as
any young chap of his age; he was not a bad hand at a wig either, and
could shave, too, very prettily; but that was in the old time, when we
were not great people: when he came to be a gentleman, he had to learn
Latin and Greek, and had a deal of lost time to make up for on going to
school.
However we had no fear; for the Reverend Mr. Coddler used to send
monthly accounts of his pupils' progress, and if Tug was not a wonder of
the world, I don't know who was. It was
General behaviour excellent
English very good
French très bien
Latin optimé.
and so on; he possessed all the virtues, and wrote to us every month for
money. My dear Jemmy and I determined to go and see him, after he had
been at school a quarter; we went, and were shown by Mr. Coddler, one of
the meekest, smilingest little men I ever saw, into the bed-rooms and
eating rooms (the dromitaries and refractories he called them), which
were all as comfortable as comfortable might be. "It is a holiday
to-day," said Mr. Coddler; and a holiday it seemed to be. In the
dining-room were half a dozen young gentlemen playing at cards ("all
tip-top nobility," observed Mr. Coddler);—in the bed-rooms there was
only one gent; he was lying on his bed, reading a novel and smoking
cigars. "Extraordinary genius!" whispered Coddler; "Honourable Tom
Fitz-Warter, cousin of Lord Byron's; smokes all day; and has written the
_sweetest_ poems you can imagine. Genius, my dear madam, you know,
genius must have its way." "Well, _upon_ my word," says Jemmy, "if
that's genus, I had rather that Master Tuggeridge Coxe Tuggeridge
remained a dull fellow."
"Impossible, my dear madam." said Coddler. "Mr. Tuggeridge Coxe
_couldn't_ be stupid if he _tried_."
Just then up comes Lord Claude Lollypop, third son of the Marquis of
Allycompane. We were introduced instantly, "Lord Claude Lollypop, Mr.
and Mrs. Coxe:" the little lord wagged his head, my wife bowed very low,
and so did Mr. Coddler, who, as he saw my lord making for the
play-ground, begged him to show us the way.—"Come along," says my lord;
and as he walked before us, whistling, we had leisure to remark the
beautiful holes in his jacket and elsewhere.
About twenty young noblemen (and gentlemen) were gathered round a
pastrycook's shop, at the end of the green. "That's the grub-shop," said
my lord, "where we young gentlemen wot has money buys our wittles, and
them young gentlemen wot has none, goes tick."
Then he passed a poor red-haired usher, sitting on a bench alone.
"That's Mr. Hicks, the Husher, ma'am," says my lord, "we keep him, for
he's very useful to throw stones at, and he keeps the chaps' coats when
there's a fight, or a game at cricket.—Well, Hicks, how's your mother?
what's the row now?" "I believe, my lord," said the usher, very meekly,
"there is a pugilistic encounter somewhere on the premises—the
Honourable Mr. Mac——"
"O! _come_ along," said Lord Lollypop, "come along, _this_ way, ma'am!
Go it, ye cripples!" and my lord pulled my dear Jemmy's gown in the
kindest and most familiar way, she trotting on after him, mightily
pleased to be so taken notice of, and I after her. A little boy went
running across the green. "Who is it, Petitoes?" screams my lord. "Turk
and the barber," pipes Petitoes, and runs to the pastrycook's like mad.
"Turk and the ba—," laughs out my lord, looking at us: "_hurrah! this_
way, ma'am;" and, turning round a corner he opened a door into a
court-yard, where a number of boys were collected and a great noise of
shrill voices might be heard. "Go it, Turk!" says one "Go it, barber!"
says another. "_Punch hith life out_," roars another, whose voice was
just cracked, and his clothes half a yard too short for him!
Fancy our horror, when, on the crowd making way, we saw Tug pummelling
away at the Honourable Master Mac Turk! My dear Jemmy, who don't
understand such things, pounced upon the two at once, and, with one hand
tearing away Tug, sent him spinning back into the arms of his seconds,
while, with the other, she clawed hold of Master Mac Turk's red hair,
and, as soon as she got her second hand free, banged it about his face
and ears like a good one.
"You nasty—wicked—quarrelsome—aristocratic (each word was a bang)—
aristocratic, oh! oh! oh!" Here the words stopped; for, what with the
agitation, maternal solicitude, and a dreadful kick on the shins which,
I am ashamed to say, Master Mac Turk administered, my dear Jemmy could
bear it no longer, and sunk, fainting away, in my arms.
[Illustration: