E-text prepared by Lionel Sear
THE ASTONISHING HISTORY OF TROY TOWN.
by
Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch.
1914
This etext prepared from a reprint of a version published in 1914.
[Illustration: "This regiment of visitors." (Chapter VII)]
TO CHARLES CANNAN.
My Dear Cannan,
It is told of a distinguished pedagogue that one day a heated
stranger burst into his study, and, wringing him by the hand,
cried, "Heaven bless and reward you, sir! Heaven preserve you
long to educate old England's boyhood! I have walked many a
weary, weary mile to see your face again," he continued,
flourishing a scrap of paper, "and assure you that but for your
discipline, obeyed by me as a boy and remembered as a man, I
should never--no, never--have won the Ticket-of-Leave which you
behold!"
In something of the same spirit I bring you this small volume.
The child of encouragement is given to staggering its parent;
and I make no doubt that as you turn the following pages, you
will more than once exclaim, with the old lady in the ballad--
"O, deary me! this is none of I!"
Nevertheless, it would be strange indeed if this story bore no
marks of you; for a hundred kindly instances have taught me to
come with sure reliance for your reproof and praise. Few, I
imagine, have the good fortune of a critic so friendly and
inexorable; and if the critic has been unsparing, he has been
used unsparingly.
Wargrave, Henley-on-Thames,
June 7, 1888
CONTENTS.
Chapter.
I. IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH A STATE OF
INNOCENCE; AND THE MEANING OF THE WORD "CUMEELFO"
II. HOW AN ADMIRAL TOOK ONE GENTLEMAN FOR ANOTHER, AND WAS TOLD
THE DAY OF THE MONTH.
III. OF A BLUE-JERSEYED MAN THAT WOULD HOIST NO MORE BRICKS; AND A
NIGHTCAP THAT HAD NO BUSINESS TO BE WHERE IT WAS.
IV. OF CERTAIN LEPERS; AND TWO BROTHERS WHO, BEING MUCH ALIKE,
LOVED THEIR SISTER AND RECOMMENDED THE USE OF GLOBES.
V. HOW AN ABSENT-MINDED MAN, THAT HATED WOMEN, TOOK A HOUSE BY
THE WATERSIDE AND LIVED THEREIN WITH ONE SERVANT.
VI. HOW CERTAIN TROJANS CLIMBED A WALL OUT OF CURIOSITY; AND OF A
CHARWOMAN THAT COULD GIVE NO INFORMATION.
VII. OF A LADY THAT HAD A MUSICAL VOICE, BUT USED IT TO DECEIVE.
VIII. HOW A CREW, THAT WOULD SAIL ON A WASHING-DAY, WAS SHIPWRECKED:
WITH AN ADVERTISEMENT AGAINST WOMEN.
IX. OF A TOWN THAT WOULD LAUGH AT THE GREAT: AND HOW A DULL
COMPANY WAS CURED BY AN IRISH SONG.
X. OF ONE EXCURSION AND MANY ALARUMS.
XI. OF A WESLEYAN MINISTER THAT WOULD IMPROVE UPON NATURE, AND
THEREBY TRAINED A ROOK TO GOOD PRINCIPLES.
XII. OF DETERIORATION; AND A WHEELBARROW THAT CONTAINED UNEXPECTED
THINGS.
XIII. THE SIGNIFICANCE OF POMEROY'S CAT; AND HOW THE MEN AND WOMEN
OF TROY ENSUED AFTER PLEASURE IN BOATS.
XIV. OF A LADY OF SENSIBILITY THAT, BEING AWKWARDLY PLACED, MIGHT
EASILY HAVE SET MATTERS RIGHT, BUT DID NOT; WITH MUCH BESIDE.
XV. HOW A LADY AND A YOUTH, BEING SEPARATED FROM THEIR COMPANY,
VISITED A SHIP THAT HELD NOTHING BUT WATER.
XVI. OF STRATAGEMS AND SPOILS; AND THAT THE NOMINALISTS ERR WHO
HOLD A THING TO BE WHAT IT IS CALLED.
XVII. HOW ONE THAT WAS DISSATISFIED WITH HIS PAST SAW A VISION, BUT
DOUBTED.
XVIII. OF A YOUNG MAN THAT WOULD START UPON A DARK ADVENTURE, BUT
HAD TWO MINDS UPON IT.
XIX. THAT A SILVER BULLET HAS VIRTUE; WITH A WARNING TO COMMODORES.
XX. HOW CERTAIN CHARACTERS FOUND THEMSELVES, AT DEAD OF NIGHT, UPON
THE FIVE LANES ROAD.
XXI. THAT A VERY LITTLE TEA MAY SUFFICE TO ELEVATE A MAN.
XXII. IN WHICH SEVERAL ATTEMPTS ARE MADE TO PUT A PERIOD TO THIS
HISTORY.
XXIII. HOW ONE LOVER TOOK LEAVE OF HIS WITS, AND TWO CAME TO THEIR
SENSES.
XXIV. OF THE BEST HELLEBORE; AND AN EXPERIMENT IN THE ENTERTAINMENT
OF TWINS.
XXV. WHICH ENDS THIS STORY OF TROY.
[Illustration: The Astonishing History of Troy Town]
CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH A STATE OF INNOCENCE; AND
THE MEANING OF THE WORD "CUMEELFO".
"Any news to-night?" asked Admiral Buzza, leading a trump.
"Hush, my love," interposed his wife timidly, with a glance at the
Vicar. She liked to sit at her husband's left, and laid her small
cards before him as so many tributes to his greatness.
"I will not hush, Emily. I repeat, is there any news to-night?"
Miss Limpenny, his hostess and vis-a-vis, finding the Admiral's eye
fierce upon her, coughed modestly and announced that twins had just
arrived to the postmistress. Her manner, as she said this, implied
that, for aught she knew, they had come with the letters.
The Vicar took the trick and gathered it up in silence. He was a
portly, antique gentleman, with a fine taste for scandal in its
proper place, but disliked conversation during a rubber.
"Twins, eh?" growled the Admiral. "Just what I expected. She always
was a wasteful woman."
"My love!" expostulated his wife. Miss Limpenny blushed.
"They'll come to the workhouse," he went on, "and serve him right for
making such a marriage."
"I have heard that his heart is in the right place," pleaded Miss
Limpenny, "but he used--"
"Eh, ma'am?"
"It's of no consequence," said Miss Limpenny, with becoming
bashfulness. "It's only that he always used, in sorting his cards,
to sit upon his trumps--that always seemed to me--"
"Just so," replied the Admiral, "and now it's twins. Bless the man!
what next?"
It was in the golden age, before Troy became demoralised, as you
shall hear. At present you are to picture the drawing-room of the
Misses Limpenny arranged for an "evening": the green rep curtains
drawn, the "Book of Beauty" disposed upon the centre table, the
ballad music on the piano, and the Admiral's double-bass in the
corner. Six wax candles were beaming graciously on cards, tea-cakes
and ratafias; on the pictures of "The First Drive," and "The Orphan's
Dream," the photographic views of Troy from the harbour, the opposite
hill, and one or two other points, and finally the noted oil-painting
of Miss Limpenny's papa as he appeared shortly after preaching an
assize sermon. Above all, the tea-service was there--the famous set
in real silver presented to the late Reverend Limpenny by his flock,
and Miss Priscilla--she at the card-table--wore her best brooch with
a lock of his hair arranged therein as a _fleur-de-lys_.
I wish I could convey to you some of the innocent mirth of those
"evenings" in Troy--those _noctes Limpennianae_ when the ladies
brought their cap-boxes (though the Buzzas and Limpennys were but
semi-detached neighbours), and the Admiral and his wife insisted on
playing against each other, so that the threepenny points never
affected their weekly accounts. Those were happy days when the young
men were not above singing the "Death of Nelson," or joining in a
glee, and arming the young ladies home afterwards. In those days
"Hocken's Slip" had not yet become the "Victoria Quay," and we talked
of the "Rope Walk" where we now say "Marine Parade." Alas! our
tastes have altered with Troy.
Yet we were vastly genteel. We even had our shibboleth, a verdict to
be passed before anything could hope for toleration in Troy.
The word to be pronounced was "CUMEELFO," and all that was not
_Cumeelfo_ was Anathema.
So often did I hear this word from Miss Limpenny's lips that I grew
in time to clothe it with an awful meaning. It meant to me, as
nearly as I can explain, "All Things Sanctioned by the Principles of
the Great Exhibition of 1851," and included as time went on--
Crochet Antimacassars.
Art in the style of the "Greek Slave."
"Elegant Extracts," and the British Poets as edited by
Gilfillan.
Corkscrew Curls and Prunella Boots.
Album Verses.
Quadrille-dancing, and the _Deux-temps_.
Popular Science.
Proposals on the bended Knee.
Conjuring and Variety Entertainments.
The Sentimental Ballad.
The Proprieties, etc., etc., etc.
The very spirit of this word breathed over the Limpenny drawing-room
to-night, and Miss Priscilla's lips seemed to murmur it as she gazed
across to where her sister Lavinia was engaged in a round game with
the young people. These were Admiral Buzza's three daughters, Sophy,
Jane, and Calypso--the last named after her father's old ship--and
young Mr. Moggridge, the amusing collector of customs. They were
playing with ratafias for counters (ratafias were _cumeelfo_), and
peals of guileless laughter from time to time broke in upon the grave
silence of the whist-table.
For always, on such occasions, in the glow of Miss Limpenny's wax
candles, Youth and Age held opposite camps, with the centre table as
debatable ground; nor, until the rubber was finished, and the round
game had ended in a seemly scramble for ratafias, would the two
recognise each other's presence, save now and then by a "Hush, if you
please, young people," from the elder sister, followed by a
whispered, "What spirits your dear girls enjoy!" for Mrs. Buzza's
ear.
But at length the signal would be given by Miss Priscilla.
"Come, a little music perhaps might leave a pleasant taste.
What do you say, Vicar?"
Upon which the Vicar would regularly murmur--
"Say, rather, would gild refined gold, Miss Limpenny."
And the Admiral as invariably broke in with--
"Come, Sophy! remember the proverb about little birds that can sing
and won't sing."
This prelude having been duly recited, the Misses Buzza would
together trip to the piano, on which the two younger girls in duet
were used to accompany Sophia's artless ballads. The performance
gained a character of its own from a habit to which Calypso clung, of
counting the time in an audible aside: as thus--
_Sophia_ (singing): "Oh, breathe but a whispered command."
_Calypso: "One, two, three, four_."
_Sophia_: "I'll lay down my life for thee!"
_Calypso: "One, two, three, four_."
--the effect of which upon strangers has been known to be paralysing,
though we who were _cumeelfo_ pretended not to notice it. But Sophy
could also accompany her own songs, such as, "Will you love me then
as now?" and "I'd rather be a daisy," with much feeling. She was
clever, too, with the water-colour brush, and to her we owe that
picture of "_ H.M.S. Calypso_ in a Storm," which hangs to this day
over the Admiral's mantelpiece.
I could dwell on this evening for ever; not that the company was so
large as usual, but because it was the last night of our simplicity.
With the next morning we passed out of our golden age, and in the
foolishness of our hearts welcomed the change.
It was announced to us in this manner--
The duets had been beaten out of Miss Limpenny's piano--an early
Collard, with a top like a cupboard, fluted in pink silk and
wearing a rosette in front; the performers, on retiring, had
curtseyed in acknowledgment of the Vicar's customary remark about the
"Three Graces "; the Admiral had wrung from his double-bass the
sounds we had learnt to identify with elfin merriment (though
suggestive, rather, of seasick mutineers under hatches), and our
literary collector, Mr. Moggridge, was standing up to recite a trifle
of his own--"flung off"--as he explained, "not pruned or polished."
The hush in the drawing-room was almost painful--for in those days we
all admired Mr. Moggridge--as the poet tossed back a stray lock from
his forehead, flung an arm suddenly out at right angles to his
person, and began sepulchrally--
"Maiden"--
(Here he looked very hard at Miss Lavinia Limpenny.)
"Maiden, what dost thou in the chill churchyard
Beside yon grassy mound?
The night hath fallen, the rain is raining hard,
Damp is the ground."
Mrs. Buzza shivered, and began to weep quietly.
"Maiden, why claspest thou that cold, cold stone
Against thy straining breast?
Tell me, what dost thou at this hour alone?
(_Persuasively_) The lambs have gone to rest.
The maiden lifted up her tearful gaze,
And thus she made reply:
'My mother, sir, is--'"
But the secret of her conduct remains with Mr. Moggridge, for at this
moment the door opened, and the excited head of Sam Buzza, the
Admiral's only son, was thrust into the room.
[Illustration: "Maiden, what dost thou in the chill churchyard--"]
"I say, have you heard the news? 'The Bower' is let."
"What!"
All eyes were fixed on the newcomer. The Vicar woke up. Even the
poet, with his arm still at right angles and the verse arrested on
his lips, turned to stare incredulously.
"It's a fact; I heard it down at the _Man-o'-War_ Club meeting, you
know," he explained. "Goodwyn-Sandys is his name, the Honourable
Goodwyn-Sandys, brother to Lord Sinkport--and what's more, he is
coming by the mid-day train to-morrow."
The poet's arm dropped like a railway signal. There was a long
pause, and then the voices broke out all together--
"Only fancy!"
"There now!"
"'The Bower' let at last!"
"An Honourable, too!"
"What is he like?"
"Are you sure?"
"Well, I never did!"
"Miss Limpenny," gasped the Admiral, at length, "where is your
Burke?"
It lay between the "Cathedrals of England" and "Gems of Modern Art";
under the stereoscope. Miss Lavinia produced it.
"Let me see," said the Admiral, turning the pages. "Sinkport--
Sinkport--here we are--George St. Leonards Goodwyn-Sandys, fourth
baron--H'm, h'm, here it is--only brother, Frederic Augustus Hythe
Goodwyn-Sandys, b. 1842--married--"
"Married!"
"1876--Geraldine, eighth daughter of Sheil O'Halloran of Kilmacuddy
Court, County Kerry--blank space for issue--arms: gules, a bar
sinist--Ahem! Well, upon my word!"
"I'm sure," sighed Mrs. Buzza, after the excitement had cooled a
little--"I'm sure I only hope they will settle down to our humble
ways."
"Emily," snapped her husband, "you speak like a fool. Pooh! Let me
tell you, ma'am, that our ways in Troy are not humble!"
Outside, in Miss Limpenny's back garden, the laurestinus bushes
sighed as they caught those ominous words. So might Eden have
sighed, aware of its serpent.