It was only yesterday that I dined with BULMER, the wealthy brewer,
in his magnificent mansion in the neighbourhood (I dare not be more
precise) of Belgrave Square. You know as well as I do that BULMER's
origin, though it may not have been humble, was certainly obscure.
Nobody quite knows how he first managed to become a partner in the
great concern which he now entirely controls. Fifteen years ago few
people ever heard of or drank the "Pellucid Ale" without which no
tap-room and few middle-class luncheon tables can now be considered
complete. Suddenly, however, column upon column of the daily press
overflowed, as it were, with those two magic words; analytical
chemists investigated the properties of the beverage, and one and
all pronounced it in highly technical language to contain more
bone-forming and sinew-developing elements than any other known
beer. The poetry-and-beer-loving public was fascinated by a series
of memorable stanzas:--
[Illustration]
"The hardy Briton loves good cheer,
His mighty sinews never fail:
'Pour me,' he cries 'a draught of Beer,
And let it be Pellucid Ale.'"
So the verse began, and it was illustrated by a flaring symbolical
picture in two compartments. In the first a throng of gaunt and
miserable creatures was represented crawling with difficulty towards
an immense barrel, astride which sat a lusty, hop-crowned deity.
In the second, every member of the same throng had become stout and
hearty. The hollow cheeks were round and shining with health, the
bent backs were straight, the dreary faces were wreathed in smiles,
and every hand held a foam-topped glass of "Pellucid Ale." Underneath
were painted the words, "After one glass." Even without the title,
the inference was obvious; the confiding public drew it, and immense
quantities of BULMER's ale, almost simultaneously, and the result
was that, in a very short time, BULMER might have rolled in money if
he had felt disposed--as, to do him justice, he never did--to render
himself ridiculous. Now what is there in the fact that BULMER has
made a fortune in beer that should inflate him to so insufferable
an extent? Can it be that there is some mysterious property in the
liquid itself, some property which, having escaped even the careful
investigation of the analytical chemists, has pervaded the being
of BULMER, and has induced him to patronise the inhabited world? I
thought so once. Indeed I have lost myself in conjectures on this
point. But I now know that BULMER has fallen under your sway, and that
you, my dear POMPOSITY, direct his every movement, and inspire his
every thought. Now, the other night, when, as I say, I was dining at
his table, BULMER was in one of his most glorious and vain-glorious
moods. Patronage radiated from him upon my humble self and the rest
of the tribe of undoubted inferiors whom he permitted to bask in his
shining presence.
"My dear boy," said BULMER to me, while he inserted his thumbs in the
arm-openings of his waistcoats, and drummed an approving tattoo upon
his shining shirt-front, "my dear boy, I have always been your friend,
and nobody knows it better than you. Many a time have I proved it
to you, and I can honestly assure you that nothing gives me greater
pleasure than to welcome you in person to my humble home."
I thanked the great man deferentially, and assured him I was deeply
sensible of his many kindnesses. But after he had turned away, some
malicious spirit prompted me, in spite of myself, to reflect upon
the favours that BULMER has conferred upon me. Were they, after all,
so numerous and so great? Was I, on the whole, so poor a worm as he
imagined me to be? Had he in fact made me what I am? These ungrateful
thoughts chased one another through my perplexed brain, and I was
forced to acknowledge to myself that at the various crises of my
career the fairy form of BULMER had been absent. Yet BULMER is firmly
convinced that I owe any modest success I may have attained and all my
annual income to his beneficent efforts on my behalf. And the worst
of it is, that he has a kind of top-heavy and overwhelming good-nature
about him. He honestly means to be kind and genial where he only
succeeds in irritating his perverse acquaintances. Was BULMER
always thus? When he began on his small salary, did he patronise
the office-boy? When he had learnt to spell, did he devote his first
epistolary efforts to the pompous patronage of his parents? I fancy
I can hear him declaring to his tottering father that a man so
blessed in his son might well console himself for many a grievous
disappointment, and the old man I am sure meekly accepted his son's
assurance, and joined with his wife in thanking providence for
granting them so great a happiness. But BULMER has different fashions
of showing his superiority. I will do him the credit of saying that I
do not believe him to be a Snob. He does not prostrate himself before
the great, since he believes himself to be greater than they can ever
be. But he knows that ordinary human nature is apt to be impressed
by the appearance of intimate familiarity with persons of title. And
BULMER therefore uses the Peers of his circle as instruments wherewith
he may belabour the minds of his humbler friends.
"The Marquis of CHEDDAR," he will say, in a tone of grandeur, "did me
the honour to consult me about his furniture to-day, and I told him
what I thought. The fact is her Ladyship has no taste, and the Marquis
has less, but I arranged it all for them."
And I am certain that BULMER spoke the truth, but I am equally certain
that it was unnecessary for him to mention the subject at all. Yet
little KINKES, I know, went away persuaded that the aristocracy
trembled at BULMER's nod, and that to know him was a privilege.
Unfortunately BULMER, with all his good-nature, wearies me, I know
I am not worthy to tie his shoe-string, but I am disposed to imitate
MONTROND, who, when he was told that he cheated at cards, replied,
"_C'est possible, Monsieur, mais je n'aime pas qu'on me le dise_," and
flung his wine-glass in his accuser's face. Cease, my dear POMPOSITY,
to torment me by means of BULMER. I may address you again, but, in the
meantime,
I remain, your humble Servant,
DIOGENES ROBINSON.
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