Tired of the town, where the sight of the closed shutters of the
nobility, my friends, makes my heart sick in my walks; afraid almost to
sit in those vast Pall Mall solitudes, the Clubs, and of annoying the
Club waiters, who might, I thought, be going to shoot in the country,
but for me, I determined on a brief tour in the provinces, and paying
some visits in the country which were long due.
My first visit was to my friend Major Ponto (H.P. of the Horse Marines),
in Mangelwurzelshire. The Major, in his little phaeton, was in waiting
to take me up at the station. The vehicle was not certainly splendid,
but such a carriage as would accommodate a plain man (as Ponto said he
was) and a numerous family. We drove by beautiful fresh fields and green
hedges, through a cheerful English landscape; the high-road, as smooth
and trim as the way in a nobleman's park, was charmingly chequered with
cool shade and golden sunshine. Rustics in snowy smock-frocks jerked
their hats off smiling as we passed. Children, with cheeks as red as the
apples in the orchards, bobbed curtsies to us at the cottage-doors.
Blue church spires rose here and there in the distance: and as the buxom
gardener's wife opened the white gate at the Major's little ivy-covered
lodge, and we drove through the neat plantations of firs and evergreens,
up to the house, my bosom felt a joy and elation which I thought it was
impossible to experience in the smoky atmosphere of a town. 'Here,' I
mentally exclaimed, 'is all peace, plenty, happiness. Here, I shall be
rid of Snobs. There can be none in this charming Arcadian spot.'
Stripes, the Major's man (formerly corporal in his gallant corps),
received my portmanteau, and an elegant little present, which I had
brought from town as a peace-offering to Mrs. Ponto; viz., a cod and
oysters from Grove's, in a hamper about the size of a coffin.
Ponto's house ['The Evergreens' Mrs. P. has christened it) is a perfect
Paradise of a place. It is all over creepers, and bow-windows,
and verandahs. A wavy lawn tumbles up and down all round it, with
flower-beds of wonderful shapes, and zigzag gravel walks, and beautiful
but damp shrubberies of myrtles and glistening laurustines, which have
procured it its change of name. It was called Little Bullock's Pound
in old Doctor Ponto's time. I had a view of the pretty grounds, and the
stable, and the adjoining village and church, and a great park beyond,
from the windows of the bedroom whither Ponto conducted me. It was the
yellow bedroom, the freshest and pleasantest of bed-chambers; the air
was fragrant with a large bouquet that was placed on the writing-table;
the linen was fragrant with the lavender in which it had been laid; the
chintz hangings of the bed and the big sofa were, if not fragrant with
flowers, at least painted all over with them; the pen-wiper on the table
was the imitation of a double dahlia; and there was accommodation for my
watch in a sun-flower on the mantelpiece. A scarlet-leaved creeper came
curling over the windows, through which the setting sun was pouring a
flood of golden light. It was all flowers and freshness. Oh, how unlike
those black chimney-pots in St. Alban's Place, London, on which these
weary eyes are accustomed to look.
'It must be all happiness here, Ponto,' said I, flinging myself down
into the snug BERGERE, and inhaling such a delicious draught of country
air as all the MILLEFLEURS of Mr. Atkinson's shop cannot impart to any
the most expensive pocket-handkerchief.
'Nice place, isn't it?' said Ponto. 'Quiet and unpretending. I like
everything quiet. You've not brought your valet with you? Stripes will
arrange your dressing things;' and that functionary, entering at the
same time, proceeded to gut my portmanteau, and to lay out the black
kerseymeres, 'the rich cut velvet Genoa waistcoat,' the white choker,
and other polite articles of evening costume, with great gravity and
despatch. 'A great dinner-party,' thinks I to myself, seeing these
preparations (and not, perhaps, displeased at the idea that some of the
best people in the neighbourhood were coming to see me). 'Hark, theres
the first bell ringing! 'said Ponto, moving away; and, in fact, a
clamorous harbinger of victuals began clanging from the stable
turret, and announced the agreeable fact that dinner would appear in
half-an-hour. 'If the dinner is as grand as the dinner-bell,' thought I,
'faith, I'm in good quarters!' and had leisure, during the half-hour's
interval, not only to advance my own person to the utmost polish of
elegance which it is capable of receiving, to admire the pedigree of the
Pontos hanging over the chimney, and the Ponto crest and arms emblazoned
on the wash-hand basin and jug, but to make a thousand reflections on
the happiness of a country life--upon the innocent friendliness and
cordiality of rustic intercourse; and to sigh for an opportunity of
retiring, like Ponto, to my own fields, to my own vine and fig-tree,
with a placens uxor in my domus, and a half-score of sweet young pledges
of affection sporting round my paternal knee.
Clang! At the end of thirty minutes, dinner-bell number two pealed from
the adjacent turret. I hastened downstairs, expecting to find a score
of healthy country folk in the drawing-room. There was only one person
there; a tall and Roman-nosed lady, glistering over with bugles, in deep
mourning. She rose, advanced two steps, made a majestic curtsey, during
which all the bugles in her awful head-dress began to twiddle and
quiver--and then said, 'Mr. Snob, we are very happy to see you at the
Evergreens,' and heaved a great sigh.
This, then, was Mrs. Major Ponto; to whom making my very best bow, I
replied, that I was very proud to make her acquaintance, as also that of
so charming a place as the Evergreens.
Another sigh. 'We are distantly related, Mr. Snob,' said she, shaking
her melancholy head. 'Poor dear Lord Rubadub!'
'Oh!' said I; not knowing what the deuce Mrs. Major Ponto meant.
'Major Ponto told me that you were of the Leicestershire Snobs: a very
old family, and related to Lord Snobbington, who married Laura Rubadub,
who is a cousin of mine, as was her poor dear father, for whom we are
mourning. What a seizure! only sixty-three, and apoplexy quite unknown
until now in our family! In life we are in death, Mr. Snob. Does Lady
Snobbington bear the deprivation well?'
'Why, really, ma'am, I--I don't know,' I replied, more and more
confused.
As she was speaking I heard a sort of CLOOP, by which well-known sound I
was aware that somebody was opening a bottle of wine, and Ponto entered,
in a huge white neckcloth, and a rather shabby black suit.
'My love,' Mrs. Major Ponto said to her husband, 'we were talking of our
cousin--poor dear Lord Rubadub. His death has placed some of the first
families in England in mourning. Does Lady Rubadub keep the house in
Hill Street, do you know?'
I didn't know, but I said, 'I believe she does,' at a venture; and,
looking down to the drawing-room table, saw the inevitable, abominable,
maniacal, absurd, disgusting 'Peerage' open on the table, interleaved
with annotations, and open at the article 'Snobbington.'
'Dinner is served,' says Stripes, flinging open the door; and I gave
Mrs. Major Ponto my arm.