In that noble romance called 'Ten Thousand a Year,' I remember a
profoundly pathetic description of the Christian manner in which the
hero, Mr. Aubrey, bore his misfortunes. After making a display of the
most florid and grandiloquent resignation, and quitting his country
mansion, the writer supposes Aubrey to come to town in a post-chaise and
pair, sitting bodkin probably between his wife and sister. It is about
seven o'clock, carriages are rattling about, knockers are thundering,
and tears bedim the fine eyes of Kate and Mrs. Aubrey as they think that
in happier times at this hour--their Aubrey used formerly to go out to
dinner to the houses of the aristocracy his friends. This is the gist of
the passage--the elegant words I forget. But the noble, noble sentiment
I shall always cherish and remember. What can be more sublime than the
notion of a great man's relatives in tears about--his dinner? With a few
touches, what author ever more happily described A Snob?
We were reading the passage lately at the house of my friend, Raymond
Gray, Esquire, Barrister-at-Law, an ingenuous youth without the least
practice, but who has luckily a great share of good spirits, which
enables him to bide his time, and bear laughingly his humble position in
the world. Meanwhile, until it is altered, the stern laws of necessity
and the expenses of the Northern Circuit oblige Mr. Gray to live in a
very tiny mansion in a very queer small square in the airy neighbourhood
of Gray's Inn Lane.
What is the more remarkable is, that Gray has a wife there. Mrs.
Gray was a Miss Harley Baker: and I suppose I need not say THAT is
a respectable family. Allied to the Cavendishes, the Oxfords, the
Marrybones, they still, though rather DECHUS from their original
splendour, hold their heads as high as any. Mrs. Harley Baker, I know,
never goes to church without John behind to carry her prayer-book; nor
will Miss Welbeck, her sister, walk twenty yards a-shopping without the
protection of Figby, her sugar-loaf page; though the old lady is as ugly
as any woman in the parish and as tall and whiskery as a grenadier.
The astonishment is, how Emily Harley Baker could have stooped to marry
Raymond Gray. She, who was the prettiest and proudest of the family;
she, who refused Sir Cockle Byles, of the Bengal Service; she, who
turned up her little nose at Essex Temple, Q.C., and connected with
the noble house of Albyn; she, who had but 4,000L. POUR TOUT POTAGE,
to marry a man who had scarcely as much more. A scream of wrath and
indignation was uttered by the whole family when they heard of this
MESALLIANCE. Mrs. Harley Baker never speaks of her daughter now but
with tears in her eyes, and as a ruined creature. Miss Welbeck says, 'I
consider that man a villain;' and has denounced poor good-natured Mrs.
Perkins as a swindler, at whose ball the young people met for the first
time.
Mr. and Mrs. Gray, meanwhile, live in Gray's Inn Lane aforesaid, with
a maid-servant and a nurse, whose hands are very full, and in a most
provoking and unnatural state of happiness. They have never once thought
of crying about their dinner, like the wretchedly puling and Snobbish
womankind of my favourite Snob Aubrey, of 'Ten Thousand a Year;' but,
on the contrary, accept such humble victuals as fate awards them with a
most perfect and thankful good grace--nay, actually have a portion for a
hungry friend at times--as the present writer can gratefully testify.
I was mentioning these dinners, and some admirable lemon puddings which
Mrs. Gray makes, to our mutual friend the great Mr. Goldmore, the East
India Director, when that gentleman's face assumed an expression
of almost apoplectic terror, and he gasped out, 'What! Do they give
dinners?' He seemed to think it a crime and a wonder that such people
should dine at all, and that it was their custom to huddle round their
kitchen-fire over a bone and a crust. Whenever he meets them in society,
it is a matter of wonder to him (and he always expresses his surprise
very loud) how the lady can appear decently dressed, and the man have an
unpatched coat to his back. I have heard him enlarge upon this poverty
before the whole room at the 'Conflagrative Club,' to which he and I and
Gray have the honour to belong.
We meet at the Club on most days. At half-past four, Goldmore arrives
in St. James's Street, from the City, and you may see him reading the
evening papers in the bow-window of the Club, which enfilades
Pall Mall--a large plethoric man, with a bunch of seals in a large
bow-windowed light waistcoat. He has large coat-tails, stuffed with
agents' letters and papers about companies of which he is a Director.
His seals jingle as he walks. I wish I had such a man for an uncle, and
that he himself were childless. I would love and cherish him, and be
kind to him.
At six o'clock in the full season, when all the world is in St. James's
Street, and the carriages are cutting in and out among the cabs on the
stand, and the tufted dandies are showing their listless faces out of
'White's,' and you see respectable grey-headed gentlemen waggling their
heads to each other through the plate-glass windows of 'Arthur's:' and
the red-coats wish to be Briareian, so as to hold all the gentlemen's
horses; and that wonderful red-coated royal porter is sunning himself
before Marlborough House;--at the noon of London time, you see a
light-yellow carriage with black horses, and a coachman in a tight
floss-silk wig, and two footmen in powder and white and yellow liveries,
and a large woman inside in shot-silk, a poodle, and a pink parasol,
which drives up to the gate of the Conflagrative, and the page goes
and says to Mr. Goldmore (who is perfectly aware of the fact, as he
is looking out of the windows with about forty other 'Conflagrative'
bucks), 'Your carriage, Sir.' G. wags his head. 'Remember, eight o'clock
precisely,' says he to Mulligatawney, the other East India Director;
and, ascending the carriage, plumps down by the side of Mrs. Goldmore
for a drive in the Park, and then home to Portland Place. As the
carriage whirls off, all the young bucks in the Club feel a secret
elation. It is a part of their establishment, as it were. That carriage
belongs to their Club, and their Club belongs to them. They follow the
equipage with interest; they eye it knowingly as they see it in the
Park. But halt! we are not come to the Club Snobs yet. O my brave Snobs,
what a flurry there will be among you when those papers appear!
Well, you may judge, from the above description, what sort of a man
Goldmore is. A dull and pompous Leadenhall Street Croesus, good-natured
withal, and affable--cruelly affable. 'Mr. Goldmore can never forget,'
his lady used to say, 'that it was Mrs. Gray's Grandfather who sent
him to India; and though that young woman has made the most imprudent
marriage in the world, and has left her station in society, her husband
seems an ingenious and laborious young man, and we shall do everything
in our power to be of use to him.' So they used to ask the Grays to
dinner twice or thrice in a season, when, by way of increasing the
kindness, Buff, the butler, is ordered to hire a fly to convey them to
and from Portland Place.
Of course I am much too good-natured a friend of both parties not to
tell Gray of Goldmore's opinion in him, and the nabob's astonishment
at the of the briefless barrister having any dinner at all. Indeed,
Goldmore's saying became a joke against Gray amongst us wags at the
Club, and we used to ask him when he tasted meat last? whether we should
bring him home something from dinner? and cut a thousand other mad
pranks with him in our facetious way.
One day, then, coming home from the Club, Mr. Gray conveyed to his wife
the astounding information that he had asked Goldmore to dinner.
'My love,' says Mrs. Gray, in a tremor, 'how could you be so cruel? Why,
the dining-room won't hold Mrs. Goldmore.'
'Make your mind easy, Mrs. Gray; her ladyship is in Paris. It is only
Croesus that's coming, and we are going to the play afterwards--to
Sadler's Wells. Goldmore said at the Club that he thought Shakspeare was
a great dramatic poet, and ought to be patronized; whereupon, fired with
enthusiasm, I invited him to our banquet.'
'Goodness gracious! what CAN we give him for dinner? He has two French
cooks; you know Mrs. Goldmore is always telling us about them; and he
dines with Aldermen every day.'
'“A plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, I prythee get ready at three; Have it
tender, and smoking, and juicy, And what better meat can there be?”'
says Gray, quoting my favourite poet.
'But the cook is ill; and you know that horrible Pattypan the
pastrycook's---'
'Silence, Frau!' says Gray, in a deep tragedy voice. 'I will have the
ordering of this repast. Do all things as I bid thee. Invite our friend
Snob here to partake of the feast. Be mine the task of procuring it.'
'Don't be expensive, Raymond,' says his wife.
'Peace, thou timid partner of the briefless one. Goldmore's dinner shall
be suited to our narrow means. Only do thou in all things my commands.'
And seeing by the peculiar expression of the rogue's countenance, that
some mad waggery was in preparation, I awaited the morrow with anxiety.