Punctual to the hour--(by the way, I cannot omit to mark down my hatred,
scorn, and indignation towards those miserable Snobs who come to dinner
at nine when they are asked at eight, in order to make a sensation in
the company. May the loathing of honest folks, the backbiting of others,
the curses of cooks, pursue these wretches, and avenge the society on
which they trample!)--Punctual, I say, to the hour of five, which Mr.
and Mrs. Raymond Gray had appointed, a youth of an elegant appearance,
in a neat evening-dress, whose trim whiskers indicated neatness, whose
light step denoted activity (for in sooth he was hungry, and always is
at the dinner hour, whatsoever that hour may be), and whose rich
golden hair, curling down his shoulders, was set off by a perfectly new
four-and-ninepenny silk hat, was seen wending his way down Bittlestone
Street, Bittlestone Square, Gray's Inn. The person in question, I need
not say, was Mr. Snob. HE was never late when invited to dine. But to
proceed my narrative:--
Mr. Snob may have flattered himself that he made a sensation as he
strutted down Bittlestone with his richly gilt knobbed cane (and indeed
I vow I saw heads looking at me from Miss Squilsby's, the brass-plated
milliner opposite Raymond Gray's, who has three silver-paper bonnets,
and two fly-blown prints of fashion in the window), yet what was the
emotion produced by my arrival, compared to that which the little street
thrilled, when at five minutes past five the floss-wigged coachman, the
yellow hammer-cloth and flunkeys, the black horses and blazing silver
harness of Mr. Goldmore whirled down the street!
It is a very little street, of very little houses, most of them with
very large brass plates like Miss Squilsby's. Coal-merchants, architects
and surveyors, two surgeons, a solicitor, a dancing-master, and of
course several house-agents, occupy the houses--little two-storeyed
edifices with little stucco porticoes. Goldmore's carriage overtopped
the roofs almost; the first floors might shake hands with Croesus as
he lolled inside; all the windows of those first floors thronged
with children and women in a twinkling. There was Mrs. Hammerly in
curl-papers; Mrs. Saxby with her front awry; Mr. Wriggles peering
through the gauze curtains, holding the while his hot glass of
rum-and-water--in fine, a tremendous commotion in Bittlestone Street, as
the Goldmore carriage drove up to Mr. Raymond Gray's door.
'How kind it is of him to come with BOTH the footmen!' says little Mrs.
Gray, peeping at the vehicle too. The huge domestic, descending from his
perch, gave a rap at the door which almost drove in the building. All
the heads were out; the sun was shining; the very organ-boy paused; the
footman, the coach, and Goldmore's red face and white waistcoat were
blazing in splendour. The herculean plushed one went back to open the
carriage-door.
Raymond Gray opened his--in his shirt-sleeves. He ran up to the
carriage. 'Come in, Goldmore,' says he; 'just in time, my boy. Open
the door, What-d'ye-call'um, and let your master out,'--and
What-d'ye-call'um obeyed mechanically, with a face of wonder and
horror, only to be equalled by the look of stupefied astonishment which
ornamented the purple countenance of his master.
'Wawt taim will you please have the CAGE, sir?' says What-d'ye-call'um,
in that peculiar, unspellable, inimitable, flunkefied pronunciation
which forms one of the chief charms of existence.
Best have it to the theatre at night,' Gray exclaims; 'it is but a step
from here to the Wells, and we can walk there. I've got tickets for all.
Be at Sadler's Wells at eleven.'
'Yes, at eleven,' exclaims Goldmore, perturbedly, and walks with a
flurried step into the house, as if he were going to execution (as
indeed he was, with that wicked Gray as a Jack Ketch over him). The
carriage drove away, followed by numberless eyes from doorsteps and
balconies; its appearance is still a wonder in Bittlestone Street.
'Go in there, and amuse yourself with Snob,' says Gray, opening the
little drawing-room door. 'I'll call out as soon as the chops are ready.
Fanny's below, seeing to the pudding.'
'Gracious mercy!' says Goldmore to me, quite confidentially, 'how could
he ask us? I really had no idea of this--this utter destitution.'
'Dinner, dinner!' roars out Gray, from the diningroom, whence issued a
great smoking and frying; and entering that apartment we find Mrs. Gray
ready to receive us, and looking perfectly like a Princess who, by
some accident, had a bowl of potatoes in her hand, which vegetables she
placed on the table. Her husband 'was meanwhile cooking mutton-chops on
a gridiron over the fire.
Fanny has made the roly-poly pudding,' says he; the chops are my part.
Here's a fine one; try this, Goldmore.' And he popped a fizzing cutlet
on that gentleman's plate. What words, what notes of exclamation can
describe the nabob's astonishment?
The tablecloth was a very old one, darned in a score places. There was
mustard in a teacup, a silver fork for Goldmore--all ours were iron.
'I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth,' says Gray, gravely.
'That fork is the only one we have. Fanny has it generally.'
'Raymond!'--cries Mrs. Gray, with an imploring face. 'She was used to
better things, you know: and I hope one day to get her a dinner-service.
I'm told the electro-plate is uncommonly good. Where the deuce IS
that boy with the beer? And now,' said he, springing up, 'I'll be a
gentleman.' And so he put on his coat, and sat down quite gravely, with
four fresh mutton-chops which he had by this time broiled.
'We don't have meat every day, Mr. Goldmore,' he continued, 'and it's a
treat to me to get a dinner like this. You little know, you gentlemen of
England, who live at home at ease, what hardships briefless barristers
endure.'
'Gracious mercy!' says Mr. Goldmore.
'Where's the half-and-half? Fanny, go over to the 'Keys' and get the
beer. Here's sixpence.' And what was our astonishment when Fanny got up
as if to go!
'Gracious mercy! let ME,' cries Goldmore.
'Not for worlds, my dear sir. She's used to it. They wouldn't serve
you as well as they serve her. Leave her alone. Law bless you!' Raymond
said, with astounding composure. And Mrs. Gray left the room, and
actually came back with a tray on which there was a pewter flagon of
beer. Little Polly (to whom, at her christening, I had the honour
of presenting a silver mug EX OFFICIO) followed with a couple of
tobacco-pipes, and the queerest roguish look in her round little chubby
face.
'Did you speak to Tapling about the gin, Fanny, my dear?' Gray asked,
after bidding Polly put the pipes on the chimney-piece, which that
little person had some difficulty in reaching. 'The last was turpentine,
and even your brewing didn't make good punch of it.'
'You would hardly suspect, Goldmore, that my wife, a Harley Baker, would
ever make gin-punch? I think my mother-in-law would commit suicide if
she saw her.'
'Don't be always laughing at mamma, Raymond,' says Mrs. Gray.
'Well, well, she wouldn't die, and I DON'T wish she would. And you don't
make gin-punch, and you don't like it either and--Goldmore do you drink
your beer out of the glass, or out of the pewter?'
'Gracious mercy!' ejaculates Croesus once more, as little Polly, taking
the pot with both her little bunches of hands, offers it, smiling, to
that astonished Director.
And so, in a word, the dinner commenced, and was presently ended in a
similar fashion. Gray pursued his unfortunate guest with the most queer
and outrageous description of his struggles, misery, and poverty. He
described how he cleaned the knives when they were first married; and
how he used to drag the children in a little cart; how his wife could
toss pancakes; and what parts of his dress she made. He told Tibbits,
his clerk (who was in fact the functionary who had brought the beer from
the public-house, which Mrs. Fanny had fetched from the neighbouring
apartment)--to fetch 'the bottle of port-wine,' when the dinner was
over; and told Goldmore as wonderful a history about the way in which
that bottle of wine had come into his hands as any of his former stories
had been. When the repast was all over, and it was near time to move
to the play, and Mrs. Gray had retired, and we were sitting ruminating
rather silently over the last glasses of the port, Gray suddenly breaks
the silence by slapping Goldmore on the shoulder, and saying, 'Now,
Goldmore, tell me something.'
'What?' asks Croesus.
'Haven't you had a good dinner?'
Goldmore started, as if a sudden truth had just dawned upon him. He HAD
had a good dinner; and didn't know it until then. The three mutton-chops
consumed by him were best of the mutton kind; the potatoes were perfect
of their order; as for the rolypoly, it was too good. The porter was
frothy and cool, and the port-wine was worthy of the gills of a bishop.
I speak with ulterior views; for there is more in Gray's cellar.
'Well,' says Goldmore, after a pause, during which he took time to
consider the momentous question Gray put to him--' 'Pon my word--now
you say so--I--I have--I really have had a monsous good dinnah--monsous
good, upon my ward! Here's your health, Gray my boy, and your amiable
lady; and when Mrs. Goldmore comes back, I hope we shall see you more in
Portland Place.' And with this the time came for the play, and we went
to see Mr. Phelps at Sadler's Wells. The best of this story (for the
truth of every word of which I pledge my honour) is, that after this
banquet, which Goldmore enjoyed so, the honest fellow felt a prodigious
compassion and regard for the starving and miserable giver of the feast,
and determined to help him in his profession. And being a Director of
the newly-established Antibilious Life Assurance Company, he has had
Gray appointed Standing Counsel, with a pretty annual fee; and
only yesterday, in an appeal from Bombay (Buckmuckjee Bobbachee v.
Ramchowder-Bahawder) in the Privy Council, Lord Brougham complimented
Mr. Gray, who was in the case, on his curious and exact knowledge of the
Sanscrit language.
Whether he knows Sanscrit or not, I can't say; but Goldmore got him the
business; and so I cannot help having a lurking regard for that pompous
old Bigwig.