MASTERS OF 
 LITERATURE 
 
 THACKERAY
 
 LONDON: GEORGE BELI. AND SONS 
 PORTUGAL STREET, KINGSWAY, W.C. 
 CAMBRIDGE : DEIGHTON, BELL & CO. 
 
 NEW YORK : THE MACMILLAN CO. 
 BOMBAY : A. H. WHEELER & CO,
 
 
 -... . 
 
 if: 31. Wa ^1
 
 MASTERS OF LITERATURE 
 
 THACKERAY 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 G. K. CHESTERTON 
 
 LONDON 
 GEORGE BELL AND SONS 
 
 1909
 
 CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTRODUCTION ....... ix 
 
 VANITY FAIR 
 
 Osborne, Senior and Junior . . ,- . i 
 
 The Fall of Becky Sharp . . . .13 
 
 The Last Meeting of Becky and Amelia . . 23 
 
 PENDENNIS 
 
 Major Pendennis and Captain Costigan . . 33 
 Pendennis and Warrington . . . 51 
 
 The Blackmailing of Major Pendennis . . 64 
 
 THE NEWCOMES 
 
 Colonel Newcome in the Cave of Harmony . 80 
 
 Colonel Newcome's Last Song ... 89 
 
 Mr. Gandish's Art School .... 106 
 
 The Duel of Lord Kew . . . . 117 
 
 Fred Bayham v. Charles Honeyman . . 131 
 The Death of the Colonel . . . .136 
 
 ESMOND 
 
 The Death of Lord Castle wood . . .147 
 Mr. Joseph Addison ..... 177 
 The Flight of the Prince . . . .188 
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 
 
 The Tragedy of " Douglas " < 206 
 
 The Death of Beatrix Esmond . . . . 217 
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER , . 226 
 
 vii 
 
 2052203
 
 viii CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 
 
 On Some Country Snobs .... 236 
 
 Snobbium Gatherum ..... 246 
 
 THE FOUR GEORGES 
 
 George the Fourth 252 
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 
 
 One of Fitz-Boodle's Professions . . . 284 
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 
 
 On a Chalk Mark on the Door . . . 300 
 Autour de mon Chapeau . . . -312 
 
 Dessein's ....... 323 
 
 POEMS 
 
 The Cane-Bottom'd Chair .... 337 
 
 Sorrows of Werther ..... 339 
 
 The White Squall 340 
 
 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse .... 344 
 
 At the Church Gate 346 
 
 The Age of Wisdom ..... 347 
 
 Vanitas Vanitatum ..... 348
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 THACKERAY was a great traveller all his life; and his 
 travels began early; for he was born in Calcutta on 
 i8th July, 1811, and was sent, while a mere child, to 
 England. In his infancy he saw Napoleon, as in his 
 early manhood he saw Goethe; a certain vague cosmo- 
 politan quality was always mixed with his experience ; 
 and it was his favourite boast that he had seen men and 
 cities, like Ulysses. His blood and temper, however, 
 were as English as they could well be ; he inherited the 
 huge stature and hearty love of eating and drinking of a 
 line of Yorkshire yeomen. On his arrival in England he 
 was finally committed by his relatives to the Charter- 
 house School, where he made many warm and lifelong 
 friends, one of whom broke his nose. It is well known 
 that Thackeray expressed a strong wish that no bio- 
 graphy of him should be written. Yet it may be said in 
 a sense that he broke his own rule and wrote his own 
 biography. The biography is strewn and scattered in- 
 deed through the pages of his novels ; but he is of all 
 novelists the most autobiographical. He is the novelist 
 of memory, that is, of the emotion of experience. And 
 the truth about his schooldays and all his other days can 
 be sought much more successfully in The Newcomes or 
 The Roundabout Papers than in any such summary as 
 this. In his later and looser writing especially, his allu- 
 sions to his old school thicken like gathering shadows ; 
 it seems almost as if he would have liked to die within 
 the school, like Colonel Newcome. As it is with his 
 boyhood so with his youth. Internal evidence indicates 
 that there was a girl who broke his heart as there was a 
 ix
 
 x WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 boy who broke his nose ; and that he survived both in- 
 flictions with cheerfulness. "That malady," he said, 
 " is never fatal to a sound organ." 
 
 He passed to Cambridge, which is also better described 
 in his books than it can or need be described here. It is 
 sufficient to say that, to a very recognizable extent, Pen- 
 dennis of Boniface is really Thackeray of Trinity. He 
 travelled; he saw Goethe as he had seen Napoleon 
 without being much the wiser. But he did, in his own 
 favourite quotation, see men and cities; he did learn, 
 like his favourite Fitzboodle "to order a dinner in every 
 language in Europe"; and he did pass through one ex- 
 perience which was to him ever afterwards a fountain of 
 furious satire. He sat down to play cards with some 
 rich friends ; he got up having lost some fifteen hundred 
 pounds, and having made the acquaintance of the Hon. 
 Algernon Deuceace. 
 
 He returned with a resolution to work his own way 
 and was admitted to the Bar; in the intervals of that 
 leisurely career he wrote articles and drew caricatures. 
 It was as a draughtsman that he took himself most 
 seriously. There is a legend that he actually waited 
 upon Dickens with a proposal to illustrate his books, 
 then already in the blaze of popularity. Dickens, pre- 
 sumably, declined ; which was a good thing for Dickens's 
 books, but also a good thing for Thackeray's. Although 
 the interview was futile it affects the imagination as 
 much as the meeting with Napoleon. Thackeray's first 
 formidable appearance in letters was in Fraser's Maga- 
 zine; where he made his name or rather made his 
 pseudonym. Over the signature of "Michael Angelo 
 Titmarsh " (with occasional holidays of a more vulgar 
 sort under that of James Yellowplush) he began to 
 pour out his experiences, which were already somewhat 
 motley and even squalid. This must always be remem- 
 bered in the silly discussion about whether Thackeray 
 was a cynic. The false impression was given, not because 
 he made his heroes less than his villains, but because he 
 certainly wrote about villains before he wrote about 
 heroes. Madame D'lvry and Captain Blackball, Mrs.
 
 INTRODUCTION xi 
 
 Mackenzie and Mr. Moss, can be found in his earliest 
 and crudest sketches. It is exactly Ethel Newcome 
 and the Colonel who do not come in till afterwards. 
 Something- of this healing- and humanizing may have 
 been effected by his marriag-e ; though its ultimate issue 
 was, as everyone knows, painful and terrible. Mrs. 
 Thackeray was sent to an asylum ; and Thackeray said 
 a very fine thing: " I would do it over again." 
 
 The first two books with which his name is still uni- 
 versally connected were The Book of Snobs and Vanity 
 Fair. The first was a work much needed and very ad- 
 mirably done. The solemn philosophic framework the 
 idea of treating caddishness as a science was original 
 and sound ; for snobbishness is indeed a disease in our 
 society, requiring a large and responsible analysis. His 
 definition of snobbishness is good a mean admiration. 
 It is good, that is, as a philosophical formula for the vice 
 in all ages and countries; it does little towards explain- 
 ing its peculiar predominance in modern England. And 
 this was indeed a thing that Thackeray could hardly be 
 expected to explain. The true source of snobs in Eng- 
 land was the refusal to take one side or the other 
 heartily in the crisis of the French Revolution; the 
 English attempt to have what Macaulay called (with un- 
 conscious but awful irony) " the most popular aristocracy 
 and the most aristocratic people in the world." Those 
 words would make another good definition of snobbish- 
 ness. We have a popular aristocracy ; it consists chiefly 
 of brewers. We have an aristocratic people ; that is, it 
 consists chiefly of snobs. If we had made our system 
 sincere, if we had conformed to either of the two great 
 models of government we might have had the vices in- 
 volved in them, but we should have been free from this 
 fever of worldliness, this vulgar unrest. Aristocracy 
 does not have snobs any more than democracy. But we 
 have neither securely closed our house nor boldly opened 
 it. We have merely let it be whispered that a window is 
 unbarred at the back; and a few burglars break in and 
 are made peers. But the thought of that possible en- 
 trance rides all men's fancy like some infernal love
 
 xii WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 affair; and enfevers and exhausts England. All this 
 Thackeray was too restrained and too early-Victorian to 
 see. But it is remarkable that the mere subject stung 
 him into an unusual pugnacity and even snappishness. 
 George IV in his robes, he says, can be seen for a shill- 
 ing, "children and flunkeys sixpence. Go, and pay six- 
 pence." 
 
 The mere title of Vanity Fair was certainly an inspira- 
 tion; for it is both the strength and weakness of the 
 book that it produces on the mind (I might say even on 
 the nerves] the same impression of mixed voices and 
 almost maddening competition as a crowded square on 
 market day. The force and fault of Thackeray was 
 always to be irrelevant; but here irrelevancy rises till it 
 reaches to a sort of deafening distraction. Elsewhere in 
 Thackeray digression was destined to be slow ; but here 
 even digression is swift, swift as the dance of death at 
 the balls of Lord Steyne or the swoop of all the vultures 
 to the sick bed of Miss Crawley. Everyone in this tale 
 is filled with a futile energy. The reader is purposely 
 left wondering at so much courage in that craven battle, 
 so much endurance in that strange and selfish martyr- 
 dom. Newman said once, I believe, " Evil always fails 
 by overleaping its aim and good by falling short of it." 
 Whether true or not this might almost be a motto for 
 Vanity Fair. Here Thackeray is right in calling himself 
 so constantly a moralist. He is genuinely a moralist in 
 this essential sense that he insists that actions shall be 
 judged not by their energy, but by their aim. 
 
 Many strenuous critics have sneered at the softness of 
 Amelia Sedleyand openly exalted Rebecca along lines of 
 the will to live. It would be hard to persuade modern 
 critics that Thackeray may be deeper or even more 
 daring than they are. But I hardly think that they see 
 Thackeray's point. His point surely is that Amelia was 
 a fool; but that there is a certain sanative and anti- 
 septic element in virtue, by which even a fool manages 
 to live longer than a knave. For after all when Amelia 
 and Becky meet at the end, Amelia has much less energy, 
 but she has much more life. She is younger', she has not
 
 INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 lost her power of happiness; her stalk is not broken. 
 She could really, to use Thackeray's own metaphor, 
 grow green again. But the energy of Becky is the 
 energy of a dead woman ; it is like the rhythmic kicking 
 of some bisected insect. The life of the wicked works 
 outwards and goes to waste. The life of the innocent, 
 even the stupidly innocent, is within ; if anyone dislikes 
 the battered sentiment of the word "love," I will say 
 that innocence has more zest, more power of tasting 
 things. Hence Thackeray's thought is really suggestive ; 
 that perhaps even softness is a sort of superiority ; it is 
 better to be open to all emotions as they come than to 
 reach the hell of Rebecca ; the hell of having all outward 
 forces open, but all receptive organs closed. For the 
 very definition of hell must be energy without joy. 
 
 It was very specially in connection with Vanity Fair that 
 the great accusation of " cynicism " broke about Thack- 
 eray's ears. The argument is a mere logomachy, the 
 trick of taking a vague word and then asking if it ap- 
 plies precisely. If cynicism means a war on comfort, 
 then Thackeray, to his eternal honour, was a cynic. If 
 it means a war on virtue, then Thackeray, to his eternal 
 honour, was the reverse of a cynic. It is absurd, in this 
 sense, to call a man cynical whose whole object it is to 
 show that goodness, even when it is silly, is a healthier 
 thing than wickedness when it is sensible. The truth in 
 the accusation is probably this ; that his vile characters 
 are drawn a little more vividly than his virtuous char- 
 acters. So, in the small artistic sense, Dante is more 
 successful with hell than with the beatific vision. Virtu- 
 ous characters are always drawn less vividly than other 
 characters: because they are so much more worth 
 drawing. 
 
 The next important work was the novel of Pendennis. 
 Thackeray had called Vanity Fair a novel without a 
 hero. He might almost have called Pendennis a novel 
 with nothing else but a hero ; only that the hero is not 
 very heroic. Nevertheless the chief character in the tale 
 fulfils some of the most important conditions of the old 
 heroic types of literature. Pendennis is an epic. It is an
 
 xiv WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 epic in this essential sense that its hero is not merely a 
 man, but is also Man. He is, as the old mystical 
 tragedian of the Middle Ages would have put it, Every- 
 man. Just as the wandering's of Ulysses are the wander- 
 ings of Man, just as Dante in heaven or hell is man in 
 heaven or hell, so Arthur Pendennis is deliberately meant 
 to be something more than a character, he is a type and 
 a symbol. Nowhere else, I think, has Thackeray this 
 epic breadth. The love of Clive for Ethel is the love of 
 Clive for Ethel ; the love of Dobbin for Amelia is the 
 love of Dobbin for Amelia. But the love of Arthur Pen- 
 dennis for Miss Fotheringay is First Love ; it is separated 
 from all justifications or consequences ; it is the veritable 
 divine disease which seems a part of the very health of 
 youth. Clive Newcome's failure to be a painter is a 
 mere professional failure to paint. Colonel Newcome's 
 ruin in his banking business is only one financial col- 
 lapse. But Arthur Pendennis being plucked at Oxbridge 
 is the recurring ruin of the pride of youth, the eternal 
 prodigal among the eternal swine. One result of this 
 centralism in the subject is actually a slight increase in 
 the comic accentuation of the other characters. Pen- 
 dennis contains far more farce than the other serious 
 novels; the irrelevant introduction of the impossible 
 Mr. Archer, for instance, is much more like a page of 
 Dickens. Nor is this combination paradoxical. When 
 the mediaeval dramatist summed up the normal in Every- 
 man all the forces outside him had to be made abnormal, 
 had to be unmistakable and even monstrous. Death 
 had to be very bony ; Good Deeds had to be very ill. So 
 the other Pendennis characters have to be obvious and 
 aggressive shapes because they are allegorical influences 
 on the soul of Pendennis. It would be an exaggeration 
 to say that Major Pendennis is the devil, while War- 
 rington is the angel. But there is just this truth in it ; 
 that we think of them both as influencing Pendennis. 
 Yet it never crosses our mind to think of them influenc- 
 ing each other. We may therefore say with truth that 
 Pendennis is an epic, because it celebrates the universal 
 man. But it is also a mediaeval, and even a late medi-
 
 INTRODUCTION xv 
 
 aeval epic : because it celebrates not the strength of man 
 but his weakness. 
 
 In the character of Major Pendennis of course Thack- 
 eray did splendidly a work which wanted doing. It is 
 in a subtle way more effective than the whole of the Book 
 jof Snobs; for it vividly presents, in the person of a not 
 unsuitable man, the fundamental truth that the worship 
 of this world is a superstition, and has all the limitations 
 of a superstition. Religious people speak of worldlings 
 as gay and careless; but such religious people pay the 
 worldlings far too high a compliment. Major Pendennis 
 was not particularly gay ; and he certainly was the very 
 reverse of careless. He had to walk more cautiously 
 and seriously than the adherent of any elaborate theo- 
 logy. Worldliness and the worldlings are in their 
 nature solemn and timid. If you want carelessness you 
 must go to the martyrs. 
 
 Thackeray's position as an author was now sufficiently 
 established, and within close distance of each other 
 appeared The Neincomes and Esmond. The public has 
 largely forgotten all the Newcomes except one, the 
 Colonel, who has taken his place with Don Quixote, 
 Sir Roger de Coverley, Uncle Toby, and Mr. Pickwick, 
 in that great catalogue of great attempts to capture and 
 describe the almost eerie fascination of simplicity. But 
 all the rest of the Newcomes are good and worth re- 
 membering Hobson Newcome with the straw in his 
 mouth and the hands in his pockets, and the truly 
 masculine decision to mind his own business and let 
 his wife mind everything else; Lady Anne Newcome, 
 a fool with one infallible feeler or sense left in her, the 
 power of knowing a gentleman, with which she salutes 
 the Colonel; Barnes Newcome, the neat and nasty 
 young man from the City, who is safe and successful 
 enough to conquer the world, and has a soul like a small 
 dried pea: above all Ethel Newcome, who is really a 
 vision, who walks the world like a Diana. 
 
 It is true, as is remarked elsewhere, that Thackeray 
 suffered, like other good writers, from repeating him- 
 self. But sometimes, when he was specially careless or
 
 xvi WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 fatigued, it was not even himself that he repeated. It 
 was somebody else, somebody much more commonplace 
 and clumsy, but also (oddly enough) some one much 
 more given to mere caricature. Dickens was extrava- 
 gant when he was feeling extravagant, when his animal 
 spirits broke beyond all reason and belief; but Thackeray 
 is only occasionally extravagant when he is feeling 
 dull. A case of what I mean can be taken from The 
 Ne-wcomes. Barnes Newcome, at the beginning of the 
 story, when he is young, and Thackeray's interest in 
 him is young also, is a living personality leaping with 
 life; leaping decorously of course, in his little lacquered 
 boots, but definitely and utterly undeniable. The young 
 fashionable business man, who talks with a drawl when 
 he is discussing levities, but drops his voice to a quieter 
 and simpler note when he is talking business, and 
 speaks "quite good-naturedly, unaffectedly, and self- 
 ishly," is a man we all know we have met, or else (what 
 is far more impressive in fiction) whom we all know we 
 shall meet. But as the story goes on the smooth and 
 slippery Barnes slips out of the fingers of the writer and 
 the reader; in middle age he is not convincing; he 
 becomes more and more a conventional villain. I 
 believe, for instance, that Barnes Newcome did call 
 Lord Kew " my dear fellow" while abusing Kew's par- 
 ticular friend ; I believe he did offer one finger to Pen- 
 dennis; I believe he did call Clive "young pot-house," 
 and ask whether the Colonel " had given him any 
 Brahminical cousins." All those shots are in the bull's 
 eye. I do believe that all men thought Barnes detest- 
 able, but that some women thought him witty. But 
 my belief in him fails after the first volume. I do not 
 believe that he lectured at Newcome on " Mrs. 
 Hemans and the Poetry of the Domestic Affections." 
 I do not even believe that he beat his wife, though I 
 am sure that he gave her quite sufficient reason for 
 beating him. Saving the grace of God, a dull, lifeless 
 little cynic he would have remained to the end, and 
 such men never put themselves absurdly in the wrong 
 either by a parade of piety or an orgy of violence. But
 
 INTRODUCTION xvii 
 
 the truth is that Thackeray grew tired of him, and 
 being" tired he became conventionally exaggerative and 
 melodramatic. Being weary he began to sprawl. 
 
 But in Esmond there is none of this sprawling. It is 
 the one work of Thackeray which is, in the somewhat 
 artificial modern sense, a work of art. It is marvellous 
 that a man so apparently casual and conversational as 
 Thackeray should have written so many thousand words 
 and so thick a book without once using a word that 
 might not have been used at the court of Queen Anne. 
 Realism is generally associated with the painful, and 
 romance with the pleasurable. But indeed, though 
 this is the most romantic of Thackeray's tales, it is 
 much the saddest. The most dreadful and blood-chilling 
 thing in this world is a tired kindness. And Colonel 
 Esmond is the type of that weary and tasteless mag- 
 nanimity; his large dark eyes darken the universe; I 
 am sure that Lord Bolingbroke had converted him to 
 irreligion. The tale is a high and chaste tragedy, which 
 one reads through once with reverence and austere 
 profit, as one reads Macbeth or The Master of Ballan- 
 trae. But I never feel that I can return to the coffee- 
 house with Steele and Addison as I return again and 
 again to the " Cave of Harmony " with Warrington and 
 Bayham and Pen. They are all alive and my friends for 
 ever. But over the great Queen Anne romance there 
 broods a peculiar conviction that Queen Anne is dead. 
 
 Esmond and The Neivcomes mark the turning-point of 
 Thackeray's triumph and decline ; after that his summer 
 turned to autumn, a rich and reminiscent and strongly 
 coloured autumn indeed, but still a distinctly autumnal 
 one. Moreover his retrogressive habit of mind, his love 
 of introducing old characters and old themes again and 
 again, emphasized any weakening in his grip; because 
 it made it easy to compare the later work with the 
 earlier. The Virginians offers itself as a sequel to 
 Esmond; and as such one can only call it an inadequate 
 sequel. In the same way Philip is written in the style 
 of The JVewcomes y only in such a different style. It goes 
 without saying that there are wonderful things in both 
 b
 
 xviii WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 books. In comedy Thackeray never struck a smarter 
 note than when in The Virginians he created the ter- 
 rible little Yankee Countess of Castlewood, who says 
 with such a sweet smile to the savage old aunt, "now 
 the Baroness and I are going to have such a nice 
 talk "; or when in Philip he created the wretched Talbot 
 Twysden, swaggering about clubs and saying "No 
 longer a hunting man myself. Lost my nerve, by 
 George." And in tragedy Thackeray never struck a 
 more deep or more resounding note than that which 
 salutes poor spiteful Mrs. Baynes, sitting as a sentinel 
 outside the sick room of her alienated husband, or 
 which notes with ironic vengeance the last dissolution 
 of Beatrix Esmond. 
 
 But in spite of these fine things it remains the fact 
 that one cannot read through either The Virginians or 
 Philip with the old elan which carried one through Vanity 
 Fair and Pendennis. To the last two novels published, 
 one finished and the other unfinished, the same general 
 criticism applies. Lovell the Widower is a very clever 
 sketch if we consider it in the light of one of his earlier 
 and somewhat less humane sketches ; but as a novel it 
 seems too long drawn out, especially as there is nobody 
 in the story with whom the reader can have any generous 
 and warlike sympathy. Denis Duval, which Thackeray 
 left unfinished, as Dickens left Edwin Drood, is a pleasant 
 return to his more romantic manner, and contains some 
 charming descriptions of the places and people about 
 Pevensey Level, and in the old stranded towns of Win- 
 chelsea and Rye. But beyond giving us a certain satis- 
 fying sentiment that the great writer died in charity and 
 at peace with primary things, the first chapters of Denis 
 Duval tell us little either about itself or its author. 
 That he did die thus, in the gentlest phase of his spirit, 
 numberless evidences in his other essays and in the 
 knowledge of all his friends attest. There are moments 
 in the last days of this cynic when we have almost to 
 pardon his pointless and flowing piety as we should 
 pardon it in saints or innocent children. He does indeed 
 become formless ; but he fades into the light.
 
 INTRODUCTION xix 
 
 The last important act of his life was his acceptance 
 of the editorship of the Cornhill Magazine, in the imme- 
 diate success of which he took a pleasure at once witty 
 and childlike, which makes very pleasant reading in the 
 Roundabout Papers. In one of the most amusing- of these, 
 called On Some Late Great Victories, he compares him- 
 self to a pagan conqueror driving in his chariot up the Hill 
 of Coru, with a slave behind him to remind him that 
 he is only mortal. " In ancient times, Pliny (apud Smith) 
 relates, it was the custom of the Imperator ' to paint 
 his whole body a bright red ' ; and also, on ascending 
 the Hill, to have some of the hostile chiefs led aside ' to 
 the adjoining prison, and put to death.' We propose to 
 dispense with both these ceremonies." In 1861 he built 
 a large and quiet house in Kensington, in that Queen 
 Anne style round which so much of his historic fancy 
 had hovered; and there, in 1863, after little more than 
 a hint of illness, he died quietly and suddenly. 
 
 There is no writer, certainly no writer of so high a 
 rank, from whom it is more difficult to make extracts 
 than Thackeray. A book by Dickens is like a sublime 
 scrap-book ; the pictures are separate, yet tell their own 
 tale like the pictures on a nursery screen or a child's toy 
 book. If nothing remained of Pickwick except the 
 Sawyer supper party, all the characters would be com- 
 plete and clear, and it would be impossible to guess that 
 Jack Hopkins came in only for that scene while Bob 
 Sawyer ran through the whole book. Both would be 
 comic characters clearly depicted. By a sort of extrava- 
 gant lucidity, by a grotesque symbolism almost like 
 that of heraldry, Dickens stamped and branded on the 
 brain in a few words all that it was essential to say 
 about anybody. But Thackeray worked entirely by 
 diffuseness ; by a thousand touches scattered through a 
 thousand pages. It is a method admirably suited to his 
 particular purpose ; that of half-ironically worming him- 
 self into the centre of a subject; politely insinuating 
 himself into the secrets of everybody before he begins 
 to treat them satirically. Brevity may be the soul of 
 wit ; but it would be quite as true to say in such cases
 
 xx WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 that lengthiness is the soul of satire. To batter the 
 worldly castle with the artillery of open derision, as 
 Dickens did, is a much swifter task than to blow it up 
 from within with one carefully constructed bomb of 
 irony. This was indeed one of the essentials of Thack- 
 eray's power and position; he was attacking Vanity 
 Fair from the inside, and must have been at least suffi- 
 ciently polite to get inside it. Some might even have 
 said that he was betraying his class ; there is no doubt 
 at least that he was betraying himself. That noble title, 
 The Book of Snobs, would not have been so effective if 
 he had not been able to add " By one of Themselves." 
 By the very nature of his satire it had to be a slow satire. 
 He could exhibit a stir of anger at the luxury of the 
 rich. But he could not pretend to exhibit a start of 
 surprise at it, as Dickens could. He could not speak of 
 ladies and gentlemen as monsters whom he had just met 
 on his travels; that was the great speciality of Dickens. 
 He has awakened to the evil of his world; but it is 
 essential to his method that he should have awakened 
 slowly; therefore it is natural that the method of satiric 
 revelation should be also slow. Even the bodily de- 
 scription of his characters is scattered and disseminated. 
 The Dickens method is to say: " Lord Jones, a tall man 
 with a hook nose and a white pointed beard, entered the 
 room." Thackeray's method is to say, in Chapter I: 
 " Lord Jones, being very tall, had just knocked his head 
 against the chandelier, and was in no very agreeable 
 temper " ; in Chapter VII : " What jokes Jemima made 
 about Sir Henry's bald head, Lord Jones's hooked nose, 
 and so on " ; and in Chapter XXIII : " Little Mr. Frizzle, 
 the hairdresser, had pursued Jones for years, advising 
 his lordship to blacken artificially the white pointed 
 beard that he wore." This method of the million small 
 touches recurring at intervals is responsible in no small 
 degree for the entertaining quality of Thackeray taken 
 as a whole ; but it renders almost impossible the task of 
 separating portraits or landscapes or other coherent 
 pictures from the text. Thackeray has one ultimate 
 merit, or rather magic. Thackeray is always interesting ;
 
 INTRODUCTION xxi 
 
 even in the passages which are bad. And yet I have 
 found it very difficult to pick out interesting- passages, 
 or even passages that are good. 
 
 It is, I think, unnecessary to urge this obvious point 
 with any detail. There is no short and vivid description 
 of Lord Steyne, let us say; you get his rank in one 
 chapter, his red whiskers in another, his bald head in 
 another, his domestic life in another. We discover 
 point by point that Pendennis was of sturdy figure, that 
 he walked with a slight swagger, that he had careful 
 brown whiskers ; in no place is the swaggering figure in 
 its fine raiment allowed to step complete upon the stage. 
 But this difficulty in finding any definite summary of a 
 man in Thackeray is of course only symbolic of the 
 general difficulty of treating him in clear excerpts ; a 
 difficulty which extends to the whole of his moral atmo- 
 sphere and fundamental philosophy. His habit in this 
 matter has an advantageous as well as a disadvantage- 
 ous side ; and unless it is fully grasped it is likely enough 
 that the reader will misunderstand and underrate 
 Thackeray, not only when he reads him in extracts, but 
 when he reads him in bulk. 
 
 Many people would agree that irrelevancy is one of 
 Thackeray's special weaknesses. Not so many perhaps 
 have adequately realized that it is one of his special 
 strengths. It may be perhaps that in his later years and 
 works he did sometimes ramble and lose the thread and 
 become merely garrulous ; many other ingenious or 
 over-ingenious men have thus touched a kind of chaos 
 in their decay. But in the best days of Thackeray his 
 apparent irrelevance was a very delicate and even cun- 
 ning literary artifice and mode of approach. His ram- 
 bling was all strategy; for it is the very triumph of 
 strategy to look like rambling. His artlessness was pre- 
 cisely his art. Mr. Max Beerbohm's very true criticism 
 of him, that he never seems to be hunting for an adject- 
 ive, is yet connected with a peculiar adjectival felicity. 
 While actually reading him one is inclined to call it not 
 merely felicity but good luck. But that is the whole 
 exquisite art of Thackeray at his best: to get the one
 
 xxii WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 perfect word yet seem to have got it by accident. When he 
 calls Colonel Newcome a gentleman "with a lean brown 
 face and long" black mustachios, dressed in very loose 
 clothes," he has really picked the most pointed words for 
 his picture as much as Stevenson did when he described 
 Long John Silver as a big plain man with a large face 
 like a ham. But Thackeray manages to be easy as well 
 as vivid ; to find the true thing to say as a man finds it 
 in the course of conversation. This is the first and most 
 important purpose served by the seeming carelessness 
 and copiousness of Thackeray's style. In so many well- 
 written novels we can believe in the incidents; but we 
 cannot believe that any man is really narrating them. 
 We can believe in the story, though it be full of pirates 
 and spectres ; but we cannot believe in the story-teller. 
 Such things might conceivably happen ; but no man in 
 his senses would narrate them in that way. But the 
 tales of The Neivcomes and Philip really sound like tales 
 told quietly in a club ; we seem to hear the voice of 
 Arthur Pendennis telling them; we seem almost to 
 smell his cigar, a good one. 
 
 This is the most important of the artistic uses to 
 which Thackeray puts the rambling method ; he uses it 
 to make us feel his sincerity by the very fact of his gos- 
 sip and divergences. The story is all the more likely to 
 be an actual story because it is always running off into 
 other stories. But over and above this there are other 
 important purposes for which he uses the art of artless- 
 ness, the strategy of wandering. No novelist ever carried 
 to such perfection as Thackeray the art of saying a thing 
 without saying it. Human life is (so to speak) so dense 
 with delicacies, so thickly sown with things that are true 
 and yet may be misunderstood, that this is a very valu- 
 able faculty in a man telling tales about men. It may 
 be true to say that a man drinks too much ; yet it may 
 be exactly false to say that he drinks. A man may 
 be hard or even exhausting to entertain; yet he may 
 not be in any ordinary sense a fool or even a bore. It 
 may be manifest that a woman has too much to put up 
 with in her married life ; yet it may be quite untrue to
 
 INTRODUCTION xxiii 
 
 call it an unhappy marriage. A man may just fail to be 
 a gentleman; and yet be the very opposite of a cad. 
 These gossamer threads of truth, which are destroyed 
 with the very touch of tracing them, are very hard indeed 
 to deal with in literature ; and I think they were never 
 so well dealt with as by the Thackerayan method, the 
 method which may be defined as an allusive irrelevancy. 
 
 When Thackeray wished to hint a truth which was 
 just not true enough to bear his whole weight, his way 
 was to wander off into similes and allegories which re- 
 peated and yet mocked the main story like derisive and 
 dying echoes. If Thackeray wished to say that Jones 
 drank too much without calling Jones a drunkard, then 
 he would go into a long dreamy parenthesis, quoting 
 Horace, humorously invoking Bacchus, talking about 
 Bohemia and vineyards, and so come back to Jones, 
 without having insulted him, but having shall we say 
 sobered him. If he wished to indicate that Mrs. Jones 
 had more trouble in her married life than she had had on 
 her honeymoon, he did not say brutally that she was a 
 disappointed woman ; which perhaps was not true. He 
 merely touched on it and then trailed off into some 
 epicurean song in prose about how youth must pass and 
 roses fade, and by that avenue of universal autumn re- 
 turns to Mrs. Jones, having humanely hinted at her 
 melancholy without in the least suggesting (like a dirty 
 modern) her despair. 
 
 I have described this style in the general, so that any 
 Thackerayan must recognize my meaning ; and not need 
 many examples of the same thing in the particular. 
 Such examples, however, could easily be given. Thus it 
 was necessary to suggest that Clive Newcome had been, 
 not a young blackguard, but something of a " young 
 blood " ; this Thackeray does by the use of a playful 
 theatrical metaphor about having been behind the 
 scenes. Thus again it was necessary to suggest that 
 Dobbin did not get quite the reward of his own heroic 
 simplicity in winning the silly little woman whom he 
 loved; it is suggested by a fine stroke of airy philo- 
 sophy, as of one changing the subject, in the final
 
 xxiv WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " Vanitas "uanitatum, which of us has his wish in this 
 world, or, having it, is satisfied?" It was necessary to 
 suggest that Arthur Pendennis (of whom it would have 
 been grossly untrue to say that he was not a gentle- 
 man) was yet in a subtle manner less of a gentleman 
 than his friend Warrington. This is indicated with just 
 the right amount of airy emphasis by this fact, that 
 while Warrington's unquestionable lineage is kept out of 
 the picture altogether, the pages are full of fantastic ex- 
 cursions about the Prince of Fairoaks and the ancient 
 escutcheon of Pendennis. The occasions are indeed very 
 numerous in which Thackeray finds this knack of half- 
 suggestion very convenient. How delicately he sug- 
 gests the peculiar character of Helen Pendennis; a 
 saint without a sense of honour. With how quiet a 
 shade as of the coming on of twilight, does he convey 
 the fact that Colonel Newcome's character was, after 
 all, slightly spoilt in prosperity; suggests it less by any 
 change in the old face with the gray moustaches than 
 by a certain change in the faces of Clive or Laura or 
 Ethel as they look at it. In this connection it is specially 
 unjust to call Thackeray a cynic. He falls away into 
 philosophizing not because his satire is merciless but 
 because it is merciful ; he wishes to soften the fall of his 
 characters with a sense and suggestion of the weakness 
 of all flesh. He often employs an universal cynicism 
 because it is kinder than a personal sarcasm. He says 
 that all men are liars, rather than say directly that Pen- 
 dennis was lying. He says easily that all is vanity, so 
 as not to say that Ethel Newcome was vain. 
 
 Of course he suffered in his later work, like most 
 other great men, from a tendency to imitate himself. It 
 is a remarkable fact in first-class authors that they not 
 only write imitations of themselves; but they are gener- 
 ally bad imitations. They imitate their own externals 
 and miss the point and the spirit exactly as if they were 
 total strangers ; I suppose they remember the way they 
 had of saying things but forget what they were trying to 
 say. Thus the parodists of Swinburne's exquisite early 
 poetry started a stupid idea that his effects depended
 
 INTRODUCTION xxv 
 
 entirely on alliteration. It was not in the least true; but 
 Swinburne believed it, and began to write merely alliter- 
 ative poetry. In the same way, in some of his last 
 books Thackeray did no doubt use this rambling" style 
 without its old subtle purpose of suggestion. He did not 
 merely leave the subject, he lost it. He did not merely 
 get into a parenthesis, but he never got out. I will give 
 one comparison of his two uses of the irrelevant. When 
 Ethel Newcome is about to be married to the great Lord 
 Farintosh, Thackeray indulges in a long and amusing 
 apologue about how women in the East are sold to dance 
 in the temples and how natural it seems in the East. 
 In his later book, Philip, he seems to remember the suc- 
 cess of this passage and introduces another long figura- 
 tive chapter on the selling of Eastern maidens apropos 
 of the decision of Agnes Twysden to marry Captain 
 Woolcomb. But he does not notice that there is no need 
 for this excursus in the second case ; while there was a 
 subtle psychological need for it in the first. A certain 
 magnanimous mystery was deliberately kept up round 
 the motives of Ethel Newcome. The reader was really 
 not supposed to know, at least until he reviewed the 
 book as a whole, how far that proud head had consciously 
 stooped to the slavery of calculation, how far it had 
 still the bewildered pride of a princess in captivity. It 
 was, therefore, a strictly artistic touch to remind the 
 reader, among other things, that there are societies 
 where such sale does not feel degrading. But about 
 Agnes Twysden there is no mystery at all ; she is simply 
 a cold-blooded minx. There is no sort of doubt what- 
 ever that she would have married for money in any 
 society, Eastern or Western. Thackeray has put this 
 character down in black and white especially black. 
 There is, therefore, no need for that hesitating and 
 allusive style of allegory which was quite appropriate in 
 the riddle of the Farintosh betrothal, when Thackeray 
 had to fling a faint and fugitive shadow upon the 
 shining face of the noblest of Victorian heroines. 
 
 This is not, however, the only use to which Thackeray 
 put his rambling and rollicking method. He did at least
 
 xxvi WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 one other thing with it ; he invented a new mode of con- 
 troversy. In controversies he did not indeed very often 
 indulge ; he was primarily a man of impressions rather 
 than a man of convictions. And such convictions as he 
 had were of the slightly humdrum Victorian sort; a 
 vague disapproval of armed revolution, a vague approval 
 of philanthropy. But when it happened, by some accident 
 of his literary life that he had to defend himself against 
 assault or avenge what he conceived to be a wrong, he 
 showed that this seemingly loose and flying lasso of his 
 had qualities as a weapon which made it in another way 
 not inferior to the battle-axe of Macaulay or the steel 
 trap of Newman. Writing in a conversational and leis- 
 urely manner, as if he had his whole life before him, 
 he contrived really to give the impression that his op- 
 ponents were preposterous people with whom his mel- 
 low experience could be patient. Controversialists like 
 Macaulay showed an eagerness in pouncing upon errors 
 which was, in its way, a confession that errors were few. 
 Thackeray did not seem to pounce on errors ; he seemed 
 to fall over them, and this was much more insulting for 
 it implied that they were many; that they were strewn 
 about his path like pebbles on the beach. Also his in- 
 direct method had in argument an indirect and boomerang 
 character which was sometimes startlingly effective. We 
 expect to find the sting in the tail of an epigram ; but 
 there is something arresting about finding it in the tail 
 of a Roundabout Paper. It is often when he seems most 
 pointless that the reader is impaled upon the point. This 
 is a minor aspect of Thackeray, and almost entirely 
 neglected by his critics ; because his controversies occupy 
 a very small space in the immense bulk of his works, 
 and because they were not commonly concerned with 
 any great political or religious principle. But they are 
 very characteristic of the roundabout style of realism ; 
 and for this reason I have included one example in the 
 selections ; the essay on Thunder and Small Beer, which 
 he wrote in reply to a pompous Times review, and 
 which is a model of easy remonstrance and affable 
 offensiveness. The style of sentence that begins: " How
 
 INTRODUCTION xxvii 
 
 can I be like a dustman that ring's for a Christmas box 
 at your hall door? I never was there in my life," strikes 
 a new note in the art of controversy. 
 
 I may seem to have spoken of Thackeray's work rather 
 as if the parenthesis were the only important part of it. 
 And this is to a certain extent true ; he is one of those 
 men (there are even more women) whose best remarks 
 are always in brackets. So much is this so that in some 
 of his later novels one may say that the narrative is a 
 failure redeemed by the non-narrative passages, the 
 typical aimless talks in clubs, the glimpses of glowing 
 minor characters, and above all the dialogues between 
 Pendennis and Laura, who really tell the story between 
 them. But we have to consider not only how he used 
 and placed the parenthesis, but the nature of the paren- 
 thesis itself. Thackeray was fond of calling himself the 
 Preacher of Ecclesiastes or the Chorus of a Greek 
 tragedy ; and all his interludes and comments are indeed 
 of this character; what fills up the gaps in the Thackeray 
 story is the Thackeray view of life ; and of this a word 
 must be said. He himself spoke of it gaily as his philo- 
 sophy ; but it was scarcely logical and coherent enough 
 to be a philosophy in the full sense ; and indeed if you 
 try to turn it into a formal philosophy you will find 
 yourself bringing out as a result something entirely un- 
 Thackerayan, something harsh and ludicrous like pessi- 
 mism. But it was a spirit and a point of view; and it 
 might be called romantic, only that the word romantic 
 has now somewhat the sense of adventurous. And the 
 word adventurous means rather a man who is always 
 looking forward to adventures. But Thackeray was a 
 man who was always looking backwards at adventures ; 
 he is the romantic of mere memory. If some think that 
 there was too much salt about him, it was the same with 
 Lot's wife. 
 
 The closest definition of his spirit would I think be 
 this; that he loved all fresh and beautiful things, like 
 other romantics ; but loved them with a deliberate recol- 
 lection of their eternal recurrence and decay. He loved 
 youth ; but he did not love youth because it is young.
 
 xxviii WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 He loved youth because it is old; one of the oldest thing's 
 in the world. Human history had for him the hig-h 
 monotony of an everlasting 1 song", in which every verse 
 is beautiful, but the tune is always the same. He had 
 the healthy sympathy of romance for love in a cottage 
 or love scaling- castle walls. But this had nothing to do 
 with reasoned lawlessness or any theoretic trust in 
 passion, it was a mere instinct for the tune that makes 
 the world go round. In short he did not admire the 
 troubadour climbing the rope ladder because he v/as 
 unconventional. He admired him because he was con- 
 ventional; he was doing the correct thing; he was doing 
 what nature and human tradition expect of a trouba- 
 dour. Thackeray expected the young to rebel as he 
 expected the birds to sing. Thackeray's liberalism again 
 had no connection with those vistas of change in human 
 affairs which many of his contemporaries saw opening 
 before them. He asked for rational freedom, for the 
 ordinary human affection and opinions ; he did not think 
 that those affections and opinions were ever likely to be 
 anything but ordinary. He believed in emancipation, but 
 not very much in progress. His admiration for youth, 
 the golden and exultant youth of Clive Newcome or 
 Harry Warrington, has nothing to do with any feeling 
 about the future, such as has inspired most descriptions 
 of patriotic or revolutionary boyhood. Boys will be 
 sailors, cries Mr. Rudyard Kipling, boys will found a 
 new Empire that shall girdle the globe. Boys will 
 be rebels, cries Ibsen, they will bring their boisterous 
 freedom to break down the barriers that separate us 
 from truth and free creation. For Thackeray the most 
 important and solid prophecy about boys is that they 
 will be boys. 
 
 This is of course the key to another quality in Thack- 
 eray, haunting and to some exasperating. I mean his 
 perpetual reference to the remote past especially to his 
 three favourite sages, ^Esop, Horatius Flaccus and King 
 Solomon. They were meant to stand as an enduring re- 
 buke to those who rebelled against the vital recurrences 
 of existence, lovers who were certain that no man had
 
 INTRODUCTION xxix 
 
 loved before, prophets who were certain that no man 
 would doubt afterwards. All three sages stood to cure 
 the mere hot sickness and malady of novelty; by point- 
 ing out that even such maladies were old. Solomon 
 bore testimony that there is nothing new under the sun 
 not even the sunstroke. Horace testified that there 
 were strong men before Agamemnon and weak men 
 too, minor poets and mad decadents before the birth of 
 Achilles. ALsop bears witness to a tremendous and 
 primal tradition that the very beasts are human in many 
 of our human vanities and vulgarities, morbidities and 
 sophistries. Perhaps we were madmen even before we 
 were men. 
 
 It is in consequence quite unfair to Thackeray to talk 
 as if these classical allusions and fabulous parallels with 
 which his work is strewn were either the mere padding 
 of a man who had nothing to say or the mere senile 
 loquacity of a man who could not stop saying it. They 
 were introduced to create that very air and light of 
 antiquity and eternal human nature in which alone 
 he could see his characters move. If in writing of his 
 fashionable heroine whirling round a ball room in Mayfair 
 he always said something like neque tu choreas speme, 
 puer, it was not pedantry but a melancholy passion for 
 reminding people how many debutantes had come out 
 since the age of Horace or the end of Eden. If he 
 always called a humbug a wolf in sheep's clothing or an 
 ass in a lion's skin, he was not using commonplace 
 phrases, he was seeking to remind us that there is in 
 modern sin and folly something as fierce and primitive 
 as a wolf, something as plain and comic as a donkey. 
 And if he ended the first verse of his finest poem with 
 " mataiotes mataioteton," it was not to air his Greek, 
 nor even to rhyme to "treat on," but in order to put 
 once more in a new tongue and see suddenly in a new 
 aspect his everlasting refrain of vanttas vanitatum. I 
 shall not allege of this characteristic any more than of 
 the other that he never carried it to chaotic lengths or 
 indulged it weakly for its own sake ; but its original im- 
 pulse is a perfectly artistic impulse, a genuine condition
 
 xxx WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 of the kind of book he wishes to write. Mere pedants 
 sneer at well-known tags or old quotations from Greek 
 and Latin. But for Thackeray's purpose the more old a 
 quotation was the better ; and a tag well worn was only 
 a tag well tested. It is one of the simplest and silliest 
 of the modern mistakes to connect the word old with the 
 word stale or the word weary. The oldest thing in the 
 universe is its energy. It was no inconsiderable part of 
 Thackeray's business to proclaim that the oldest thing 
 in the world was its youth. 
 
 All this, both the intention and the style, has made 
 the task of selection specially difficult. It is indeed 
 really impossible to represent in extracts these peculiar 
 and pervasive graces of Thackeray; the incessant 
 touches of detail or the refrain-like reference to an- 
 tiquity. But there are other qualities of the writer that 
 can be represented in extract. All these generalizations 
 tend of their own nature to over-statement. Thus it is 
 broadly true that Dickens was great in humour, but not 
 great in pathos. But it is by no means true that he was 
 never good in pathos ; the passages about the old man 
 in the Fleet and the death of Mrs. Weller in Pickwick 
 are quite enough to prove that. In the same way- 
 Thackeray was not primarily dramatic; but when at a 
 certain height and heat he could be dramatic, and even 
 (what is even jollier), melodramatic. The return of the 
 liberated Rawdon Crawley to his insulted home is not 
 only a strong spiritual fulfilment, but a very strong 
 stage situation. And the first scene of the Newcomes in 
 the Cave of Harmony, in which the Colonel flings him- 
 self delightedly into the harmless songs and then flings 
 himself furiously out of the room at the first hint of 
 harmful ones ; this is not merely a good piece of gossip 
 or character study ; it is by far the shortest, sharpest, 
 and most theatrical way that the Colonel's character 
 could be summed up at his first entrance on the stage. 
 There is a similar note of real collision and crisis in the 
 quarrel between the younger and elder Osborne which 
 precipitates the marriage. There is a similar note in the 
 admirable comedy combat between Major Pendennis and
 
 INTRODUCTION xxxi 
 
 Captain Costigan (the respectable humbug and the dis- 
 reputable humbug, both with the same senseless good- 
 nature) ; which succeeds in averting a marriage. The 
 extracts that follow are therefore of necessity largely 
 confined to these few crucial passages, but I have en- 
 deavoured to balance them, not by introducing un- 
 dramatic excerpts from the novels (which would have 
 been shapeless and unworkable) but by giving a larger 
 prominence than is usual to those Thackerayan works 
 which were in theory undramatic his essays and occa- 
 sional papers. In one or two of the Roundabout Papers 
 he really justified the roundabout method and showed 
 that it was capable of the same sort of delicate poig- 
 nancy as the style of Charles Lamb. The essay in defence 
 of the mendacity of servants (which I quote) is really as 
 good as Lamb and better, in so far that it suggests not 
 so much the witty helplessness of Elia, but rather a 
 laughing repose, and almost sleepy mirth. In all things 
 his great spirit had the grandeur and the weakness 
 which belonged to the England of his time, an England 
 splendidly secure and free, and yet (perhaps for that 
 reason) provincial and innocent. He had nothing of the 
 doctrinal quality of the French and Germans. He was 
 not one who made up his mind, but one who let his 
 mind make him up. He lay naturally open to all noble 
 influences flowing around him ; but he never bestirred 
 himself to seek those that were not flowing or that 
 flowed in opposite directions. Thus, for instance, he 
 really loved liberty, as only a novelist can love it, a man 
 mainly occupied with the variety and vivacity of men. 
 But he could not see the cause of liberty except where 
 the Victorian English saw it; he could not see it in the 
 cause of Irish liberty (which was exactly like the cause 
 of Polish or Italian liberty, except that it was led by 
 much more religious and responsible men), and he made 
 the Irish characters the object of much innocent and 
 rather lumbering satire. But this was not his mistake, 
 but the mistake of the atmosphere, and he was a sublime 
 emotional Englishman, who lived by atmosphere. He 
 was a great sensitive. The comparison between him
 
 xxxii WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and Dickens is commonly as clumsy and unreasonable 
 as a comparison between Wilkie Collins and Charles 
 Reade or Bulwer Lytton and Anthony Trollope. But the 
 comparison really has this element of actuality: that 
 Dickens was above all things creative ; Thackeray was 
 above all thing's receptive. There is no sense in talking 
 about truth in the matter ; both are modes of truth. If 
 you like to put it so, the world imposed on Thackeray 
 and Dickens imposed on the world. But it could be put 
 more truly by saying that Thackeray represents, in that 
 gigantic parody called genius, the spirit of the English- 
 man in repose. This spirit is the idle embodiment of all 
 of us ; by his weaknesses we shall fail and by his 
 enormous sanities we shall endure.
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE 
 THACKERAY 
 
 VANITY FAIR 
 
 [As an artistic scheme Vanity Fair may be described in more 
 than one outline. Very broadly, of course, it starts with the two 
 typical English girls leaving school, and is the tale of their equally 
 tragic yet startlingly dissimilar fortunes. Amelia Sedley, the 
 gentler and weaker of the two, begins in prosperity, and is, in a 
 sense, betrayed and crushed on her first appearance in real life. 
 She marries a shallow lady-killer named George Osborne, the son 
 of a vulgar and violent plutocrat who had originally owed every- 
 thing to the Sedleys. George Osborne is killed at Waterloo, per- 
 haps the only event which could have retained for him his wife's 
 respect. On the very night before the battle he had solicited the 
 other woman. 
 
 The other woman, the great Becky Sharp, began penniless and 
 adventurous. She is husband hunting almost in the first scene, but 
 her ultimate worldly success is so dazzling that she must have 
 regarded all her previous failures as so many fortunate escapes. 
 Eventually she marries Captain Rawdon Crawley, the younger 
 son of an aristocratic yet bucolic family. He is dull and dissipated, 
 but her energy and plausibility are such that she drags him behind 
 her into the highest circles of fashionable England. Here she 
 meets the sinister Lord Steyne, who enriches and supports her 
 with mixed admiration and contempt, and in whose company she 
 is found by her husband under circumstances which blast her for 
 ever. Thus Becky Sharp breaks her teeth on something hard and 
 bitter in the heart of a sweetmeat, almost at the same time that 
 Amelia is finding at last something faintly sweet in the smell of 
 crushed leaves and bitter herbs. Amelia marries the shy and 
 clumsy suitor who has always been faithful ; Becky hovers like a 
 vulture over the idiocy and helplessness of the fool whom^she had 
 first sought to entrap. Neither is meant for a happy ending in the 
 high romantic sense ; but there is all the difference between some- 
 thing that is a second best and something that is almost the worst. 
 
 But there are other schemes of contrast in the tale, besides that 
 between Becky and Amelia. One of them is the very able contrast 
 B
 
 2 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 between the Sedleys and the Osbornes, both middle class, wealthy, 
 and in a manner vulgar, but one insensibly rising' in the world and 
 the other sinking. It is about the declining fortunes of the Sedleys 
 that old Mr. Osborne has his quarrel with his son George. He 
 wishes George to marry Miss Swartz, a West Indian heiress, and 
 to break off the match with the daughter of the decaying Sedley 
 house, a match which he has himself arranged. And the scene in 
 which he makes this attempt is an instance of yet a third study in 
 contrast the contrast between two generations of the worldly 
 bourgeoisie, both intrinsically vulgar, yet not equally coarse ; the 
 father by far the more brutal and the son by far the more selfish ; 
 the selfish man in the right and the brutal man in the wrong.] 
 
 MR. OSBORNE, SENIOR, AND MR. OSBORNE, 
 JUNIOR 
 
 (CHAPTER XXI) 
 
 LOVE may be felt for any young lady endowed with such 
 qualities as Miss Swartz possessed ; and a great dream 
 of ambition entered into old Mr. Osborne's soul, which 
 she was to realize. He encouraged, with the utmost 
 enthusiasm and friendliness, his daughters' amiable at- 
 tachment to the young heiress, and protested that it gave 
 him the sincerest pleasure as a father to see the love of 
 his girls so well disposed. 
 
 "You won't find," he would say to Miss Rhoda, 
 " that splendour and rank to which you are accustomed 
 at the West End, my dear Miss, at our humble mansion 
 in Russell Square. My daughters are plain, disinterested 
 girls, but their hearts are in the right place, and they've 
 conceived an attachment for you which does them honour 
 I say, which does them honour. I'm a plain, simple, 
 humble British merchant an honest one, as my re- 
 spected friends Hulker and Bullock will vouch, who were 
 the correspondents of your late lamented father. You'll 
 find us a united, simple, happy, and I think I may say 
 respected family a plain table, a plain people, but a 
 warm welcome, my dear Miss Rhoda Rhoda, let me 
 say, for my heart warms to you, it does really. I'm a 
 frank man, and I like you. A glass of champagne! 
 Hicks, champagne to Miss Swartz."
 
 VANITY FAIR 3 
 
 There is little doubt that old Osborne believed all he 
 said, and that the girls were quite earnest in their pro- 
 testations of affection for Miss Swartz. People in Vanity 
 Fair fasten on to rich folks quite naturally. If the 
 simplest people are disposed to look not a little kindly 
 on great Prosperity (for I defy any member of the British 
 public to say that the notion of Wealth has not some- 
 thing awful and pleasing to him; and you, if you are 
 told that the man next you at dinner has got half a 
 million, not to look at him with a certain interest;) if 
 the simple look benevolently on money, how much more 
 do your old worldlings regard it ! Their affections rush 
 out to meet and welcome money. Their kind sentiments 
 awaken spontaneously towards the interesting possessors 
 of it. I know some respectable people who don't con- 
 sider themselves at liberty to indulge in friendship for 
 any individual who has not a certain competency, or 
 place in society. They give a loose to their feelings on 
 proper occasions. And the proof is, that the major part 
 of the Osborne family, who had not, in fifteen years, 
 been able to get up a hearty regard for Amelia Sedley, 
 became as fond of Miss Swartz in the course of a single 
 evening as the most romantic advocate of friendship at 
 first sight could desire. 
 
 What a match for George she'd be (the sisters and 
 Miss Wirt agreed), and how much better than that in- 
 significant little Amelia! Such a dashing young fellow 
 as he is, with his good looks, rank, and accomplish- 
 ments, would be the very husband for her. Visions of 
 balls in Portland Place, presentations at Court, and in- 
 troductions to half the peerage, filled the minds of the 
 young ladies ; who talked of nothing but George and his 
 grand acquaintances to their beloved new friend. 
 
 Old Osborne thought she would be a great match, 
 too, for his son. He should leave the army; he should 
 go into Parliament ; he should cut a figure in the fashion 
 and in the state. His blood boiled with honest British 
 exultation, as he saw the name of Osborne ennobled in 
 the person of his son, and thought that he might be the 
 progenitor of a glorious line of baronets. He worked in
 
 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 the City and on 'Change, until he knew everything" relat- 
 ing to the fortune of the heiress, how her money was 
 placed, and where her estates lay. Young Fred Bullock, 
 one of his chief informants, would have liked to make a 
 bid for her himself (it was so the young banker expressed 
 it), only he was booked to Maria Osborne. But not 
 being able to secure her as a wife, the disinterested Fred 
 quite approved of her as a sister-in-law. " Let George 
 cut in directly and win her," was his advice. "Strike 
 while the iron 's hot, you know while she 's fresh to 
 
 the town : in a few weeks some d fellow from the 
 
 West End will come in with a title and a rotten rent-roll 
 and cut all us City men out, as Lord Fitzrufus did last 
 year with Miss Grogram, who was actually engaged to 
 Fodder, of Fodder & Brown's. The sooner it is done the 
 better, Mr. Osborne; them's my sentiments," the wag 
 said ; though, when Osborne had left the bank parlour, Mr. 
 Bullock remembered Amelia, and what a pretty girl she 
 was, and how attached to George Osborne ; and he gave 
 up at least ten seconds of his valuable time to regretting 
 the misfortune which had befallen that unlucky young 
 woman. 
 
 While thus George Osborne's good feelings, and his 
 good friend and genius, Dobbin, were carrying back the 
 truant to Amelia's feet, George's parent and sisters were 
 arranging this splendid match for him, which they never 
 dreamed he would resist. 
 
 When the elder Osborne gave what he called "a 
 hint," there was no possibility for the most obtuse to 
 mistake his meaning. He called kicking a footman 
 down-stairs, a hint to the latter to leave his service. 
 With his usual frankness and delicacy he told Mrs. Hag- 
 gistoun that he would give her a cheque for five thousand 
 pounds on the day his son was married to her ward; 
 and called that proposal a hint, and considered it a very 
 dexterous piece of diplomacy. He gave George finally 
 such another hint regarding the heiress ; and ordered 
 him to marry her out of hand, as he would have ordered 
 his butler to draw a cork, or his clerk to write a letter. 
 
 This imperative hint disturbed George a good deal.
 
 VANITY FAIR 5 
 
 He was in the very first enthusiasm and delight of his 
 second courtship of Amelia, which was inexpressibly 
 sweet to him. The contrast of her manners and appear- 
 ance with those of the heiress, made the idea of a union 
 with the latter appear doubly ludicrous and odious. 
 Carriages and opera-boxes, thought he ; fancy being seen 
 in them by the side of such a mahogany charmer as that ! 
 Add to all, that the junior Osborne was quite as obsti- 
 nate as the Senior : when he wanted a thing, quite as 
 firm in his resolution to get it ; and quite as violent when 
 angered, as his father in his most stern moments. 
 
 On the first day when his father formally gave him 
 the hint that he was to place his affections at Miss 
 Swartz's feet, George temporized with the old gentle- 
 man. " You should have thought of the matter sooner, 
 sir," he said. " It can't be done now, when we're expect- 
 ing every day to go on foreign service. Wait till my 
 return, if I do return;" and then he represented, that 
 the time when the regiment was daily expecting to quit 
 England, was exceedingly ill-chosen : that the few days 
 or weeks during which they were still to remain at home, 
 must be devoted to business and not to love-making: 
 time enough for that when he came home with his 
 majority; " for, I promise you," said he, with a satisfied 
 air, " that one way or other you shall read the name of 
 George Osborne in the Gazette." 
 
 The father's reply to this was founded upon the in- 
 formation which he had got in the City : that the West 
 End chaps would infallibly catch hold of the heiress if 
 any delay took place: that if he didn't marry Miss S., 
 he might at least have an engagement in writing, to 
 come into effect when he returned to England; and that 
 a man who could get ten thousand a year by staying at 
 home, was a fool to risk his life abroad. 
 
 " So that you would have me shown up as a coward, 
 sir, and our name dishonoured for the sake of Miss 
 Swartz's money," George interposed. 
 
 This remark staggered the old gentleman ; but as he 
 had to reply to it, and as his mind was nevertheless 
 made up, he said, "You will dine here to-morrow, sir,
 
 6 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and every day Miss Swartz comes, you will be here to 
 pay your respects to her. If you want for money, call 
 upon Mr. Chopper." Thus a new obstacle was in 
 George's way, to interfere with his plans regarding 
 Amelia ; and about which he and Dobbin had more than 
 one confidential consultation. His friend's opinion re- 
 specting the line of conduct which he ought to pursue, 
 we know already. And as for Osborne, when he was 
 once bent on a thing, a fresh obstacle or two only 
 rendered him the more resolute. 
 
 The dark object of the conspiracy into which the chiefs 
 of the Osborne family had entered, was quite ignorant 
 of all their plans regarding her (which, strange to say, 
 her friend and chaperon did not divulge), and, taking all 
 the young ladies' flattery for genuine sentiment, and 
 being, as we have before had occasion to show, of a 
 very warm and impetuous nature, responded to their 
 affection with quite a tropical ardour. And if the truth 
 may be told, I daresay that she too had some selfish 
 attraction in the Russell Square house; and in a word, 
 thought George Osborne a very nice young man. His 
 whiskers had made an impression upon her, on the very 
 first night she beheld them at the ball at Messrs. 
 Hulkers; and, as we know, she was not the first woman 
 who had been charmed by them. George had an air at 
 once swaggering and melancholy, languid and fierce. 
 He looked like a man who had passions, secrets, and 
 private harrowing griefs and adventures. His voice was 
 rich and deep. He would say it was a warm evening, or 
 ask his partner to take an ice, with a tone as sad and 
 confidential as if he were breaking her mother's death to 
 her, or preluding a declaration of love. He trampled 
 over all the young bucks of his father's circle, and was 
 the hero among those third-rate men. Some few sneered 
 at him and hated him. Some, like Dobbin, fanatically 
 admired him. And his whiskers had begun to do their 
 work, and to curl themselves round the affections of Miss 
 Swartz. 
 
 Whenever there was a chance of meeting him in
 
 VANITY FAIR 7 
 
 Russell Square, that simple and good-natured young 
 woman was quite in a flurry to see her dear Miss 
 Osbornes. She went to great expenses in new gowns, 
 and bracelets, and bonnets, and in prodigious feathers. 
 She adorned her person with her utmost skill to please 
 the Conqueror, and exhibited all her simple accomplish- 
 ments to win his favour. The girls would ask her, with 
 the greatest gravity, for a little music, and she would 
 sing her three songs and play her two little pieces as 
 often as ever they asked, and with an always increasing 
 pleasure to herself. During these delectable entertain- 
 ments, Miss Wirt and the chaperon sat by, and conned 
 over the peerage, and talked about the nobility. 
 
 The day after George had his hint from his father, 
 and a short time before the hour of dinner, he was 
 lolling upon a sofa in the drawing-room in a very be- 
 coming and perfectly natural attitude of melancholy. 
 He had been, at his father's request, to Mr. Chopper in 
 the City (the old gentleman, though he gave great sums 
 to his son, would never specify any fixed allowance for 
 him, and rewarded him only as he was in the humour). 
 He had then been to pass three hours with Amelia, his 
 dear little Amelia, at Fulham; and he came home to 
 find his sisters spread in starched muslin in the drawing- 
 room, the dowagers cackling in the background, and 
 honest Swartz in her favourite amber-coloured satin, 
 with turquoise bracelets, countless rings, flowers, 
 feathers, and all sorts of tags and gimcracks, about as 
 elegantly decorated as a she chimney-sweep on May- 
 day. 
 
 The girls, after vain attempts to engage him in con- 
 versation, talked about fashions and the last drawing- 
 room until he was perfectly sick of their chatter. He 
 contrasted their behaviour with little Emmy's their 
 shrill voices with her tender ringing tones; their atti- 
 tudes and their elbows and their starch, with her humble 
 soft movements and modest graces. Poor Swartz was 
 seated in a place where Emmy had been accustomed to 
 sit. Her bejewelled hands lay sprawling in her amber 
 satin lap. Her tags and ear-rings twinkled, and her big
 
 8 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 eyes rolled about. She was doing nothing with perfect 
 contentment, and thinking herself charming. Anything 
 so becoming as the satin the sisters had never seen. 
 
 "Dammy," George said to a confidential friend, 
 " she looked like a China doll, which has nothing to do 
 all day but to grin and wag its head. By Jove, Will, it 
 was all I could do to prevent myself from throwing the 
 sofa-cushion at her." He restrained that exhibition of 
 sentiment, however. 
 
 The sisters began to play the Battle of Prague. 
 
 " Stop that d thing," George howled out in a fury 
 
 from the sofa. " It makes me mad. You play us some- 
 think, Miss Swartz, do. Sing something, anything but 
 the Battle of Prague." 
 
 " Shall I sing Blue- Eyed Mary, or the air from the 
 Cabinet? " Miss Swartz asked. 
 
 " That sweet thing from the Cabinet," the sisters said. 
 
 "We've had that," replied the misanthrope on the 
 sofa. 
 
 " I can sing Fluvy du Tajy," Swartz said, in a meek 
 voice, " if I had the words." It was the last of the 
 worthy young woman's collection. 
 
 "O, Fleuve du Tage," Miss Maria cried; " we have 
 the song," and went off to fetch the book in which 
 it was. 
 
 Now it happened that this song, then in the height of 
 the fashion, had been given to the young ladies by a 
 young friend of theirs, whose name was on the title, and 
 Miss Swartz, having concluded the ditty with George's 
 applause (for he remembered that it was a favourite of 
 Amelia's), was hoping for an encore perhaps, and 
 fiddling with the leaves of the music, when her eye fell 
 upon the title, and she saw Amelia Sedley written in the 
 corner. 
 
 " Lor'! " cried Miss Swartz, spinning swiftly round on 
 the music-stool, "is it my Amelia? Amelia that was at 
 Miss P. 's at Hammersmith? I know it is. It's her, and 
 Tell me about her where is she? 
 
 " Don't mention her," Miss Maria Osborne said 
 hastily. "Her family has disgraced itself. Her father
 
 VANITY FAIR 9 
 
 cheated papa, and as for her, she is never to be men- 
 tioned here." This was Miss Maria's return for George's 
 rudeness about the Battle of Prague. 
 
 "Are you a friend of Amelia's?" George said, 
 bouncing up. " God bless you for it, Miss Swartz. 
 Don't believe what the girls say. She's not to blame at 
 any rate. She 's the best " 
 
 " You know you're not to speak about her, George," 
 cried Jane. " Papa forbids it." 
 
 " Who 's to prevent me? " George cried out. " I will 
 speak of her. I say she 's the best, the kindest, the 
 gentlest, the sweetest girl in England ; and that, bank- 
 rupt or no, my sisters are not fit to hold candles to her. 
 If you like her, go and see her, Miss Swartz ; she wants 
 friends now; and I say, God bless everybody who be- 
 friends her. Anybody who speaks kindly of her is my 
 friend ; anybody who speaks against her is my enemy. 
 Thank you, Miss Swartz; " and he went up and wrung 
 her hand. 
 
 "George! George!" one of the sisters cried im- 
 ploringly. 
 
 " I say," George said fiercely, " I thank everybody 
 
 who loves Amelia Sed " He stopped. Old Osborne 
 
 was in the room with a face livid with rage, and eyes 
 like hot coals. 
 
 Though George had stopped in his sentence, yet, his 
 blood being up, he was not to be cowed by all the 
 generations of Osborne ; rallying ^instantly, he replied 
 to the bullying look of his father, with another so in- 
 dicative of resolution and defiance, that the elder man 
 quailed in his turn, and looked away. He felt that the 
 tussle was coming. " Mrs. Haggistoun, let me take you 
 down to dinner," he said. " Give your arm to Miss 
 Swartz, George," and they marched. 
 
 " Miss Swartz, I love Amelia, and we've been en- 
 gaged almost all our lives," Osborne said to his partner; 
 and during all the dinner, George rattled on with a 
 volubility which surprised himself, and made his father 
 doubly nervous for the fight which was to take place as 
 soon as the ladies were gone.
 
 io WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 The difference between the pair was, that while the 
 father was violent and a bully, the son had thrice the 
 nerve and courage of the parent, and could not merely 
 make an attack, but resist it; and finding that the 
 moment was now come when the contest between him 
 and his father was to be decided, he took his dinner 
 with perfect coolness and appetite before the engage- 
 ment began. Old Osborne, on the contrary, was nerv- 
 ous, and drank much. He floundered in his conversa- 
 tion with the ladies, his neighbours; George's coolness 
 only rendering him more angry. It made him half mad 
 to see the calm way in which George, flapping his 
 napkin, and with a swaggering bow, opened the door 
 for the ladies to leave the room ; and filling himself a 
 glass of wine, smacked it, and looked his father full in 
 the face, as if to say, " Gentleman of the Guard, fire 
 first." The old man also took a supply of ammunition, 
 but his decanter clinked against the glass as he tried to 
 fill it. 
 
 After giving a great heave, and with a purple choking 
 face, he then began. " How dare you, sir, mention that 
 person's name before Miss Swartz to-day, in my drawing- 
 room? I ask you, sir, how dare you do it? " 
 
 "Stop, sir," says George, "don't say dare, sir. 
 Dare isn't a word to be used to a Captain in the British 
 Army." 
 
 " I shall say what I like to my son, sir. I can cut him 
 off with a shilling if I like. I can make him a beggar if 
 I like. I -will say what I like," the elder said. 
 
 " I'm a gentleman though I am your son, sir," George 
 answered haughtily. "Any communications which you 
 have to make to me, or any orders which you may 
 please to give, I beg may be couched in that kind of 
 language which I am accustomed to hear." 
 
 Whenever the lad assumed his haughty manner, it 
 always created either great awe or great irritation in 
 the parent. Old Osborne stood in secret terror of his 
 son as a better gentleman than himself; and perhaps 
 my readers may have remarked in their experience ot 
 this Vanity Fair of ours, that there is no character
 
 VANITY FAIR u 
 
 which a low-minded man so much mistrusts, as that of 
 a gentleman. 
 
 " My father didn't give me the education you have 
 had, nor the advantages you have had, nor the money 
 you have had. If I had kept the company some folks 
 have had through my means, perhaps my son wouldn't 
 have any reason to brag, sir, of his superiority and West 
 End airs (these words were uttered in the elder Osborne's 
 most sarcastic tones). But it wasn't considered the part 
 of a gentleman in my time, for a man to insult his father. 
 If I'd done any such thing, mine would have kicked me 
 down-stairs, sir." 
 
 " I never insulted you, sir. I said I begged you to 
 remember your son was a gentleman as well as yourself. 
 I know very well that you give me plenty of money," 
 said George (fingering a bundle of notes which he had 
 got in the morning from Mr. Chopper). " You tell it 
 me often enough, sir. There 's no fear of my for- 
 getting it." 
 
 "I wish you'd remember other things as well, sir," 
 the sire answered. " I wish you'd remember that in this 
 house so long as you choose to honour it with your 
 company p , Captain I'm the master, and that name, and 
 that that that you that I say " 
 
 "That what, sir?" George asked, with scarcely a 
 sneer, filling another glass of claret. 
 
 " !" burst out his father with a screaming oath 
 
 "that the name of those Sedleys never be mentioned 
 here, sir not one of the whole damned lot of 'em, sir." 
 
 " It wasn't I, sir, that introduced Miss Sedley's name. 
 It was my sisters who spoke ill of her to Miss Swartz ; 
 and by Jove I'll defend her wherever I go. Nobody shall 
 speak lightly of that name in my presence. Our family 
 has done her quite enough injury already, I think, and 
 may leave off reviling her now she 's down. I'll shoot 
 any man but you who says a word against her." 
 
 " Go on, sir, go on," the old gentleman said, his eyes 
 starting out of his head. 
 
 "Go on about what, sir? about the way in which 
 we've treated that angel of a girl? Who told me to love
 
 12 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 her? It was your doing. I might have chosen elsewhere, 
 and looked higher, perhaps, than your society: but I 
 obeyed you. And now that her heart 's mine you give 
 me orders to fling it away, and punish her, kill her per- 
 haps for the faults of other people. It 's a shame, by 
 Heavens," said George, working himself up into passion 
 and enthusiasm as he proceeded, "to play at fast and 
 loose with a young girl's affections and with such an 
 angel as that one so superior to the people amongst 
 whom she lived, that she might have excited envy, only 
 she was so good and gentle, that it 's a wonder anybody 
 dared to hate her. If I desert her, sir, do you suppose 
 she forgets me? " 
 
 "I ain't going to have any of this dam sentimental 
 nonsense and humbug here, sir," the father cried out. 
 " There shall be no beggar-marriages in my family. If 
 you choose to fling away eight thousand a-year, which 
 you may have for the asking, you may do it: but by 
 Jove you take your pack and walk out of this house, sir. 
 Will you do as I tell you, once for all, sir, or will you 
 not?" 
 
 "Marry that mulatto woman?" George said, pulling 
 up his shirt-collars. " I don't like the colour, sir. Ask 
 the black that sweeps opposite Fleet Market, sir. I'm 
 not going to marry a Hottentot Venus." 
 
 Mr. Osborne pulled frantically at the cord by which he 
 was accustomed to summon the butler when he wanted 
 wine and, almost black in the face, ordered that func- 
 tionary to call a coach for Captain Osborne. 
 
 " I've done it," said George, coming into the Slaugh- 
 ters' an hour afterwards, looking very pale. 
 
 " What, my boy? " says Dobbin. 
 
 George told what had passed between his father and 
 himself. 
 
 "I'll marry her to-morrow," he said with an oath. 
 " I love her more every day, Dobbin."
 
 VANITY FAIR 13 
 
 THE FALL OF BECKY SHARP 
 (CHAPTER LIII) 
 
 [Becky Sharp, as Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, has reached the height 
 of social splendour and triumph. The Prince Regent has applauded 
 her amateur acting, and the great Lord Stey ne continues to patronize 
 both her husband and herself. Her husband, in spite of these ex- 
 ternal successes, still has outstanding debts; and as he leaves 
 Lord Steyne's house he is seized abruptly by bailiffs and carried 
 off to spend the night in a sponging-house. He sends a message 
 to his wife, but she replies with every appearance of pathos that 
 she is ill and can do nothing. Rawdon Crawley's brother, Sir Pitt 
 Crawley, however, has married a woman of prompt and instinct- 
 ive goodness, and it is to her that Rawdon next appeals. The 
 result is the tragic scene that ends the great adventuress's married 
 life.] 
 
 FRIEND RAWDON drove on then to Mr. Moss's mansion 
 in Cursitor Street, and was duly inducted into that 
 dismal place of hospitality. Morning was breaking over 
 the cheerful house-tops of Chancery Lane as the rattling 
 cab woke up the echoes there. A little pink-eyed Jew- 
 boy, with a head as ruddy as the rising morn, let the 
 party into the house, and Rawdon was welcomed to the 
 ground-floor apartments by Mr. Moss, his travelling 
 companion and host, who cheerfully asked him if he 
 would like a glass of something warm after his drive. 
 
 The Colonel was not so depressed as some mortals 
 would be, who, quitting a palace and a placens uxor, find 
 themselves barred into a sponging-house, for if the truth 
 must be told, he had been a lodger at Mr. Moss's estab- 
 lishment once or twice before. We have not thought it 
 necessary in the previous course of this narrative to men- 
 tion these trivial little domestic incidents : but the reader 
 may be assured that they can't unfrequently occur in the 
 life of a man who lives on nothing a-year. 
 
 Upon his first visit to Mr. Moss, the Colonel, then a 
 bachelor, had been liberated by the generosity of his 
 aunt; on the second mishap, little Becky, with the 
 greatest spirit and kindness, had borrowed a sum of
 
 I 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 money from Lord Southdown, and had coaxed her hus- 
 band's creditor (who was her shawl, velvet-gown, lace 
 pocket-handkerchief, trinket, and gimcrack purveyor, 
 indeed) to take a portion of the sum claimed, and Raw- 
 don's promissory note for the remainder: so on both 
 these occasions the capture and release had been con- 
 ducted with the utmost gallantry on all sides, and Moss 
 and the Colonel were therefore on the very best of terms. 
 
 "You'll find your old bed, Colonel, and everything 
 comfortable," that gentleman said, "as I may honestly 
 say. You may be pretty sure it 's kep' aired, and by the 
 best of company, too. It was slep' in the night afore 
 last by the Honourable Capting Famish, of the Fiftieth 
 Dragoons, whose Mar took him out, after a fortnight, 
 jest to punish him, she said. But, Law bless you, I 
 promise you, he punished my champagne, and had a 
 party 'ere every night reg'lar tip-top swells, down from 
 the Clubs and the West End Capting Ragg, the Hon- 
 ourable Deuceace, who lives in the Temple, and some 
 fellers as knows a good glass of wine, I warrant you. 
 I've got a Doctor of Diwinity up-stairs, five gents in the 
 Coffee-room, and Mrs. Moss has a tably-dy-hoty at half- 
 past five, and a little cards or music afterwards, when 
 we shall be most happy to see you." 
 
 " I'll ring when I want anything," said Rawdon, and 
 went quietly to his bed-room. He was an old soldier, 
 we have said, and not to be disturbed by any little 
 shocks of fate. A weaker man would have sent off a 
 letter to his wife on the instant of his capture. " But 
 what is the use of disturbing her night's rest?" thought 
 Rawdon. " She won't know whether I am in my room 
 or not. It will be time enough to write to her when she 
 has had her sleep out, and I have had mine. It 's only a 
 hundred-and-seventy, and the deuce is in it if we can't 
 raise that." And so, thinking about little Rawdon (whom 
 he would not have know that he was in such a queer 
 place), the Colonel turned into the bed lately occupied 
 by Captain Famish, and fell asleep. It was ten o'clock 
 when he woke up, and the ruddy-headed youth brought 
 him, with conscious pride, a fine silver dressing-case,
 
 VANITY FAIR 15 
 
 wherewith he might perform the operation of shaving. 
 Indeed Mr. Moss's house, though somewhat dirty, was 
 splendid throughout. There were dirty trays, and wine- 
 coolers en permanence on the sideboard, huge dirty 
 gilt cornices, with dingy yellow satin hangings to the 
 barred windows which looked into Cursitor Street 
 vast and dirty gilt picture-frames surrounding pieces 
 sporting and sacred, all of which works were by the 
 greatest masters ; and fetched the greatest prices, too, 
 in the bill transactions, in the course of which they were 
 sold and bought over and over again. The Colonel's 
 breakfast was served to him in the same dingy and 
 gorgeous plated ware. Miss Moss, a dark-eyed maid in 
 curl-papers, appeared with the teapot, and smiling, 
 asked the Colonel how he had slep'? and she brought 
 him in the Morning Post, with the names of all the great 
 people who had figured at Lord Steyne's entertainment 
 the night before. It contained a brilliant account of the 
 festivities, and of the beautiful and accomplished Mrs. 
 Rawdon Crawley's admirable personifications. 
 
 After a lively chat with this lady (who sat on the edge 
 of the breakfast-table in an easy attitude, displaying the 
 drapery of her stocking and an ex-white satin shoe, 
 which was down at heel), Colonel Crawley called for 
 pens and ink, and paper; and being asked how many 
 sheets, chose one which was brought to him between 
 Miss Moss's own finger and thumb. Many a sheet had 
 that dark-eyed damsel brought in ; many a poor fellow 
 had scrawled and blotted hurried lines of entreaty, and 
 paced up and down that awful room until his messenger 
 brought back the reply. Poor men always use mess- 
 engers instead of the post. Who has not had their 
 letters, with the wafers wet, and the announcement that 
 a person is waiting in the hall? 
 
 Now on the score of his application, Rawdon had not 
 many misgivings. 
 
 DEAR BECKY (Rawdon wrote) 
 
 / hope you slept well. Don't be frightened if I don't 
 bring you in your coffy. Last night as I was coming home 
 smoaking, I met with an accadent. I was nabbed by Moss of
 
 16 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Cursitor Street from whose gilt and splendid parler I write 
 this the same that had me this time two years. Miss Moss 
 brought in my tea she is grown very fat, and, as usual, had 
 her slackens down at heal. 
 
 It's Nathan's business a hundred-and-fifty with costs, 
 hundred-and-seventy. Please send me my desk and some 
 cloths I'm in pumps and a white tye (something like Miss 
 M.'s stockings) I've seventy in it. And as soon as you get 
 this drive to Nathan's offer him seventy-five down, and ask 
 him to renew say I'll take wine we may as well have some 
 dinner sherry ; but not picturs, they're too dear. 
 
 If he won't stand it. Take my ticker and such of your things 
 as you can spare, and send them to Balls we must, of coarse, 
 have the sum to-night. It won't do to let it stand over, as to- 
 morrow's Sunday ; the beds here are not very clean, and there 
 may be other things out against me I'm glad it an't Rawdon's 
 Saturday for coming home. God bless you. 
 
 Yours in haste, 
 R. C. 
 
 P.S. Make haste and come." 
 
 This letter, sealed with a wafer, was dispatched by 
 one of the messengers who are always hanging about 
 Mr. Moss's establishment; and Rawdon, having seen 
 him depart, went out in the court-yard, and smoked his 
 cigar with a tolerably easy mind in spite of the bars 
 overhead; for Mr. Moss's court-yard is railed in like a 
 cage, lest the gentlemen who are boarding with him 
 should take a fancy to escape from his hospitality. 
 
 Three hours, he calculated, would be the utmost time 
 required, before Becky should arrive and open his prison 
 doors : and he passed these pretty cheerfully in smoking, 
 in reading the paper, and in the coffee-room with an 
 acquaintance, Captain Walker, who happened to be 
 there, and with whom he cut for sixpences for some 
 hours, with pretty equal luck on either side. 
 
 But the day passed away and no messenger returned, 
 no Becky. Mr. Moss's tably-dy-hoty was served at 
 the appointed hour of half-past five, when such of the 
 gentlemen lodging in the house as could afford to pay 
 for the banquet, came and partook of it in the splendid 
 front parlour before described, and with which Mr.
 
 VANITY FAIR 17 
 
 Crawley's temporary lodging communicated, when Miss 
 M. (Miss Hem, as her papa called her), appeared without 
 the curl-papers of the morning, and Mrs. M. did the 
 honours of a prime boiled leg of mutton and turnips, 
 of which the Colonel ate with a very faint appetite, 
 Asked whether he would " stand " a bottle of champagne 
 for the company, he consented, and the ladies drank to 
 his 'ealth, and Mr. Moss, in the most polite manner, 
 " looked towards him." 
 
 In the midst of this repast, however, the door-bell was 
 heard, young Moss of the ruddy hair rose up with the 
 keys and answered the summons, and coming back, told 
 the Colonel that the messenger had returned with a bag, 
 a desk, and a letter, which he gave him. "No cera- 
 mony, Colonel, I beg," said Mrs. Moss with a wave of 
 her hand, and he opened the letter rather tremulously. 
 It was a beautiful letter, highly scented, on a pink 
 paper, and with a light green seal : 
 
 MON PAUVRE CHER PETIT (Mrs. Crawley wrote) 
 
 I could not sleep one -wink for thinking of what had 
 become of my odious old monstre: and only got to rest in the 
 morning after sending for Mr. Blench (for I was in a fever), 
 who gave me a composing draught and left orders with Fifine 
 that I should be disturbed on no account. So that my poor old 
 man's messenger, who had bien mauvaise mine, Fifine says, 
 and sentoit le genievre, remained in the hall for some hours 
 waiting my bell. You may fancy my state when I read your 
 poor dear old ill-spelt letter. 
 
 Ill as I was, I instantly called for the carriage, and as soon 
 as I was dressed (though I couldn't drink a drop of chocolate 
 I assure you I couldn't without my monstre to bring it to me), 
 I drove venire a terre to Nathan's. I saw him I wept I cried 
 I fell at his odious knees. Nothing would mollify the horrid 
 man. He would have all the money, he said, or keep my poor 
 monstre in prison. I drove home with the intention of paying 
 that triste visite ches man oncle (when every trinket I have 
 should be at your disposal, though they would .not fetch a 
 hundred pounds, for some, you know, are with ce cher oncle 
 already), and found Milor there with the Bulgarian old sheep- 
 faced monstre who had come to compliment me upon last 
 night's performances. Paddington came in, too, drawling and 
 lisping and twiddling his hair; so did Champignac, and his 
 C
 
 i8 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 chef everybody withfoison of compliments and pretty speeches 
 plaguing poor me, who longed to be rid of them, and was 
 thinking every moment of the time of mon pauvre prisonnier. 
 
 When they were gone, I went down on my knees to Milor; 
 told him we were going to pawn everything, and begged and 
 prayed him to give me two hundred pounds. He pish'd and 
 psha'd in a fury told me not to be such a fool as to pawn 
 and said he would see whether he could lend me the money. 
 At last he went away, promising that he would send it me in 
 the morning: when I will bring it to my poor old monster 
 with a kiss from his affectionate 
 
 BECKY. 
 
 I am writing in bed. Oh I have such a headache and such 
 a heartache ! 
 
 When Rawdon read over this letter, he turned so red 
 and looked so savage, that the company at the table- 
 d'hote easily perceived that bad news had reached 
 him. All his suspicions, which he had been trying to 
 banish, returned upon him. She could not even go out 
 and sell her trinkets to free him. She couldj laugh and 
 talk about compliments paid to her, whilst he was in 
 prison. Who had put him there? Wenham had walked 
 with him. Was there . . . He could hardly bear to 
 think of what he suspected. Leaving the room hurriedly, 
 he ran into his own opened his desk, wrote two hurried 
 lines, which he directed to Sir Pitt or Lady Crawley, and 
 bade the messenger carry them at once to Gaunt Street, 
 bidding him to take a cab, and promising him a guinea 
 if he was back in an hour. 
 
 In the note he besought his dear brother and sister, 
 for the sake of God ; for the sake of his dear child and 
 his honour; to come to him and relieve him from his 
 difficulty. He was in prison: he wanted a hundred 
 pounds to set him free he entreated them to come 
 to him. 
 
 He went back to the dining-room after dispatching his 
 messenger, and called for more wine. He laughed and 
 talked with a strange boisterousness, as the people 
 thought. Sometimes he laughed madly at his own fears, 
 and went on drinking for an hour; listening all the
 
 VANITY FAIR 19 
 
 while for the carriage which was to bring his fate 
 back. 
 
 At the expiration of that time, wheels were heard 
 whirling up to the gate the young Janitor went out 
 with his gate-keys. It was a lady whom he let in at the 
 bailiffs door. 
 
 "Colonel Crawley," she said, trembling very much. 
 He, with a knowing look, locked the outer door upon 
 her then unlocked and opened the inner one, and call- 
 ing out, " Colonel, you're wanted," led her into the back 
 parlour, which he occupied. 
 
 Rawdon came in from the dining-parlour where all 
 those people were carousing, into his back room ; a flare 
 of coarse light following him into the apartment where 
 the lady stood, still very nervous. 
 
 " It is I, Rawdon," she said, in a timid voice, which 
 she strove to render cheerful. "It is Jane." Rawdon 
 was quite overcome by that kind voice and presence. 
 He ran up to her caught her in his arms gasped out 
 some inarticulate words of thanks, and fairly sobbed on 
 her shoulder. She did not know the cause of his 
 emotion. 
 
 The bills of Mr. Moss were quickly settled, perhaps 
 to the disappointment of that gentleman, who had 
 counted on having the Colonel as his guest over Sunday 
 at least; and Jane, with beaming smiles and happiness 
 in her eyes, carried away Rawdon from the bailiff's 
 house, and they went homewards in the cab in which 
 she had hastened to his release. " Pitt was gone to a 
 parliamentary dinner," she said, when Rawdon's note 
 came, "and so, dear Rawdon, I I came myself;" and 
 she put her kind hand in his. Perhaps it was well for 
 Rawdon Crawley that Pitt was away at that dinner. 
 Rawdon thanked his sister a hundred times, and with 
 an ardour of gratitude which touched and almost alarmed 
 that soft-hearted woman. "Oh," said he, in his rude, 
 artless way, "you you don't know how I'm changed 
 since I've known you and and little Rawdy. I I'd 
 like to change somehow. You see I want I want to 
 be " He did not finish the sentence, but she could
 
 20 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 interpret it. And that night after he left her, and as she 
 sate by her own little boy's bed, she prayed humbly for 
 that poor wayworn sinner. 
 
 Rawdon left her and walked home rapidly. It was 
 nine o'clock at night. He ran across the streets, and 
 the great squares of Vanity Fair, and at length came up 
 breathless opposite his own house. He started back and 
 fell against the railings, trembling as he looked up. The 
 drawing-room windows were blazing with light. She 
 had said that she was in bed and ill. He stood there for 
 some time, the light from the rooms on his pale face. 
 
 He took out his door-key and let himself into the 
 house. He could hear laughter in the upper rooms. He 
 was in the ball-dress in which he had been captured the 
 night before. He went silently up the stairs; leaning 
 against the banisters at the stair-head. Nobody was 
 stirring in the house besides all the servants had been 
 sent away. Rawdon heard laughter within laughter 
 and singing. Becky was singing a snatch of the song 
 of the night before: a hoarse voice shouted "Brava! 
 Brava! " it was Lord Steyne's. 
 
 Rawdon opened the door and went in. A little table 
 with a dinner was laid out and wine and plate. Steyne 
 was hanging over the sofa on which Becky sat. The 
 wretched woman was in a brilliant full toilette, her arms 
 and all her fingers sparkling with bracelets and rings ; 
 and the brilliants on her breast which Steyne had given 
 her. He had her hand in his, and was bowing over it to 
 kiss it, when Becky started up with a faint scream as 
 she caught sight of Rawdon's white face. At the next 
 instant she tried a smile, a horrid smile, as if to welcome 
 her husband: and Steyne rose up, grinding his teeth, 
 pale, and with fury in his looks. 
 
 He, too, attempted a laugh and came forward hold- 
 ing out his hand. "What, come back! How d'ye do, 
 Crawley?" he said, the nerves of his mouth twitching 
 as he tried to grin at the intruder. 
 
 There was that in Rawdon's face which caused Becky 
 to fling herself before him. " I am innocent, Rawdon,"
 
 VANITY FAIR 21 
 
 she said; " before God, I am innocent." She clung hold 
 of his coat, of his hands ; her own were all covered with 
 serpents, and rings, and baubles. " I am innocent. Say 
 I am innocent," she said to Lord Steyne. 
 
 He thought a trap had been laid for him, and was as 
 furious with the wife as with the husband. " You inno- 
 cent! Damn you," he screamed out. "You innocent! 
 Why every trinket you have on your body is paid for by 
 me. I have given you thousands of pounds which this 
 fellow has spent, and for which he has sold you. Inno- 
 cent, by ! You're as innocent as your mother, the 
 
 ballet-girl, and your husband the bully. Don't think to 
 frighten me as you have done others. Make way, sir, 
 and let me pass;" and Lord Steyne seized up his hat, 
 and, with flame in his eyes, and looking his enemy 
 fiercely in the face, marched upon him, never for a 
 moment doubting that the other would give way. 
 
 But Rawdon Crawley springing out, seized him by the 
 neck-cloth, until Steyne, almost strangled, writhed, and 
 bent under his arm. " You lie, you dog! " said Rawdon. 
 " You lie, you coward and villain ! " And he struck the 
 Peer twice over the face with his open hand, and flung 
 him bleeding to the ground. It was all done before 
 Rebecca could interpose. She stood there trembling be- 
 fore him. She admired her husband, strong, brave, and 
 victorious. 
 
 " Come here," he said. She came up at once. 
 
 "Take off those things." She began, trembling, 
 pulling the jewels from her arms, and the rings from her 
 shaking fingers, and held them all in a heap, quivering, 
 and looking up at him. "Throw them down," he said, 
 and she dropped them. He tore the diamond ornament 
 out of her breast, and flung it at Lord Steyne. It cut 
 him on his bald forehead. Steyne wore the scar to his 
 dying day. 
 
 " Come up-stairs," Rawdon said to his wife. " Don't 
 kill me, Rawdon," she said. He laughed savagely. 
 " I want to see if that man lies about the money as he 
 has about me. Has he given you any? " 
 
 " No," said Rebecca, " that is "
 
 22 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 "Give me your keys," Rawdon answered, and they 
 went out together. 
 
 Rebecca gave him all the keys but one : and she was 
 in hopes that he would not have remarked the absence 
 of that. It belonged to the little desk which Amelia had 
 given her in early days, and which she kept in a secret 
 place. But Rawdon flung open boxes and wardrobes, 
 throwing the multifarious trumpery of their contents 
 here and there, and at last he found the desk. The 
 woman was forced to open it. It contained papers, love- 
 letters many years old all sorts of small trinkets and 
 woman's memoranda. And it contained a pocket-book 
 with bank-notes. Some of these were dated ten years 
 back, too, and one was quite a fresh one a note for a 
 thousand pounds which Lord Steyne had given her. 
 
 " Did he give you this? " Rawdon said. 
 
 "Yes," Rebecca answered. 
 
 " I'll send it to him to-day," Rawdon said (for day had 
 dawned again, and many hours had passed in this 
 search), "and I will pay Briggs, who was kind to the 
 boy, and some of the debts. You will let me know where 
 I shall send the rest to you. You might have spared me 
 a hundred pounds, Becky, out of all this I have always 
 shared with you." 
 
 " I am innocent," said Becky. And he left her with- 
 out another word. 
 
 What were her thoughts when he left her? She re- 
 mained for hours after he was gone, the sunshine pour- 
 ing into the room, and Rebecca sitting alone on the 
 bed's edge. The drawers were all opened and their con- 
 tents scattered about, dresses and feathers, scarfs and 
 trinkets, a heap of tumbled vanities lying in a wreck. 
 Her hair was falling over her shoulders; her gown was 
 torn where Rawdon had wrenched the brilliants out of 
 it. She heard him go down-stairs a few minutes after 
 he left her, and the door slamming and closing on him. 
 She knew he would never come back. He was gone for 
 ever. Would he kill himself? she thought not until 
 after he had met Lord Steyne. She thought of her long
 
 VANITY FAIR 23 
 
 past life, and all the dismal incidents of it. Ah, how 
 dreary it seemed, how miserable, lonely and profitless ! 
 Should she take laudanum, and end it, too have done 
 with all hopes, schemes, debts, and triumphs! The 
 French maid found her in this position sitting in the 
 midst of her miserable ruins with clasped hands and 
 dry eyes. The woman was her accomplice, and in 
 Steyne's pay. " Mon Dieu, Madame, what has hap- 
 pened?" she asked. 
 
 What had happened? Was she guilty or not? She 
 said not ; but who could tell what was truth which came 
 from those lips ; or if that corrupt heart was in this case 
 pure? All her lies and her schemes, all her selfishness 
 and her wiles, all her wit and genius had come to this 
 bankruptcy. The woman closed the curtains, and with 
 some entreaty and show of kindness, persuaded her 
 mistress to lie down on the bed. Then she went below 
 and gathered up the trinkets which had been lying on 
 the floor since Rebecca dropped them there at her hus- 
 band's orders, and Lord Steyne went away. 
 
 THE LAST MEETING OF BECKY AND AMELIA 
 (FROM CHAPTER LXVII) 
 
 [Amelia Osborne, now a widow of long standing with a son to 
 whom all her emotions are tied, has more than once refused Major 
 Dobbin, the old and almost dumb admirer, who had given her 
 her husband, and can only haltingly propose to replace him. In 
 the course of her humble efforts to live she visits a German Spa, 
 where she finds herself face to face with the admirable and 
 equivocal figure that had once been her closest friend. Rebecca 
 Crawley is there, Rebecca after the catastrophe, after the jewels 
 have been torn from her arms and the success from her cynicism, 
 still full of audacity, but no longer of hope. In this strange and 
 sinister last glimpse of her she does a good action ; the scene is 
 one of the simplest and strongest in Thackeray, and it must speak 
 for itself.] 
 
 AMELIA had been made aware of some of these move- 
 ments. The correspondence between George and his
 
 24 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 guardian had not ceased by any means: William had 
 even written once or twice to her since his departure, 
 but in a manner so unconstrainedly cold, that the poor 
 woman felt now in her turn that she had lost her power 
 over him, and that, as he had said, he was free. He had 
 left her, and she was wretched. The memory of his 
 almost countless services, and lofty and affectionate 
 regard, now presented itself to her, and rebuked her day 
 and night. She brooded over those recollections accord- 
 ing to her wont ; saw the purity and beauty of the affec- 
 tion with which she had trifled, and reproached herself 
 for having flung away such a treasure. 
 
 It was gone indeed. William had spent it all out. He 
 loved her no more, he thought, as he had loved her. He 
 never could again. That sort of regard, which he had 
 proffered to her for so many faithful years, can't be flung 
 down and shattered, and mended so as to show no scars. 
 The little heedless tyrant had so destroyed it. No, 
 William thought again and again, " It was myself I de- 
 luded, and persisted in cajoling; had she been worthy of 
 the love I gave her, she would have returned it long ago. 
 It was a fond mistake. Isn't the whole course of life 
 made up of such? and suppose I had won her, should I 
 not have been disenchanted the day after my victory? 
 Why pine, or be ashamed of my defeat?" The more he 
 thought of this long passage of his life, the more clearly 
 he saw his deception. " I'll go into harness again," he 
 said, "and do my duty in that state of life in which it 
 has pleased Heaven to place me. I will see that the 
 buttons of the recruits are properly bright, and that the 
 sergeants make no mistakes in their accounts. I will 
 dine at mess, and listen to the Scotch surgeon telling 
 his stories. When I am old and broken, I will go on 
 half-pay, and my old sisters shall scold me. I have 
 ' geliebt und gelebet ' as the girl in Wallenstein says. I 
 am done. Pay the bills, and get me a cigar; find out 
 what there is at the play to-night, Francis ; to-morrow 
 we cross by the ' Batavier.' " He made the above speech, 
 whereof Francis only heard the last two lines, pacing up 
 and down the Boompjes at Rotterdam. The ' Batavier '
 
 VANITY FAIR 25 
 
 was lying in the basin. He could see the place on the 
 quarter-deck, where he and Emmy had sat on the 
 happy voyage out. What had that little Mrs. Crawley 
 to say to him? Psha! to-morrow we will put to sea, and 
 return to England, home, and duty! 
 
 After June all the little Court Society of Pumpernickel 
 used to separate, according to the German plan, and 
 make for a hundred watering-places, where they drank 
 at the wells ; rode upon donkeys ; gambled at the redoutes, 
 if they had money and a mind ; rushed with hundreds of 
 their kind, to gormandise at the tables-d 'hote ; and idled 
 away the summer. The English diplomatists went off to 
 Toplitz and Kissingen, their French rivals shut up their 
 chancellerie and whisked away to their darling Boulevard 
 de Gand. The Transparent reigning family took, too, to 
 the waters, or retired to their hunting-lodges. Every- 
 body went away having any pretensions to politeness, 
 and, of course, with them, Doctor von Glauber, the 
 Court Doctor, and his Baroness. The seasons for the 
 baths were the most productive periods of the Doctor's 
 practice he united business with pleasure, and his chief 
 place of resort was Ostend, which is much frequented by 
 Germans, and where the Doctor treated himself and his 
 spouse to what he called a " dib " in the sea. 
 
 His interesting patient, Jos, was a regular milch-cow 
 to the Doctor, and he easily persuaded the Civilian, both 
 for his own health's sake and that of his charming sister, 
 which was really very much shattered, to pass the 
 summer at that hideous seaport town. Emmy did not 
 care where she went much. Georgy jumped at the idea 
 of a move. As for Becky, she came as a matter of course 
 in the fourth place inside of the fine barouche Mr. Jos 
 had bought; the two domestics being on the box in 
 front. She might have some misgivings about the 
 friends whom she should meet at Ostend, and who 
 might be likely to tell ugly stories but, bah ! she was 
 strong enough to hold her own. She had cast such an 
 anchor in Jos now as would require a strong storm to 
 shake. That incident of the picture had finished him.
 
 26 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Becky took down her elephant, and put it into the little 
 box which she had had from Amelia ever so many years 
 ago. Emmy also came off with her Lares, her two 
 pictures, and the party, finally, were lodged in an ex- 
 ceedingly dear and uncomfortable house at Ostend. 
 
 There Amelia began to take baths, and get what good 
 she could from them, and though scores of people of 
 Becky's acquaintance passed her and cut her, yet Mrs. 
 Osborne, who walked about with her, and who knew 
 nobody, was not aware of the treatment experienced by 
 the friend whom she had chosen so judiciously as a 
 companion ; indeed, Becky never thought fit to tell her 
 what was passing under her innocent eyes. 
 
 Some of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's acquaintances, how- 
 ever, acknowledged her readily enough, perhaps more 
 readily than she would have desired. Among these were 
 Major Loder (unattached), and Captain Rook (late of the 
 Rifles), who might be seen any day on the Dyke, smok- 
 ing and staring at the women, and who speedily got an 
 introduction to the hospitable board and select circle of 
 Mr. Joseph Sedley. In fact, they would take no denial; 
 they burst into the house whether Becky was at home or 
 not, walked into Mrs. Osborne's drawing-room, which 
 they perfumed with their coats and mustachios, called 
 Jos "Old Buck," and invaded his dinner-table, and 
 laughed and drank for long hours there. 
 
 " What can they mean? " asked Georgy, who did not 
 like these gentlemen. " I heard the Major say to Mrs. 
 Crawley yesterday, ' No, no, Becky, you shan't keep 
 the old buck to yourself. We must have the bones in, 
 or, dammy, I'll split.' What could the Major mean, 
 Mamma." 
 
 "Major! don't call him Major!" Emmy said. "I'm 
 sure I can't tell what he meant." His presence and that 
 of his friends inspired the little lady with intolerable 
 terror and aversion. They paid her tipsy compliments ; 
 they leered at her over the dinner-table. And the Captain 
 made her advances that filled her with sickening dismay, 
 nor would she ever see him unless she had George by 
 her side.
 
 VANITY FAIR 27 
 
 Rebecca, to do her justice, never would let either of 
 these men remain alone with Amelia ; the Major was dis- 
 engaged too, and swore he would be the winner of her. 
 A couple of ruffians were fighting for this innocent 
 creature, gambling for her at her own table ; and though 
 she was not aware of the rascals' designs upon her, yet 
 she felt a horror and uneasiness in their presence, and 
 longed to fly. 
 
 She besought, she entreated Jos to go. Not he. He 
 was slow of movement, tied to his Doctor, and perhaps 
 to some other leading-strings. At least Becky was not 
 anxious to go to England. 
 
 At last she took a great resolution made the great 
 plunge. She wrote off a letter to a friend whom she had 
 on the other side of the water; a letter about which she 
 did not speak a word to anybody, which she carried her- 
 self to the post under her shawl, nor was any remark 
 made about it ; only that she looked very much flushed 
 and agitated when Georgy met her; and she kissed him 
 and hung over him a great deal that night. She did not 
 come out of her room after her return from her walk. 
 Becky thought it was Major Loder and the Captain who 
 frightened her. 
 
 " She mustn't stop here," Becky reasoned with herself. 
 " She must go away, the silly little fool. She is still 
 whimpering after that gaby of a husband dead (and 
 served right!) these fifteen years. She shan't marry 
 either of these men. It's too bad of Loder. No; she 
 shall marry the bamboo-cane, I'll settle it this very 
 night." 
 
 So Becky took a cup of tea to Amelia in her private 
 apartment, and found that lady in the company of her 
 miniatures, and in a most melancholy and nervous con- 
 dition. She laid down the cup of tea. 
 "Thank you," said Amelia. 
 
 " Listen to me, Amelia," said Becky, marching up 
 and down the room before the other, and surveying her 
 with a sort of contemptuous kindness. " I want to talk 
 to you. You must go away from here and from the im- 
 pertinences of these men. I won't have you harassed by
 
 28 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 them : and they will insult you if you stay. I tell you 
 they are rascals; men fit to send to the hulks. Never 
 mind how I know them. I know everybody. Jos can't 
 protect you, he is too weak, and wants a protector him- 
 self. You are no more fit to live in the world than a 
 baby in arms. You must marry, or you and your precious 
 boy will go to ruin. You must have a husband, you fool ; 
 and one of the best gentlemen I ever saw was offered 
 you a hundred times, and you have rejected him, you 
 silly, heartless, ungrateful little creature." 
 
 " I tried I tried my best, indeed I did, Rebecca," 
 said Amelia, deprecatingly, "but I couldn't forget ;" 
 and she finished the sentence by looking up at the 
 portrait. 
 
 "Couldn't forget him!" cried out Becky; "that 
 selfish humbug, that low-bred cockney dandy, that 
 padded booby, who had neither wit, nor manners, nor 
 heart, and was no more to be compared to your friend 
 with the bamboo cane than you are to Queen Elizabeth. 
 Why, the man was weary of you, and would have jilted 
 you, but that Dobbin forced him to keep his word. He 
 owned it to me. He never cared for you. He used to 
 sneer about you to me, time after time ; and made love 
 to me the week after he married you." 
 
 "It's false! It's false! Rebecca," cried out Amelia, 
 starting up. 
 
 " Look there, you fool," Becky said, still with provok- 
 ing good-humour ; and taking a little paper out of her 
 belt, she opened it and flung it into Emmy's lap. "You 
 know his hand-writing. He wrote that to me wanted 
 me to run away with him gave it me under your nose, 
 the day before he was shot and served him right ! " 
 Becky repeated. 
 
 Emmy did not hear her; she was looking at the letter. 
 It was that which George had put into the bouquet and 
 given to Becky on the night of the Duke of Richmond's 
 ball. It was as she said: the foolish young man had 
 asked her to fly. 
 
 Emmy's head sank down, and for almost the last time 
 in which she shall be called upon to weep in this history,
 
 VANITY FAIR 29 
 
 she commenced that work. Her head fell to her bosom, 
 and her hands went up to her eyes; and there for a 
 while, she gave way to her emotions, as Becky stood 
 on and regarded her. Who shall analyse those tears, 
 and say whether they were sweet or bitter? Was she 
 most grieved, because the idol of her life was tumbled 
 down and shivered at her feet, or indignant that her love 
 had been so despised, or glad because the barrier was 
 removed which modesty had placed between her and a 
 new, a real affection? "There is nothing to forbid me 
 now," she thought. " I may love him with all my heart 
 now. Oh, I will, I will, if he will but let me, and forgive 
 me." I believe it was this feeling rushed over all the 
 others which agitated that gentle little bosom. 
 
 Indeed she did not cry so much as Becky expected 
 the other soothed and kissed her a rare mark of 
 sympathy with Mrs. Becky. She treated Emmy like a 
 child, and patted her head. "And now let us get pen 
 and ink, and write to him to come this minute," she 
 said. 
 
 " I I wrote to him this morning," Emmy said, blush- 
 ing exceedingly. Becky screamed with laughter " Un 
 biglietto^ she sang out with Rosina, " eccolo qua!" 
 the whole house echoed with her shrill singing. 
 
 Two mornings after this little scene, although the day 
 was rainy and gusty, and Amelia had had an exceed- 
 ingly wakeful night, listening to the wind roaring, and 
 pitying all travellers by land and by water, yet she got 
 up early, and insisted upon taking a walk on the Dyke 
 with Georgy; and there she paced as the rain beat 
 into her face, and she looked out westward across the 
 dark sea-line, and over the swollen billows which came 
 tumbling and frothing to the shore. Neither spoke 
 much, except now and then, when the boy said a few 
 words to his timid companion, indicative of sympathy 
 and protection. 
 
 " I hope he won't cross in such weather," Emmy 
 said. 
 
 ' ' I bet ten to one he does, " the boy answered. ' ' Look,
 
 30 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 mother, there 's the smoke of the steamer." It was that 
 signal, sure enough. 
 
 But though the steamer was under weigh, he might 
 not be on board : he might not have got the letter ; he 
 might not choose to come. A hundred fears poured 
 one over the other into the little heart, as fast as the 
 waves on to the dyke. 
 
 The boat followed the smoke into sight. Georgy had 
 a dandy telescope, and got the vessel under view in the 
 most skilful manner. And he made appropriate nautical 
 comments upon the manner of the approach of the 
 steamer as she came nearer and nearer, dipping and 
 rising in the water. The signal of an English steamer 
 in sight went fluttering up to the mast on the pier. I 
 daresay Mrs. Amelia's heart was in a similar flutter. 
 
 Emmy tried to look through the telescope over George's 
 shoulder, but she could make nothing of it She only 
 saw a black eclipse bobbing up and down before her 
 eyes. 
 
 George took the glass again and raked the vessel. 
 " How she does pitch! " he said. " There goes a wave 
 slap over her bows. There 's only two people on deck 
 besides the steersman. There 's a man laying down, 
 
 and a chap in a cloak with a Hooray! It's Dob, 
 
 by jingo!" He clapped-to the telescope and flung his 
 arms round his mother. As for that lady, let us say 
 what she did in the words of a favourite poet Scucpvo'ev 
 yE\a<rao-a. She was sure it was William. It could be no 
 other. What she had said about hoping that he would 
 not come was all hypocrisy. Of course he would come : 
 what could he do else but come? She knew he would 
 come. 
 
 The ship came swiftly nearer and nearer. As they 
 went in to meet her at the landing-place at the quay, 
 Emmy's knees trembled so that she scarcely could run. 
 She would have liked to kneel down and say her prayers 
 of thanks there. Oh, she thought, she would be all her 
 life saying them ! 
 
 It was such a bad day that as the vessel came along- 
 side of the quay there were no idlers abroad ; scarcely
 
 VANITY FAIR 31 
 
 even a commissioner on the look-out for the few pas- 
 sengers in the steamer. That young scapegrace, George, 
 had fled too: and as the gentleman in the old cloak 
 lined with red stuff stepped on to the shore, there was 
 scarcely any one present to see what took place, which 
 was briefly this : 
 
 A lady in a dripping white bonnet and shawl, with 
 her two little hands out before her, went up to him, 
 and in the next minute she had altogether disappeared 
 under the folds of the old cloak, and was kissing one of 
 his hands with all her might ; whilst the other, I suppose, 
 was engaged in holding her to his heart (which her head 
 just about reached), and in preventing her from tumbling 
 down. She was murmuring something about Forgive 
 dear William dear, dear, dearest friend kiss, kiss, 
 kiss, and so forth and in fact went on under the cloak 
 in an absurd manner. 
 
 When Emmy emerged from it, she still kept tight 
 hold of one of William's hands, and looked up in his 
 face. It was full of sadness and tender love and pity. 
 She understood its reproach, and hung down her head. 
 
 " It was time you sent for me, dear Amelia," he said. 
 
 " You will never go again, William? " 
 
 " No, never, "he answered; and pressed the dear little 
 soul once more to his heart. 
 
 As they issued out of the Custom-house precincts, 
 Georgy broke out on them, with his telescope up to his 
 eye, and a loud laugh of welcome ; he danced round the 
 couple, and performed many facetious antics as he led 
 them up to the house. Jos wasn't up yet; Becky not 
 visible (though she looked at them through the blinds). 
 Georgy ran off to see about breakfast. Emmy, whose 
 shawl and bonnet were off in the passage in the hands 
 of Mrs. Payne, now went to undo the clasp of William's 
 cloak, and we will, if 3 ju please, go with George and 
 look after breakfast for the Colonel. The vessel is in 
 port. He has got the prize he has been trying for all his 
 life. The bird has come in at last. There it is with its 
 head on his shoulder, billing and cooing close up to his 
 heart, with soft outstretched fluttering wings. This is
 
 32 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 what he has asked for every day and hour for eighteen 
 years. This is what he pined after. Here it is the 
 summit, the end the last page of the third volume. 
 Good-bye, Colonel God bless you, honest William ! 
 Farewell, dear Amelia Grow green again, tender little 
 parasite, round the rugged old oak to which you cling !
 
 PENDENNIS 
 
 [Helen Pendennis, the widow of a country physician and apothe- 
 cary of good family but small worldly success, lives a retired and 
 religious life in the country, entirely devoted to her son Arthur. 
 She has, however, great confidence in the worldly wisdom of the 
 boy's uncle, Major Pendennis, a gravely and punctiliously frivolous 
 man about town, who contrives to live in the highest society on 
 comparatively slender means. When, therefore, Arthur falls madly 
 in love with an actress, Miss Fotheringay or Costigan, the daughter 
 of Captain Costigan, an amiable and intoxicated Irish adventurer, 
 the widow has no other choice than to send for the Major, although 
 his cynicism may be almost as little to her taste as the suicidal 
 idealism of the young lover. The Major is much too wary to bully 
 Pendennis ; he trusts to his honour and keeps his own eyes open 
 for developments. The scene which follows describes how the 
 Major gained information from one of Arthur's schoolfellows, and 
 then brought matters to a crisis with the Costigans.] 
 
 MAJOR PENDENNIS AND CAPTAIN COSTIGAN 
 (CHAPTERS X, XI) 
 
 SAUNTERING homewards, Major Pendennis reached the 
 hotel presently, and found Mr. Morgan, his faithful 
 valet, awaiting him at the door, who stopped his master 
 as he was about to take a candle to go to bed, and 
 said, with his usual air of knowing deference, " I think, 
 sir, if you would go into the coffee-room, there 's a 
 young gentleman there as you v ould like to see." 
 
 "What, is Mr. Arthur here?" the Major said, in 
 great anger. 
 
 " No, sir but his great friend, Mr. Foker, sir. Lady 
 Hagnes Foker's son is here, sir. He 's been asleep in 
 the coffee-room since he took his dinner, and has just 
 rung for his coffee, sir. And I think, p'raps, you might
 
 34 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 like to git into conversation with him," the valet said, 
 opening the coffee-room door. 
 
 The Major entered ; and there indeed was Mr. Foker, 
 the only occupant of the place. He had intended to go 
 to the play too, but sleep had overtaken him after a 
 copious meal, and he had flung up his legs on the bench, 
 and indulged in a nap instead of the dramatic amuse- 
 ment. The Major was meditating how to address the 
 young man, but the latter prevented him that trouble. 
 
 " Like to look at the evening paper, sir?" said Mr. 
 Foker, who was always communicative and affable ; and 
 he took up the Globe from his table, and offered it to 
 the new comer. 
 
 44 I am very much obliged to you," said the Major, 
 with a grateful bow and smile. " If I don't mistake the 
 family likeness, I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. 
 Henry Foker, Lady Agnes Foker's son. I have the 
 happiness to name her ladyship among my acquaint- 
 ances, and you bear, sir, a Rosherville face." 
 
 "Hullo! I beg your pardon," Mr. Foker said, "I 
 took you" he was going to say " I took you for a 
 commercial gent." But he stopped that phrase. "To 
 whom have I the pleasure of speaking? " he added. 
 
 41 To a relative of a friend and schoolfellow of yours 
 Arthur Pendennis, my nephew, who has often spoken to 
 me about you in terms of great regard. I am Major 
 Pendennis, of whom you may have heard him speak. 
 May I take my soda-water at your table? I have had 
 the pleasure of sitting at your grandfather's." 
 
 " Sir, you do me proud," said Mr. Foker, with much 
 courtesy. "And so you are Arthur Pendennis's uncle, 
 are you?" 
 
 " And guardian," added the Major. 
 
 44 He's as good a fellow as ever stepped, sir," said 
 Mr. Foker. 
 
 41 I'm glad you think so." 
 
 44 And clever, too I was always a stupid chap, I was 
 but you see, sir, I know 'em when they are clever, and 
 like 'em of that sort." 
 
 44 You show your taste and your modesty, too," said
 
 PENDENNIS 35 
 
 the Major. " I have heard Arthur repeatedly speak of 
 you, and he said your talents were very good." 
 
 "I'm not good at the books," Mr. Foker said, wag- 
 ging- his head "never could manage that Pendennis 
 could he used to do half the chaps' verses and yet 
 you are his guardian; and I hope you will pardon me 
 for saying that I think he's what we call a flat," the 
 candid young gentleman said. 
 
 The Major found himself on the instant in the midst 
 of a most interesting and confidential conversation. 
 " And how is Arthur a flat? " he asked, with a smile. 
 
 " You know," Foker answered, winking at him he 
 would have winked at the Duke of Wellington with just 
 as little scruple. "You know Arthur's a flat, about 
 women I mean." 
 
 " He is not the first of us, my dear Mr. Harry," an- 
 swered the Major. " I have heard something of this 
 but pray tell me more." 
 
 "Why, sir, you see it's partly my fault. We went 
 to the play one night, and Pen was struck all of a heap 
 with Miss Fotheringay, Costigan her real name is an 
 uncommon fine gal she is too ; and the next morning I 
 introduced him to the General, as we call her father a 
 regular old scamp and such a boy for the whisky-and- 
 water ! and he 's gone on being intimate there. And 
 he 's fallen in love with her and I'm blessed if he hasn't 
 proposed to her," Foker said, slapping his hand on the 
 table, until all the dessert began to jingle. 
 
 " What ! you know it too? " asked the Major. 
 
 "Know it! don't I? and many more too. We were 
 talking about it at mess, yesterday, and chaffing Derby 
 Oaks until he was as mad as a hatter. Know Sir 
 Derby Oaks? We dined together, and he went to the 
 play: we were standing at the door smoking, I remember, 
 when you passed in to dinner." 
 
 " I remember Sir Thomas Oaks, his father, before he 
 was a Baronet or a Knight ; he lived in Cavendish Square, 
 and was Physician to Queen Charlotte." 
 
 " The young one is making the money spin, I can tell 
 you," Mr. Foker said.
 
 36 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " And is Sir Derby Oaks," the Major said, with great 
 delight and anxiety, " another soupirantt " 
 
 " Another 'what ?" inquired Mr. Foker. 
 
 " Another admirer of Miss Fotheringay? " 
 
 " Lord bless you ! we call him Mondays, Wednesdays, 
 and Fridays, and Pen Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Satur- 
 days. But mind you, nothing wrong! No, no! Miss F. 
 is a deal too wide awake for that, Major Pendennis. 
 She plays one off against the other. What you call two 
 strings to her bow." 
 
 "I think you seem tolerably wide awake, too, Mr. 
 Foker," Pendennis said laughing. 
 
 " Pretty well, thank you, sir how are you?" Foker 
 replied imperturbably. "I'm not clever, p'raps: but I 
 am rather downy ; and partial friends say I know what's 
 o'clock tolerably well. Can I tell you the time of day in 
 any way? " 
 
 "Upon my word," the Major answered, quite de- 
 lighted, " I think you may be of very great service to 
 me. You are a young man of the world, and with such 
 one likes to deal. And as such I need not inform you 
 that our family is by no means delighted at this absurd 
 intrigue in which Arthur is engaged." 
 
 " I should rather think not," said Mr. Foker. " Con- 
 nection not eligible. Too much beer drunk on the pre- 
 mises. No Irish need apply. That I take to be your 
 meaning." 
 
 The Major said it was, exactly : and he proceeded to 
 examine his new acquaintance regarding the amiable 
 family into which his nephew proposed to enter, and 
 soon got from the candid witness a number of particu- 
 lars regarding the House of Costigan. 
 
 We must do Mr. Foker the justice to say that he 
 spoke most favourably of Mr. and Miss Costigan's 
 moral character. "You see," said he, "I think the 
 General is fond of the jovial bowl, and if I wanted to be 
 very certain of my money, it isn't in his pocket I'd invest 
 it but he has always kept a watchful eye on his daugh- 
 ter, and neither he nor she will stand anything but 
 what's honourable. Pen's attentions to her are talked
 
 PENDENNIS 37 
 
 about in the whole Company, and I hear all about them 
 from a young lady who used to be very intimate with 
 her, and with whose family I sometimes take tea in a 
 friendly way. Miss Rouncy says, Sir Derby Oaks has 
 been hanging about Miss Fotheringay ever since his 
 regiment has been down here ; but Pen has come in and 
 cut him out lately, which has made the Baronet so mad. 
 that he has been very near on the point of proposing 
 too. Wish he would ; and you'd see which of the two 
 Miss Fotheringay would jump at." 
 
 " I thought as much, "the Major said. " You give me 
 a great deal of pleasure, Mr. Foker. I wish I could 
 have seen you before." 
 
 " Didn't like to put in my oar," replied the other. 
 " Don't speak till I'm asked, when, if there 's no objec- 
 tions, I speak pretty freely. Heard your man had been 
 hankering about my servant didn't know myself what 
 was going on until Miss Fotheringay and Miss Rouncy 
 had the row about the ostrich feathers, when Miss R. 
 told me everything." 
 
 "Miss Rouncy, I gather, was the confidante of the 
 other." 
 
 "Confidant? I believe you. Why, she's twice as 
 clever a girl as Fotheringay, and literary and that, 
 while Miss Foth can't do much more than read." 
 
 " She can write," said the Major, remembering Pen's 
 breast-pocket. 
 
 Foker broke out into a sardonic "He, he! Rouncy 
 writes her letters," he said: "every one of "em; and 
 since they've quarrelled, she don't know how the deuce 
 to get on. Miss Rouncy is an uncommon pretty hand, 
 whereas the other one makes dreadful work of the writ- 
 ing and spelling when Bows ain't by. Rouncy 's been 
 settin' her copies lately she writes a beautiful hand, 
 Rouncy does." 
 
 " I suppose you know it pretty well," said the Major, 
 archly: upon which Mr. Foker winked at him again. 
 
 " I would give a great deal to have a specimen of her 
 handwriting," continued Major Pendennis, " I dare say 
 you could give me one."
 
 38 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " That would be too bad," Foker replied. " Miss F.'s 
 writin' ain't so very bad, I dare say ; only she got Miss 
 R. to write the first letter, and has gone on ever since. 
 But you mark my word, that till they are friends again 
 the letters will stop." 
 
 " I hope they will never be reconciled," the Major 
 said with great sincerity. "You must feel, my dear sir, 
 as a man of the world, how fatal to my nephew's pros- 
 pects in life is this step which he contemplates, and how 
 eager we all must be to free him from this absurd en- 
 gagement." 
 
 " He has come out uncommon strong," said Mr. 
 Foker; "I have seen his verses; Rouncy copied 'em. 
 And I said to myself when I saw 'em, ' Catch me writin' 
 verses to a woman, that's all." 
 
 " He has made a fool of himself, as many a good fel- 
 low has before him. How can we make him see his 
 folly, and cure it? I am sure you will give us what aid 
 you can in extricating a generous young man from such 
 a pair of schemers as this father and daughter seem to 
 be. Love on the lady's side is out of the question." 
 
 "Love, indeed!" Foker said. "If Pen hadn't two 
 thousand a-year when he came of age " 
 
 " If Pen hadn't what? " cried out the Major in aston- 
 ishment. 
 
 "Two thousand a-year: hasn't he got two thousand 
 a-year? the General says he has." 
 
 " My dear friend," shrieked out the Major, with an 
 eagerness which this gentleman rarely showed, "thank 
 you ! thank you ! I begin to see now. Two thousand 
 a-year ! Why, his mother has but five hundred a-year in 
 the world. She is likely to live to eighty, and Arthur 
 has not a shilling but what she can allow him." 
 
 " What! he ain't rich then? " Foker asked. 
 
 " Upon my honour he has no more than what I say." 
 
 " And you ain't going to leave him anything? " 
 
 The Major had sunk every shilling he could scrape 
 together on an annuity, and of course was going to 
 leave Pen nothing; but he did not tell Foker this. 
 " How much do you think a Major on half-pay can
 
 PENDENNIS 39 
 
 save?" he asked. " If these people have been looking 
 at him as a fortune, they are utterly mistaken and 
 and you have made me the happiest man in the world." 
 
 "Sir to YOU," said Mr. Foker, politely, and when 
 they parted for the night they shook hands with the 
 greatest cordiality; the younger gentleman promising 
 the elder not to leave Chatteris without a further con- 
 versation in the morning. And as the Major went up to 
 his room, and Mr. Foker smoked his cigar against the 
 door pillars of the George, Pen, very likely, ten miles 
 off, was lying in bed kissing the letter from his Emily. 
 
 The next morning, before Mr. Foker drove off in his 
 drag, the insinuating Major had actually got a letter of 
 Miss Rouncy's in his own pocket-book. Let it be a 
 lesson to women how they write. And in very high 
 spirits Major Pendennis went to call upon Doctor Port- 
 man at the Deanery, and told him what happy dis- 
 coveries he had made on the previous night. As they 
 sate in confidential conversation in the Dean's oak 
 breakfast parlour they could look across the lawn and 
 see Captain Costigan's window, at which poor Pen had 
 been only too visible some three weeks since. The Doc- 
 tor was most indignant against Mrs. Creed, the land- 
 lady, for her duplicity, in concealing Sir Derby Oaks' 
 constant visits to her lodgers, and threatened to excom- 
 municate her out of the Cathedral. But the wary Major 
 thought that all things were for the best; and, having 
 taken counsel with himself overnight, felt himself quite 
 strong enough to go and face Captain Costigan. 
 
 "I'm going to fight the dragon," he said, with a 
 laugh, to Doctor Portman. 
 
 " And I shrive you, sir, and bid good fortune go with 
 you," answered the Doctor. Perhaps he and Mrs. Port- 
 man and Miss Mira, as they sat with their friend, the 
 Dean's lady, in her drawing-room, looked up more than 
 once at the enemy's window to see if they could perceive 
 any signs of the combat. 
 
 The Major walked round, according to the directions 
 given him, and soon found Mrs. Creed's little door. He 
 passed it, and as he ascended to Captain Costigan's
 
 40 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 apartment, he could hear a stamping of feet, and a great 
 snouting of " Ha, ha! " within. 
 
 " It's Sir Derby Oaks taking his fencing lesson," 
 said the child, who piloted Major Pendennis. " He 
 takes it Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays." 
 
 The Major knocked, and at length a tall gentleman 
 came forth, with a foil and mask in one hand, and a 
 fencing glove on the other. 
 
 Pendennis made him a deferential bow. " I believe I 
 have the honour of speaking to Captain Costigan My 
 name is Major Pendennis." 
 
 The Captain brought his weapon up to the salute, and 
 said, "Major, the honer is moine; I'm deloighted to 
 see ye." 
 
 THE Major and Captain Costigan were old soldiers and 
 accustomed to face the enemy, so we may presume that 
 they retained their presence ot mind perfectly: but the 
 rest of the party assembled in Cos's sitting-room were, 
 perhaps, a little flurried at Pendennis's apparition. Miss 
 Fotheringay's slow heart began to beat no doubt, for 
 her cheek flushed up with a great healthy blush, as 
 Lieutenant Sir Derby Oaks looked at her with a scowl. 
 The little crooked old man in the window-seat, who had 
 been witnessing the fencing-match between the two 
 gentlemen (whose stamping and jumping had been such 
 as to cause him to give up all attempts to continue 
 writing the theatre music, in the copying of which he 
 had been engaged) looked up eagerly towards the new 
 comer as the Major of the well-blacked boots entered 
 the apartment, distributing the most graceful bows to 
 everybody present. 
 
 " Me daughter me friend, Mr. Bows me gallant 
 young pupil and friend, I may call 'um, Sir Derby Oaks," 
 said Costigan, splendidly waving his hand, and pointing 
 each of these individuals to the Major's attention. " In 
 one moment, Meejor, I'm your humble servant," and to 
 dash into the little adjoining chamber where he slept, to 
 give a twist to his lank hair with his hair-brush (a won-
 
 PENDENNIS 41 
 
 derful and ancient piece), to tear off his old stock and 
 put on a new one which Emily had constructed for him, 
 and to assume a handsome clean collar, and the new 
 coat which had been ordered upon the occasion of Miss 
 Fotheringay's benefit, was with the still active Costigan 
 the work of a minute. 
 
 After him Sir Derby entered, and presently emerged 
 from the same apartment, where he also cased himself 
 in his little shell-jacket, which fitted tightly upon the 
 young officer's big person; and which he and Miss 
 Fotheringay, and poor Pen, too, perhaps, admired pro- 
 digiously. 
 
 Meanwhile conversation was engaged in between the 
 actress and the new comer; and the usual remarks 
 about the weather had been interchanged before Costi- 
 gan re-entered in his new " shoot," as he called it. 
 
 " I needn't apologoise to ye, Meejor," he said, in his 
 richest and most courteous manner, "for receiving ye 
 in me shirt-sleeves." 
 
 "An old soldier can't be better employed than in 
 teaching a young one the use of his sword," answered 
 the Major, gallantly. " I remember in old times hear- 
 ing that you could use yours pretty well, Captain Costi- 
 gan." 
 
 "What, ye've heard of Jack Costigan, Major," said 
 the other, greatly. 
 
 The Major had, indeed; he had pumped his nephew 
 concerning his new friend, the Irish officer; and said 
 that he perfectly well recollected meeting Mr. Costigan, 
 and hearing him sing at Sir Richard Strachan's table 
 at Walcheren. 
 
 At this information, and the bland and cordial man- 
 ner in which it was conveyed, Bows looked up, entirely 
 puzzled. " But we will talk of these matters another 
 time," the Major continued, perhaps not wishing to 
 commit himself; " it is to Miss Fotheringay that I came 
 to pay my respects to-day : " and he performed another 
 bow for her, so courtly and gracious, that if she had 
 been a Duchess he could not have made it more hand- 
 some.
 
 42 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " I had heard of your performances from my nephew, 
 madam," the Major said, "who raves about you, as I 
 believe you know pretty well. But Arthur is but a boy, 
 and a wild enthusiastic young fellow, whose opinions 
 one must not take au pied de la lettre\ and I confess I 
 was anxious to judge for myself. Permit me to say 
 your performance delighted and astonished me. I have 
 seen our best actresses, and, on my word, I think you 
 surpass them all. You are as majestic as Mrs. Siddons." 
 
 " Faith, I always said so," Costigan said, winking at 
 his daughter: "Major, take a chair." Milly rose at 
 this hint, took an unripped satin garment off the only 
 vacant seat, and brought the latter to Major Pendennis 
 with one of her finest curtseys. 
 
 "You are as pathetic as Miss O'Neill," he continued, 
 bowing and seating himself; "your snatches of song 
 remind me of Mrs. Jordan in her best time, when we 
 were young men, Captain Costigan ; and your manner 
 reminded me of Mars. Did you ever see the Mars, Miss 
 Fotheringay?" 
 
 "There was two Mahers in Crow Street," remarked 
 Miss Emily: " Fanny was well enough, but Biddy was 
 no great things." 
 
 " Sure, the Major means the god of war, Milly, my 
 dear," interposed the parent. 
 
 " It is not that Mars I meant, though Venus, I sup- 
 pose, may be pardoned for thinking about him ; " the 
 Major replied with a smile directed in full to Sir Derby 
 Oaks, who now re-entered in his shell-jacket, but the 
 lady did not understand the words of which he made 
 use, nor did the compliment at all pacify Sir Derby, 
 who, probably, did not understand it either, and at any 
 rate received it with great sulkiness and stiffness ; scowl- 
 ing uneasily at Miss Fotheringay, with an expression 
 which seemed to ask what the deuce does this man 
 here? 
 
 Major Pendennis was not in the least annoyed by the 
 gentleman's ill-humour. On the contrary, it delighted 
 him. " So," thought he, "a rival is in the field;" and 
 he offered up vows that Sir Derby might be, not only a
 
 PENDENNIS 43 
 
 rival, but a winner too, in this love-match in which he 
 and Pen were engaged. 
 
 "I fear I interrupted your fencing- lesson; but my 
 stay in Chatteris is very short, and I was anxious to 
 make myself known to my old fellow-campaigner Cap- 
 tain Costigan, and to see a lady nearer who had charmed 
 me so much from the stage. I was not the only man 
 tpris last night, Miss Fotheringay (if I must call you so, 
 though your own family name is a very ancient and 
 noble one). There was a reverend friend of mine, who 
 went home in raptures with Ophelia; and I saw Sir 
 Derby Oaks fling a bouquet which no actress ever 
 merited better. I should have brought one myself, had 
 I known what I was going to see. Are not those the 
 very flowers in a glass of water on the mantelpiece 
 yonder?" 
 
 " I am very fond of flowers," said Miss Fotherin- 
 gay, with a languishing ogle at Sir Derby Oaks but 
 the Baronet still scowled sulkily. 
 
 " Sweets to the sweet isn't that the expression of 
 the play?" Major Pendennis asked, bent upon being 
 good-humoured. 
 
 " Ton my life, I don't know. Very likely it is. I ain't 
 much of a literary man," answered Sir Derby. 
 
 " Is it possible?" the Major continued, with an air of 
 surprise. " You don't inherit your father's love of letters, 
 then, Sir Derby? He was a remarkably fine scholar, 
 and I had the honour of knowing him very well." 
 
 " Indeed," said the other, and gave a sulky wag of 
 his head. 
 
 " He saved my life," continued Pendennis. 
 
 " Did he now?" cried Miss Fotheringay, rolling her 
 eyes first upon the Major with surprise, then towards 
 Sir Derby with gratitude but the latter was proof 
 against those glances; and far from appearing to be 
 pleased that the Apothecary, his father, should have 
 saved Major Pendennis's life, the young man actually 
 looked as if he wished the event had turned the other 
 way. 
 
 " My father, I believe, was a very good doctor," the
 
 44 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 young gentleman said by way of reply. "I'm not in that 
 line myself. I wish you good morning, sir. I've got an 
 appointment Cos, bye-bye Miss Fotheringay, good 
 morning." And, in spite of the young lady's imploring 
 looks and appealing smiles, the Dragoon bowed stiffly 
 out of the room, and the clatter of his sabre was heard 
 as he strode down the creaking stair; and the angry 
 tones of his voice as he cursed little Tom Creed, who 
 was disporting in the passage, and whose peg-top Sir 
 Derby kicked away with an oath into the street. 
 
 The Major did not smile in the least, though he had 
 every reason to be amused. "Monstrous handsome 
 young man that as fine a looking soldier as ever I 
 saw," he said to Costigan. 
 
 " A credit to the army and to human nature in 
 general," answered Costigan. "A young man of re- 
 foined manners, polite affabilitee, and princely fortune. 
 His table is sumptuous : he 's adawr'd in the regiment : 
 and he rides sixteen stone." 
 
 " A perfect champion," said the Major, laughing. " I 
 have no doubt all the ladies admire him." 
 
 " He's very well, in spite of his weight, now he's 
 young," said Milly ; " but he 's no conversation." 
 
 " He 's best on horseback," Mr. Bows said ; on which 
 Milly replied, that the Baronet had ridden third in the 
 steeple-chase on his horse Tareaways, and the Major 
 began to comprehend that the young lady herself was 
 not of a particular genius, and to wonder how she 
 should be so stupid and act so well. 
 
 Costigan, with Irish hospitality, of course pressed re- 
 freshment upon his guest: and the Major, who was no 
 more hungry than you are after a Lord Mayor's dinner, 
 declared that he should like a biscuit and a glass of wine 
 above all things, as he felt quite faint from long fasting 
 but he knew that to receive small kindnesses flatters 
 the donors very much, and that people must needs grow 
 well disposed towards you as they give you their 
 hospitality. 
 
 "Some of the old Madara, Milly, love," Costigan 
 said, winking to his child and that lady, turning to
 
 PENDENNIS 45 
 
 her father a glance of intelligence, went out of the room, 
 and down the stair, where she softly summoned her 
 little emissary Master Tommy Creed : and giving him a 
 piece of money, ordered him to go buy a pint of Madara 
 wine at the Grapes, and sixpennyworth of sorted biscuits 
 at the baker's, and to return in a hurry, when he might 
 have two biscuits for himself. 
 
 Whilst Tommy Creed was gone on this errand, Miss 
 Costigan sat below with Mrs. Creed, telling her land- 
 lady how Mr. Arthur Pendennis's uncle, the Major, 
 was above stairs; a nice, soft-spoken old gentleman; 
 that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth : and how Sir 
 Derby had gone out of the room in a rage of jealousy, 
 and thinking what must be done to pacify both of 
 them. 
 
 " She keeps the keys of the cellar, Major," said Mr. 
 Costigan, as the girl left the room. 
 
 " Upon my word you have a very beautiful butler," 
 answered Pendennis, gallantly, "and I don't wonder at 
 the young fellows raving about her. When we were of 
 their age, Captain Costigan, I think plainer women 
 would have done our business." 
 
 " Faith, and ye may say that, sir and lucky is the 
 man who gets her. Ask me friend Bob Bows here 
 whether Miss Fotheringay's moind is not even shuparior 
 to her person, and whether she does not possess a cult- 
 iveated intellect, a refoined understanding, and an emiable 
 disposition?" 
 
 " O, of course," said Mr. Bows, rather drily. " Here 
 comes Hebe blushing from the cellar. Don't you think 
 it is time to go to rehearsal, Miss Hebe? You will be 
 fined if you are late" and he gave the young lady a 
 look, which intimated that they had much better leave 
 the room and the two elders together. 
 
 At this order Miss Hebe took up her bonnet and 
 shawl, looking uncommonly pretty, good-humoured, and 
 smiling: and Bows gathered up his roll of papers, and 
 hobbled across the room for his hat and cane. 
 
 "Must you go?" said the Major. "Can't you give 
 us a few minutes more, Miss Fotheringay? Before you
 
 46 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 leave us, permit an old fellow to shake you by the hand, 
 and believe that I am proud to have the honour of mak- 
 ing your acquaintance, and am most sincerely anxious 
 to be your friend." 
 
 Miss Fotheringay made a low curtsey at the conclu- 
 sion of this gallant speech, and the Major followed her 
 retreating steps to the door, where he squeezed her 
 hand with the kindest and most paternal pressure. Bows 
 was puzzled with this exhibition of cordiality: "The 
 lad's relatives can't be really wanting to marry him to 
 her," he thought and so they departed. 
 
 "Now for it," thought Major Pendennis; and as for 
 Mr. Costigan he profited instantaneously by his daugh- 
 ter's absence to drink up the rest of the wine ; and tossed 
 off one bumper after another of the Madeira from the 
 Grapes, with an eager shaking hand. The Major came 
 up to the table, and took up his glass and drained it 
 with a jovial smack. If it had been Lord Steyne's parti- 
 cular, and not public-house Cape, he could not have ap- 
 peared to relish it more. 
 
 " Capital Madeira, Captain Costigan," he said. 
 "Where do you get it? I drink the health of that 
 charming creature in a bumper. Faith, Captain, I don't 
 wonder that the men are wild about her. I never saw 
 such eyes in my life, or such a grand manner. I am 
 sure she is as intellectual as she is beautiful ; and I have 
 no doubt she is as good as she is clever." 
 
 "A good girl, sir, a good girl, sir," said the de- 
 lighted father; "and I pledge a toast to her with all 
 my heart. Shall I send to the to the cellar for another 
 pint? It's handy by. No? Well, indeed, sir, ye may say 
 she is a good girl, and the pride and glory of her father 
 honest old Jack Costigan. The man who gets her will 
 have a jew'l to a wife, sir ; and I drink his health, sir, 
 and ye know who I mean, Major." 
 
 " I am not surprised at young or old falling in love 
 with her," said the Major, " and frankly must tell you, 
 that though I was very angry with my poor nephew 
 Arthur, when I heard of the boy's passion now I have 
 seen the lady I can pardon him any extent of it. By
 
 PENDENNIS 47 
 
 George, I should like to enter for the race myself, if I 
 weren't an old fellow and a poor one." 
 
 "And no better man, Major, I'm sure," cried Jack en- 
 raptured. "Your friendship, sir, delights me. Your 
 admiration for my girl brings tears to me eyes tears, 
 sir manlee tears and when she leaves me humble 
 home for your own more splendid maasion, I hope she'll 
 keep a place for her poor old father, poor old Jack Costi- 
 gan." The Captain suited the action to the word, and 
 his blood-shot eyes were suffused with water, as he ad- 
 dressed the Major. 
 
 "Your sentiments do you honour," the other said. 
 " But, Captain Costigan, I can't help smiling at one 
 thing you have just said." 
 
 "And what's that, sir?" asked Jack, who was at a 
 too heroic and sentimental pitch to descend from it. 
 
 "You were speaking about our splendid mansion 
 my sister's house, I mean." 
 
 " I mane the park and mansion of Arthur Pendennis, 
 Esquire, of Fairoaks Park, whom I hope to see a Mim- 
 ber of Parliament for his native town of Clavering, when 
 he is of ege to take that responsible stetion," cried the 
 Captain with much dignity. 
 
 The Major smiled. " Fairoaks Park, my dear sir!" 
 he said. " Do you know our history? We are of ex- 
 cessively ancient family certainly, but I began life with 
 scarce enough money to purchase my commission, and 
 my eldest brother was a country apothecary : who made 
 every shilling he died possessed of out of his pestle and 
 mortar." 
 
 " I have consented to waive that objection, sir," said 
 Costigan majestically, " in consideration of the known 
 respectability of your family." 
 
 " Curse your impudence," thought the Major; but he 
 only smiled and bowed. 
 
 " The Costigans, too, have met with misfortunes ; and 
 our house of Castle Costigan is by no manes what it 
 was. I have known very honest men apothecaries, sir, 
 and there 's some in Dublin that has had the honour of 
 dining at the Lord Leftenant's teeble."
 
 48 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 "You are very kind to give us the benefit of your 
 charity," the Major continued: "but permit me to say 
 that is not the question. You spoke just now of my 
 little nephew as heir of Fairoaks Park, and I don't know 
 what besides." 
 
 " Funded property, I've no doubt, Meejor, and some- 
 thing- handsome eventually from yourself." 
 
 " My g-ood sir, I tell you the boy is the son of a 
 country apothecary," cried out Major Pendennis, "and 
 that when he comes of age he won't have a shilling." 
 
 " Pooh, Major, you're laughing at me," said Mr. Cos- 
 tigan, " me young friend, I make no doubt, is heir to 
 two thousand pounds a-year." 
 
 "Two thousand fiddlesticks! I beg your pardon, my 
 dear sir; but has the boy been humbugging you? it is 
 not his habit. Upon my word and honour, as a gentle- 
 man and an executor to my brother's will too, he left 
 little more than five hundred a year behind him." 
 
 " And with aconomy, a handsome sum of money too, 
 sir," the Captain answered. " Faith, I've known a man 
 drink his clar't, and drive his coach-and-four on five 
 hundred a-year and strict aconomy, in Ireland, sir. 
 We'll manage on it, sir trust Jack Costigan for that." 
 
 " My dear Captain Costigan I give you my word 
 that my brother did not leave a shilling to his son 
 Arthur." 
 
 " Are ye joking with me, Meejor Pendennis?" cried 
 Jack Costigan. " Are ye thrifling with the feelings of a 
 father and a gentleman? " 
 
 " I am telling you the honest truth," said Major Pen- 
 dennis. " Every shilling my brother had, he left to his 
 widow : with a partial reversion, it is true, to the boy. 
 But she is a young woman, and may marry if he offends 
 her or she may outlive him, for she comes of an un- 
 commonly long-lived family. And I ask you, as a gen- 
 tleman and a man of the world, what allowance can my 
 sister, Mrs. Pendennis, make to her son out of five 
 hundred a-year, which is all her fortune that shall 
 enable him to maintain himself and your daughter in the 
 rank befitting such an accomplished young lady? "
 
 PENDENNIS 49 
 
 " Am I to understand, sir, that the young gentleman, 
 your nephew, and whom I have fosthered and cherished 
 as the son of me bosom, is an imposther who has been 
 thrifling- with the affections of me beloved child?" ex- 
 claimed the General, with an outbreak of wrath. " Have 
 a care, sir, how you thrifle with the honour of John 
 Costigan. If I thought any mortal man meant to do so, be 
 heavens I'd have his blood, sir were he old or young." 
 
 " Mr. Costigan! " cried out the Major. 
 
 " Mr. Costigan can protect his own and his daughter's 
 honour, and will, sir," said the other. " Look at that 
 chest of dthrawers, it contains heaps of letters that that 
 viper has addressed to that innocent child. There 's 
 promises there, sir, enough to fill a band-box with ; and 
 when I have dragged the scoundthrel before the Courts 
 of Law, and shown up his perjury and his dishonour, I 
 have another remedy in yondther mahogany case, sir, 
 which shall set me right, sir, with any individual ye 
 mark me words, Major Pendennis with any individual 
 who has counselled your nephew to insult a soldier and 
 a gentleman. What? Me daughter to be jilted, and me 
 gray hairs dishonoured by an apothecary's son ! By the 
 laws of Heaven, sir, I should like to see the man that 
 shall do it." 
 
 " I am to understand, then, that you threaten in the 
 first place to publish the letters of a boy of eighteen to 
 a woman of eight-and-twenty : and afterwards to do me 
 the honour of calling me out," the Major said, still with 
 perfect coolness. 
 
 "You have described my intentions with perfect ac- 
 curacy, Meejor Pendennis," answered the Captain, as he 
 pulled his ragged whiskers over his chin. 
 
 "Well, well; these shall be the subjects of future ar- 
 rangements, but before we come to powder and ball, my 
 good sir, do have the kindness to think with yourself 
 in what earthly way I have injured you? I have told you 
 that my nephew is dependent upon his mother, who has 
 scarcely more than five hundred a-year." 
 
 " I have my own opinion of the correctness of that 
 assertion," said the Captain. 
 I
 
 5 o WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " Will you go to my sister's lawyers, Messrs. Tatham 
 here, and satisfy yourself? " 
 
 "I decline to meet those gentlemen, " said the Cap- 
 tain, with rather a disturbed air. "If it be as you say, 
 I have been athrociously deceived by some one, and on 
 that person I'll be revenged." 
 
 " Is it my nephew? " cried the Major, starting up and 
 putting on his hat. " Did he ever tell you that his pro- 
 perty was two thousand a-year? If he did, I'm mistaken 
 in the boy. To tell lies has not been a habit in our 
 family, Mr. Costigan, and I don't think my brother's 
 son has learned it as yet. Try and consider whether you 
 have not deceived yourself; or adopted extravagant re- 
 ports from hearsay. As for me, sir, you are at liberty to 
 understand that I am not afraid of all the Costigans in 
 Ireland, and know quite well how to defend myself 
 against any threats from any quarter. I come here as 
 the boy's guardian to protest against a marriage, most 
 absurd and unequal, that cannot but bring poverty and 
 misery with it : and in preventing it I conceive I am 
 quite as much your daughter's friend (who I have no 
 doubt is an honourable young lady), as the friend of my 
 own family: and prevent the marriage I will, sir, by 
 every means in my power. There, I have said my say, 
 sir." 
 
 " But I have not said mine, Major Pendennis and ye 
 shall hear more from me," Mr. Costigan said, with a 
 look of tremendous severity. 
 
 " 'Sdeath, sir, what do you mean? " the Major asked, 
 turning round on the threshold of the door, and looking 
 the intrepid Costigan in the face. 
 
 "Ye said, in the course of conversation, that ye 
 were at the George Hotel, I think," Mr. Costigan said 
 in a stately manner. " A friend shall wait upon ye there 
 before ye leave town, sir." 
 
 " Let him make haste, Mr. Costigan," cried out the 
 Major, almost beside himself with rage. " I wish you a 
 good morning, sir." And Captain Costigan bowed a 
 magnificent bow of defiance to Major Pendennis over 
 the landing-place as the latter retreated down the stairs.
 
 PENDENNIS 51 
 
 PENDENNIS AND WARRINGTON 
 (FROM CHAPTER LXI) 
 
 [Thackeray was much concerned with philosophy, though never 
 quite sufficiently to make it clear and complete. Any selection, 
 however, from such a book as Pendennis would be incomplete 
 which did not give an example of his love of philosophic dialogue, 
 though with him perhaps, as with many other men, dialogue is 
 only another name for doubt. On joining the fraternity of the 
 Temple, Arthur Pendennis makes a friend of George Warrington, 
 a brilliant yet obscure Bohemian, who has been a great name at Ox- 
 bridge, and ever afterwards a powerful but anonymous journalist. 
 The contrast between his bitter idealism and the cheery back- 
 slapping pessimism of Pendennis, is as well suggested in the 
 following dialogue as in any other detachable page of the book. 
 Pendennis intends, on the advice of his worldly uncle, to marry the 
 daughter of the rich Lady Clavering.] 
 
 ON coming into his property, Arthur Pendennis at first 
 comported himself with a modesty and equanimity which 
 obtained his friend Warrington's praises, though Arthur's 
 uncle was a little inclined to quarrel with his nephew's 
 meanness of spirit, for not assuming greater state and 
 pretensions now that he had entered on the enjoyment of 
 his kingdom. He would have -had Arthur installed in 
 handsome quarters, and riding on showy park hacks, or 
 in well-built cabriolets, every day. " I am too absent," 
 Arthur said, with a laugh, "to drive a cab in London; 
 the omnibuses would cut me in two, or I should send my 
 horse's head into the ladies' carriage-windows ; and you 
 wouldn't have me driven about by my servant like an 
 apothecary, uncle?" No, Major Pendennis would on no 
 account have his nephew appear like an apothecary ; the 
 august representative of the house of Pendennis must 
 not so demean himself. And when Arthur, pursuing his 
 banter, said, "And yet, I dare say, sir, my father was 
 proud enough when he first set up his gig," the old 
 Major hemmed and ha'd, and his wrinkled face reddened 
 with a blush as he answered, "You know what Bona- 
 parte said, sir, ' // faut /aver son linge sale en fa-milled
 
 52 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 There is no need, sir, for you to brag that your father 
 was a a medical man. He came of a most ancient but 
 fallen house, and was obliged to reconstruct the family 
 fortunes, as many a man of good family has done before 
 him. You are like the fellow in Sterne, sir the Marquis 
 who came to demand his sword again. Your father got 
 back yours for you. You are a man of landed estate, by 
 Gad, sir, and a gentleman never forget you are a gen- 
 tleman." 
 
 Then Arthur slily turned on his uncle the argument 
 which he had heard the old gentleman often use regard- 
 ing himself. " In the society which I have the honour 
 of frequenting through your introduction, who cares to 
 ask about my paltry means or my humble gentility, 
 uncle?" he asked. "It would be absurd of me to 
 attempt to compete with the great folks ; and all that 
 they can ask from us is, that we should have a decent 
 address and good manners." 
 
 " But for all that, sir, I should belong to a better Club 
 or two," the uncle answered: " I should give an occa- 
 sional dinner, and select my society well; and I should 
 come out of that horrible garret in the Temple, sir." 
 And so Arthur compromised, by descending to the second 
 floor in Lamb Court : Warrington still occupying his old 
 quarters, and the two friends being determined not to 
 part one from the other. Cultivate, kindly reader, those 
 friendships of your youth : it is only in that generous 
 time that they are formed. How different the intimacies 
 of after days are, and how much weaker the grasp of 
 your own hand after it has been shaken about in twenty 
 years' commerce with the world, and has squeezed and 
 dropped a thousand equally careless palms ! As you can 
 seldom fashion your tongue to speak a new language 
 after twenty, the heart refuses to receive friendship 
 pretty soon : it gets too hard to yield to the impression. 
 
 So Pen had many acquaintances, and being of a jovial 
 and easy turn, got more daily: but no friend like War- 
 rington; and the two men continued to live almost as 
 much in common as the Knights of the Temple, riding 
 upon one horse (for Pen's was at Warrington's ser-
 
 PENDENNIS 53 
 
 vice), and having their chambers and their servitor in 
 common. 
 
 Mr. Warrington had made the acquaintance of Pen's 
 friends of Grosvenor Place during their last unlucky 
 season in London, and had expressed himself no better 
 satisfied with Sir Francis and Lady Clavering and her 
 ladyship's daughter than was the public in general. 
 "The world is right," George said, "about those 
 people. The young men laugh and talk freely before 
 those ladies and about them. The girl sees people whom 
 she has no right to know, and talks to men with whom 
 no girl should have an intimacy. Did you see those two 
 reprobates leaning over Lady Clavering's carriage in 
 the Park the other day, and leering under Miss Blanche's 
 bonnet? No good mother would let her daughter know 
 those men, or admit them within her doors." 
 
 " The Begum is the most innocent and good-natured 
 soul alive," interposed Pen. " She never heard any 
 harm of Captain Blackball, or read that trial in which 
 Charley Lovelace figures. Do you suppose that honest 
 ladies read and remember the Chronique Scandaleuse as 
 well as you, you old grumbler? " 
 
 " Would you like Laura Bell to know those fellows? " 
 Warrington asked, his face turning rather red. " Would 
 you let any woman you loved be contaminated by their 
 company? I have no doubt that the poor Begum is 
 ignorant of their histories. It seems to me she is 
 ignorant of a great number of better things. It seems 
 to me that your honest Begum is not a lady, Pen. It is 
 not her fault, doubtless, that she has not had the educa- 
 tion or learned the refinements of a lady." 
 
 "She is as moral as Lady Portsea, who has all the 
 world at her balls, and as refined as Mrs. Bull, who 
 breaks the King's English, and has half-a-dozen dukes 
 at her table," Pen answered, rather sulkily. "Why 
 should you and I be more squeamish than the rest of 
 the world? Why are we to visit the sins of her fathers 
 on this harmless kind creature? She never did anything 
 but kindness to you or any mortal soul. As far as she 
 knows, she does her best. She does not set up to be
 
 54 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 more than she is. She gives you the best dinners she 
 can buy, and the best company she can get. She pays 
 the debts of that scamp of a husband of hers. She spoils 
 her boy like the most virtuous mother in England. Her 
 opinion about literary matters, to be sure, is not worth 
 much ; and I daresay she never read a line of Words- 
 worth, or heard of Tennyson in her life." 
 
 " No more has Mrs. Flanagan the laundress," growled 
 out Pen's Mentor; " no more has Betty the housemaid; 
 and I have no word of blame against them. But a high- 
 souled man doesn't make friends of these. A gentleman 
 doesn't choose these for his companions, or bitterly rues 
 it afterwards if he do. Are you, who are setting up to 
 be a man of the world and a philosopher, to tell me that 
 the aim of life is to guttle three courses and dine off 
 silver? Do you dare to own to yourself that your ambi- 
 tion in life is good claret, and that you'll dine with any, 
 provided you get a stalled ox to feed on? You call me 
 a Cynic why, what a monstrous Cynicism it is, which 
 you and the rest of you men of the world admit. I'd 
 rather live upon raw turnips and sleep in a hollow tree, 
 or turn backwoodsman or savage, than degrade myself 
 to this civilisation, and own that a French cook was the 
 thing in life best worth living for." 
 
 " Because you like a raw beef-steak and a pipe after- 
 wards," broke out Pen, "you give yourself airs of 
 superiority over people whose tastes are more dainty, 
 and are not ashamed of the world they live in. Who 
 goes about professing particular admiration, or esteem, 
 or friendship, or gratitude even, for the people one 
 meets every day? If A. asks me to his house, and gives 
 me his best, I take his good things for what they are 
 worth and no more. I do not profess to pay him back 
 in friendship, but in the conventional money of society. 
 When we part, we part without any grief. When we 
 meet, we are tolerably glad to see one another. If I 
 were only to live with my friends, your black muzzle, 
 old George, is the only face I should see." 
 
 "You are your uncle's pupil," said Warrington, 
 rather sadly; " and you speak like a worldling."
 
 PENDENNIS 55 
 
 "And why not?" asked Pendennis; "why not ac- 
 knowledge the world I stand upon, and submit to the 
 conditions of the society which we live in and live by? 
 I am older than you, George, in spite of your grizzled 
 whiskers, and have seen much more of the world than 
 you have in your garret here, shut up with your books 
 and your reveries and your ideas of one-and-twenty. I 
 say, I take the world as it is, and being of it, will not be 
 ashamed of it. If the time is out of joint, have I any 
 calling or strength to set it right? " 
 
 " Indeed, I don't think you have much of either," 
 growled Pen's interlocutor. 
 
 " If I doubt whether I am better than my neighbour," 
 Arthur continued, "if I concede that I am no better, I 
 also doubt whether he is better than I. I see men who 
 begin with ideas of universal reform, and who, before 
 their beards are grown, propound their loud plans for 
 the regeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after 
 a few years of bootless talking and vainglorious at- 
 tempts to lead their fellows ; and after they have found 
 that men will no longer hear them, as indeed they never 
 were in the least worthy to be heard, sink quietly into 
 the rank and file, acknowledging their aims impractic- 
 able, or thankful that they were never put into practice. 
 The fiercest reformers grow calm, and are fain to put up 
 with things as they are: the loudest Radical orators 
 become dumb, quiescent placemen : the most fervent 
 Liberals, when out of power, become humdrum Con- 
 servatives, or downright tyrants or despots in office. 
 Look at Thiers, look at Guizot, in opposition and in 
 place! Look at the Whigs appealing to the country, 
 and the Whigs in power! Would you say that the con- 
 duct of these men is an act of treason, as the Radicals 
 bawl, who would give way in their turn, were their 
 turn ever to come? No, only that they submit to cir- 
 cumstances which are stronger than they march as 
 the world marches towards reform, but at the world's 
 pace (and the movements of the vast body of mankind 
 must needs be slow) forego this scheme as impractic- 
 able, on account of opposition that as immature, be-
 
 56 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 cause against the sense of the majority are forced to 
 calculate drawbacks and difficulties, as well as to think 
 of reforms and advances and compelled finally to sub- 
 mit, and to wait, and to compromise." 
 
 " The Right Honourable Arthur Pendennis could not 
 speak better, or be more satisfied with himself, if he was 
 First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Ex- 
 chequer," Warrington said. 
 
 " Self-satisfied? Why self-satisfied? " continued Pen. 
 " It seems to me that my scepticism is more respectful 
 and more modest than the revolutionary ardour of other 
 folks. Many a patriot of eighteen, many a Spouting- 
 Club orator, would turn the Bishops out of the House of 
 Lords to-morrow, and throw the Lords out after the 
 Bishops, and throw the Throne into the Thames after 
 the Peers and the Bench. Is that man more modest 
 than I, who take these institutions as I find them, and 
 wait for time and truth to develop, or fortify, or (if you 
 like) destroy them? A college tutor, or a nobleman's 
 toady, who appears one fine day as my right reverend 
 lord, in a silk apron and a shovel-hat, and assumes bene- 
 dictory airs over me, is still the same man we remember 
 at Oxbridge, when he was truckling to the tufts, and 
 bullying the poor undergraduates in the lecture-room. 
 An hereditary legislator, who passes his time with 
 jockeys and black-legs and ballet-girls, and who is 
 called to rule over me and his other betters because his 
 grandfather made a lucky speculation in the funds, or 
 found a coal or tin mine on his property, or because his 
 stupid ancestor happened to be in command of ten thou- 
 sand men as brave as himself, who overcame twelve 
 thousand Frenchmen, or fifty thousand Indians such a 
 man, I say, inspires me with no more respect than the 
 bitterest democrat can feel towards him. But, such as 
 he is, he is a part of the old society to which we belong : 
 and I submit to his lordship with acquiescence ; and he 
 takes his place above the best of us at all dinner parties, 
 and there bides his time. I don't want to chop his head 
 off with a guillotine, or to fling mud at him in the 
 streets. When they call such a man a disgrace to his
 
 PENDENNIS 57 
 
 order; and such another, who is good and gentle, 
 refined and generous, who employs his great means in 
 promoting every kindness and charity, and art and 
 grace of life, in the kindest and most gracious manner, 
 an ornament to his rank the question as to the use and 
 propriety of the order is not in the least affected one way 
 or other. There it is, extant among us, a part of our 
 habits, the creed of many of us, the growth of centuries, 
 the symbol of a most complicated tradition there stand 
 my lord the bishop and my lord the hereditary legislator 
 what the French call transactions both of them re- 
 presenting in their present shape mail-clad barons and 
 double-sworded chiefs (from whom their lordships the 
 hereditaries for the most part don't descend), and priests, 
 professing to hold an absolute truth and a divinely in- 
 herited power, the which truth absolute our ancestors 
 burned at the stake, and denied there ; the which divine 
 transmissible power still exists in print to be believed, 
 or not, pretty much at choice ; and of these, I say, I 
 acquiesce that they exist, and no more. If you say that 
 these schemes, devised before printing was known, or 
 steam was born ; when thought was an infant, scared 
 and whipped ; and truth under its guardians was gagged, 
 and swathed, and blindfolded, and not allowed to lift its 
 voice, or to lookout, or to walk under the sun; before 
 men were permitted to meet, or to trade, or to speak 
 with each other if any one says (as some faithful souls 
 do) that these schemes are for ever, and having been 
 changed and modified constantly are to be subject to 
 no farther development or decay, I laugh, and let the 
 man speak. But I would have toleration for these, as I 
 would ask it for my own opinions ; and if they are to 
 die, I would rather they had a decent and natural than 
 an abrupt and violent death." 
 
 "You would have sacrificed to Jove," Warrington 
 said, " had you lived in the time of the Christian per- 
 secutions." 
 
 " Perhaps I would," said Pen, with some sadness. 
 " Perhaps I am a coward perhaps my faith is un- 
 steady; but this is my own reserve. What I argue
 
 58 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 here is, that I will not persecute. Make a faith or a 
 dogma absolute, and persecution becomes a logical con- 
 sequence; and Dominic burns a Jew, or Calvin an Arian, 
 or Nero a Christian, or Elizabeth or Mary a Papist or 
 Protestant ; or their father both or either, according to 
 his humour; and acting" without any pangs of remorse 
 but on the contrary, with strict notions of duty fulfilled. 
 Make dogma absolute, and to inflict or to suffer death 
 becomes easy and necessary; and Mahomet's soldiers 
 shouting" ' Paradise ! Paradise ! " and dying" on the 
 Christian spears, are not more or less praiseworthy 
 than the same men slaughtering" a townful of Jews, or 
 cutting off the heads of all prisoners who would not 
 acknowledge that there was but one Prophet of God." 
 
 " A little while since, young- one," Warrington said, 
 who had been listening to his friend's confessions 
 neither without sympathy nor scorn, for his mood led 
 him to indulge in both, "you asked me why I remained 
 out of the strife of the world, and looked on at the great 
 labour of my neighbour without taking any part in the 
 struggle? Why, what a mere dilettante you own your- 
 self to be, in this confession of general scepticism, and 
 what a listless spectator yourself! You are six-and- 
 twenty years old, and as blase as a rake of sixty. You 
 neither hope much, nor care much, nor believe much. 
 You doubt about other men as much as about yourself. 
 Were it made of such pococuranti as you, the world 
 would be intolerable ; and I had rather live in a wilder- 
 ness of monkeys, and listen to their chatter, than in a 
 company of men who denied everything." 
 
 "Were the world composed of Saint Bernards or 
 Saint Dominies, it would be equally odious," said Pen, 
 "and at the end of a few score years would cease to 
 exist altogether. Would you have every man with his 
 head shaved, and every woman in a cloister, carrying 
 out to the full the ascetic principle? Would you have 
 conventicle hymns twanging from every lane in every 
 city in the world? Would you have all the birds of the 
 forest sing one note and fly with one feather? You call 
 me a sceptic because I acknowledge what w; and in
 
 PENDENNIS 59 
 
 acknowledging that, be it linnet or lark, or priest or 
 parson; be it, I mean, any single one of the infinite 
 varieties of the creatures of God (whose very name I 
 would be understood to pronounce with reverence, and 
 never to approach but with distant awe), I say that the 
 study and acknowledgment of that variety amongst men 
 especially increases our respect and wonder for the 
 Creator, Commander, and Ordainer of all these minds, 
 so different and yet so united, meeting in a common 
 adoration, and offering up, each according to his degree 
 and means of approaching the Divine centre, his ac- 
 knowledgment of praise and worship, each singing (to 
 recur to the bird simile) his natural song." 
 
 " And so, Arthur, the hymn of a saint, or the ode of 
 a poet, or the chant of a Newgate thief, are all pretty 
 much the same in your philosophy," said George. 
 
 "Even that sneer could be answered were it to the 
 point," Pendennis replied; "but it is not; and it could 
 be replied to you, that even to the wretched outcry of 
 the thief on the tree, the wisest and the best of all 
 teachers we know of, the untiring Comforter and Con- 
 soler, promised a pitiful hearing and a certain hope. 
 Hymns of saints ! Odes of poets ! who are we to measure 
 the chances and opportunities, the means of doing, or 
 even judging, right and wrong, awarded to men; and 
 to establish the rule for meting out their punishments 
 and rewards? We are as insolent and unthinking in 
 judging of men's morals as of their intellects. We 
 admire this man as being a great philosopher, and set 
 down the other as a dullard, not knowing either, or the 
 amount of truth in either, or being certain of the truth 
 anywhere. We sing Te Deum for this hero who has 
 won a battle, and De Profundis for that other one who 
 has broken out of prison, and has been caught after- 
 wards by the policeman. Our measure of rewards and 
 punishments is most partial and incomplete, absurdly 
 inadequate, utterly worldly, and we wish to continue it 
 into the next world. Into that next and awful world we 
 strive to pursue men, and send after them our impotent 
 party verdicts of condemnation or acquittal. We set up
 
 6o WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 our paltry little rods to measure Heaven immeasurable, 
 as if, in comparison to that, Newton's mind, or Pascal's 
 or Shakespeare's, was any loftier than mine ; as if the 
 ray which travels from the sun would reach me sooner 
 than the man who blacks my boots. Measured by that 
 altitude, the tallest and the smallest among us are so 
 alike diminutive and pitifully base, that I say we should 
 take no count of the calculation, and it is a meanness to 
 reckon the difference." 
 
 "Your figure fails there, Arthur," said the other, 
 better pleased; "if even by common arithmetic we can 
 multiply as we can reduce almost infinitely, the Great 
 Reckoner must take count of all ; and the small is not 
 small, or the great great, to his infinity." 
 
 " I don't call those calculations in question," Arthur 
 said; "I only say that yours are incomplete and pre- 
 mature; false in consequence, and, by every operation, 
 multiplying into wider error. I do not condemn the men 
 who killed Socrates and damned Galileo. I say that they 
 damned Galileo and killed Socrates." 
 
 " And yet but a moment since you admitted the pro- 
 priety of acquiescence in the present, and, I suppose, all 
 other tyrannies? " 
 
 " No: but that if an opponent menaces me, of whom 
 and without cost of blood and violence I can get rid, I 
 would rather wait him out, and starve him out, than 
 fight him out. Fabius fought Hannibal sceptically. Who 
 was his Roman coadjutor, whom we read of in Plutarch 
 when we were boys, who scoffed at the other's pro- 
 crastination and doubted his courage, and engaged the 
 enemy and was beaten for his pains?" 
 
 In these speculations and confessions of Arthur, the 
 reader may perhaps see allusions to questions which, no 
 doubt, have occupied and discomposed himself, and 
 which he may have answered by very different solutions 
 to those come to by our friend. We are not pledging 
 ourselves for the correctness of his opinions, which 
 readers will please to consider are delivered dramatically, 
 the writer being no more answerable for them than for
 
 PENDENNIS 61 
 
 the sentiments uttered by any other character of the 
 story: our endeavour is merely to follow out, in its 
 progress, the development of the mind of a worldly and 
 selfish, but not ungenerous or unkind or truth-avoiding 
 man. And it will be seen that the lamentable stage to 
 which his logic at present has brought him, is one of 
 general scepticism and sneering acquiescence in the 
 world as it is: or if you like so to call it, a belief qualified 
 with scorn in all things extant. The tastes and habits 
 of such a man prevent him from being a boisterous 
 demagogue, and his love of truth and dislike of cant 
 keep him from advancing crude propositions, such as 
 many loud reformers are constantly ready with ; much 
 more from uttering downright falsehoods in arguing 
 questions or abusing opponents, which he would die or 
 starve rather than use. It was not in our friend's nature 
 to be able to utter certain lies; nor was he strong 
 enough to protest against others, except with a polite 
 sneer; his maxim being, that he owed obedience to all 
 Acts of Parliament, as long as they were not repealed. 
 
 And to what does this easy and sceptical life lead a 
 man? Friend Arthur was a Sadducee, and the Baptist 
 might be in the Wilderness shouting to the poor, who 
 were listening with all their might and faith to the 
 preacher's awful accents and denunciations of wrath or 
 woe or salvation; and our friend the Sadducee would 
 turn his sleek mule with a shrug and a smile from the 
 crowd, and go home to the shade of his terrace, and 
 muse over preacher and audience, and turn to his roll 
 of Plato, or his pleasant Greek song-book babbling of 
 honey and Hybla, and nymphs and fountains and love. 
 To what, we say, does this scepticism lead? It leads a 
 man to a shameful loneliness and selfishness, so to speak 
 the more shameful, because it is so good-humoured 
 and conscienceless and serene. Conscience! What is 
 conscience? Why accept remorse? What is public or 
 private faith? Mythuses alike enveloped in enormous 
 tradition. If seeing and acknowledging the lies of the 
 world, Arthur, as see them you can with only too fatal 
 a clearness, you submit to them without any protest
 
 62 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 farther than a laugh ; if, plunged yourself in easy sen- 
 suality, you allow the whole wretched world to pass 
 groaning by you unmoved : if the fight for the truth is 
 taking place, and all men of honour are on the ground 
 armed on the one side or the other, and you alone are 
 to lie on your balcony and smoke your pipe out of the 
 noise and the danger, you had better have died, or 
 never have been at all, than such a sensual coward. 
 
 "The truth, friend!" Arthur said, imperturbably ; 
 " where is the truth? Show it me. That is the question 
 between us. I see it on both sides. I see it on the Con- 
 servative side of the House, and amongst the Radicals, 
 and even on the ministerial benches. I see it in this man 
 who worships by Act of Parliament, and is rewarded 
 with a silk apron and five thousand a year; in that man, 
 who, driven fatally by the remorseless logic of his creed, 
 gives up everything, friends, fame, dearest ties, closest 
 vanities, the respect of an army of churchmen, the 
 recognised position of a leader, and passes over, truth- 
 impelled, to the enemy, in whose ranks he is ready to 
 serve henceforth as a nameless private soldier: I see 
 the truth in that man, as I do in his brother, whose 
 logic drives him to quite a different conclusion, and 
 who, after having passed a life in vain endeavours to 
 reconcile an irreconcilable book, flings it at last down in 
 despair, and declares, with tearful eyes, and hands up 
 to Heaven, his revolt and recantation. If the truth is 
 with all these, why should I take side with any one of 
 them? Some are called upon to preach : let them preach. 
 Of these preachers there are somewhat too many, me- 
 thinks, who fancy they have the gift. But we cannot all 
 be parsons in church, that is clear. Some must sit silent 
 and listen, or go to sleep mayhap. Have we not all our 
 duties? The head charity-boy blows the bellows; the 
 master canes the other boys in the organ-loft ; the clerk 
 sings out Amen from the desk ; and the beadle with the 
 staff opens the door for his Reverence, who rustles in 
 silk up to the cushion. I won't cane the boys, nay, or 
 say Amen always, or act as the church's champion or 
 warrior, in the shape of the beadle with the staff; but I
 
 PENDENNIS 63 
 
 will take off my hat in the place, and say my prayers 
 there too, and shake hands with the clergyman as he 
 steps on the grass outside. Don't I know that his being 
 there is a compromise, and that he stands before me an 
 Act of Parliament? That the church he occupies was 
 built for other worship? That the Methodist chapel is 
 next door; and that Bunyan the tinker is bawling out 
 the tidings of damnation on the common hard by? Yes, 
 I am a Sadducee; and I take things as I find them, and 
 the world, and the Acts of Parliament ot the world, as 
 they are ; and as I intend to take a wife, if I find one 
 not to be madly in love and prostrate at her feet like a 
 fool not to worship her as an angel, or to expect to 
 find her as such but to be good-natured to her, and 
 courteous, expecting good-nature and pleasant society 
 from her in turn. And so, George, if ever you hear of 
 my marrying, depend on it, it won't be a romantic at- 
 tachment on my side : and if you hear ot any good place 
 under Government, I have no particular scruples that I 
 know of, which would prevent me from accepting your 
 offer." 
 
 "O Pen, you scoundrel! I know what you mean," 
 here Warrington broke out. "This is the meaning of 
 your scepticism, of your quietism, of your atheism, my 
 poor fellow. You're going to sell yourself, and Heaven 
 help you ! You are going to make a bargain which will 
 degrade you and make you miserable for life, and there 's 
 no use talking of it. If you are once bent on it, the devil 
 won't prevent you." 
 
 " On the contrary, he 's on my side, isn't he, George?" 
 said Pen with a laugh. " What good cigars these are! 
 Come down and have a little dinner at the Club; the 
 chefs in town, and he'll cook a good one for me. No, 
 you won't? Don't be sulky, old boy, I'm going down 
 to to the country to-morrow."
 
 64 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 THE BLACKMAILING OF MAJOR PENDENNIS 
 (CHAPS. LXVII AND LXVIII) 
 
 [Major Pendennis, in his diplomatic ingenuities on behalf of his 
 nephew, has built up an elaborate engine for shooting his nephew 
 into Parliament. The old intriguer is quaintly innocent of any 
 consciousness that his plot practically amounts to blackmail. He 
 has discovered that Lady Clavering, a rich woman married to an 
 abject aristocrat, has a husband still living. With this threat of 
 dispossession, he induces the wretched Sir Francis Clavering to 
 give up his seat in Parliament to Arthur. Just as the Major is 
 blandly blackmailing Clavering he finds himself suddenly black- 
 mailed by his own servant, Morgan.] 
 
 WHILST the Major was absent from his lodgings, 
 Morgan had been seated in the landlady's parlour, 
 drinking freely of hot brandy-and-water, and pouring 
 out on Mrs. Brixham some of the abuse which he had 
 received from his master upstairs. Mrs. Brixham was 
 Morgan's slave. He was his landlady's landlord. He 
 had bought the lease of the house which she rented ; he 
 had got her name and her son's to acceptances, and a 
 bill of sale which made him master of the luckless 
 widow's furniture. The young Brixham was a clerk in 
 an insurance-office, and Morgan could put him into what 
 he called quod any day. Mrs. Brixham was a clergy- 
 man's widow, and Mr. Morgan, after performing his 
 duties on the first floor, had a pleasure in making the 
 old lady fetch him his boot-jack and his slippers. She 
 was his slave. The little black profiles of her son and 
 daughter; the very picture of Tiddlecot Church, where 
 she was married, and her poor dear Brixham lived and 
 died, was now Morgan's property, as it hung there over 
 the mantel-piece of his back-parlour. Morgan sat in 
 the widow's back-room, in the ex-curate's old horse- 
 hair study-chair, making Mrs. Brixham bring supper for 
 him, and fill his glass again and again. 
 
 The liquor was bought with the poor woman's own 
 coin, and hence Morgan indulged in it only the more
 
 PENDENNIS 65 
 
 freely ; and he had eaten his supper and was drinking 1 a 
 third tumbler when old Pendennis returned from the 
 Club, and went upstairs to his rooms. Mr. Morgan 
 swore very savagely at him and his bell, when he heard 
 the latter, and finished his tumbler of brandy before he 
 went up to answer the summons. 
 
 He received the abuse consequent on this delay in 
 silence, nor did the Major condescend to read in the 
 flushed face and glaring eyes of the man, the anger 
 under which he was labouring. The old gentleman's 
 foot-bath was at the fire ; his gown and slippers await- 
 ing him there. Morgan knelt down to take his boots off 
 with due subordination: and as the Major abused him 
 from above, kept up a growl of maledictions below at 
 his feet. Thus, when Pendennis was crying, "Confound 
 you, sir, mind that strap curse you, don't wrench my 
 foot off," Morgan sotto voce below was expressing a 
 wish to strangle him, drown him, and punch his head 
 off. 
 
 The boots removed, it became necessary to divest 
 Mr. Pendennis of his coat; and for this purpose the 
 valet had necessarily to approach very near to his em- 
 ployer; so near that Pendennis could not but perceive 
 what Mr. Morgan's late occupation had been ; to which 
 he adverted in that simple and forcible phraseology 
 which men are sometimes in the habit of using to their 
 domestics: informing Morgan that he was a drunken 
 beast, and that he smelt of brandy. 
 
 At this the man broke out, losing patience, and fling- 
 ing up all subordination, "I'm drunk, am I? I'm a 
 beast, am I? I'm d d, am I? you infernal old mis- 
 creant. Shall I wring your old head off, and drownd 
 yer in that pail of water? Do you think I'm a-goin' to 
 bear your confounded old harrogance, you old Wigsby ! 
 Chatter your old hivories at me, do you, you grinning 
 old baboon ! Come on, if you are a man, and can stand 
 to a man. Ha! you coward, knives, knives! " 
 
 " If you advance a step I'll send it into you," said the 
 Major, seizing up a knife that was on the table near 
 him. " Go downstairs, you drunken brute, and leave 
 F
 
 66 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 the house ; send for your book and your wages in the 
 morning", and never let me see your insolent face again. 
 
 This d d impertinence of yours has been growing 
 
 for some months past. You have been growing too 
 rich. You are not fit for service. Get out of it, and out 
 of the house." 
 
 "Where would you wish me to go, pray, out of the 
 'ouse ? " asked the man, "and won't it be equal con- 
 venient to-morrow mornin'? tootyfay mame shose, siwa- 
 play munseer? " 
 
 " Silence, you beast, and go! " cried out the Major. 
 
 Morgan began to laugh, with rather a sinister laugh. 
 " Look yere, Pendennis," he said, seating himself; 
 "since I've been in this room you've called me beast, 
 
 brute, dog: and d d me, haven't you? How do you 
 
 suppose one man likes that sort of talk from another? 
 How many years have I waited on you, and how many 
 damns and cusses have you given me, along with my 
 wages? Do you think a man 's a dog, that you can talk 
 to him in this way? If I choose to drink a little, why 
 shouldn't I? I've seen many a gentleman drunk form'ly, 
 and per'aps have the 'abit from them. I ain't a-goin' to 
 leave this house, old feller, and shall I tell you why? 
 The house is my house, every stick of furnitur' in it is 
 mine, excep' your old traps, and your shower-bath, and 
 your wig-box. I've bought the place, I tell you, with 
 my own industry and perseverance. I can show a hun- 
 dred pound, where you can show fifty, or your damned 
 supersellious nephew either. I've served you honourable, 
 done everythink for you these dozen years, and I'm a 
 dog, am I? I'm a beast, am I? That's the language for 
 gentlemen, not for our rank. But I'll bear it no more. 
 I throw up your service; I'm tired on it; I've combed 
 your old wig and buckled your old girths and waist- 
 bands long enough, I tell you. Don't look savage at 
 me, I'm sitting in my own chair, in my own room, 
 a-telling the truth to you. I'll be your beast, and your 
 brute, and your dog no more, Major Pendennis 'Alf 
 Pay." 
 
 The fury of the old gentleman, met by the servant's
 
 PENDENNIS 67 
 
 abrupt revolt, had been shocked and cooled by the con- 
 cussion, as much as if a sudden shower-bath or a pail of 
 cold water had been flung upon him. That effect pro- 
 duced, and his anger calmed, Morgan's speech had 
 interested him, and he rather respected his adversary, 
 and his courage in facing him, as of old days, in the 
 fencing-room, he would have admired the opponent who 
 hit him. 
 
 "You are no longer my servant," the Major said: 
 "and the house may be yours; but the lodgings are 
 mine, and you will have the goodness to leave them. 
 To-morrow morning, when we have settled our accounts, 
 I shall remove into other quarters. In the meantime, I 
 desire to go to bed, and have not the slightest wish for 
 your farther company." 
 
 " We'll have a settlement, don't you be afraid," Morgan 
 said, getting up from his chair. " I ain't done with you 
 yet ; nor with your family, nor with the Clavering family, 
 Major Pendennis; and that you shall know." 
 
 "Have the goodness to leave the room, sir; I'm 
 tired," said the major. 
 
 " Hah ! you'll be more tired of me afore you've done," 
 answered the man, with a sneer, and walked out of the 
 room ; leaving the Major to compose himself, as best he 
 might, after the agitation of this extraordinary scene. 
 
 He sat and mused by his fire-side over the past 
 events, and the confounded impudence and ingratitude 
 of servants ; and thought how he should get a new man ; 
 how devilish unpleasant it was for a man of his age, 
 and with his habits, to part with a fellow to whom he 
 had been accustomed: how Morgan had a receipt for 
 boot- varnish, which was incomparably better and more 
 comfortable to the feet than any he had ever tried : how 
 very well he made mutton-broth, and tended him when 
 he was unwell. " Gad, it 's a hard thing to lose a fellow 
 of that sort: but he must go," thought the Major. 
 " He has grown rich, and impudent since he has grown 
 rich. He was horribly tipsy and abusive to-night. We 
 must part, and I must go out of the lodgings. Dammy, 
 I like the lodgings; I'm used to 'em. It's very un-
 
 68 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 pleasant, at my time of life, to change my quarters." 
 And so on mused the old gentleman. The shower-bath 
 had done him good : the testiness was gone : the loss of 
 the umbrella, the smell of paint at the Club, were for- 
 gotten under the superior excitement. "Confound the 
 insolent villain!" thought the old gentleman. "He 
 understood my wants to a nicety ; he was the best ser- 
 vant in England." He thought about his servant as a 
 man thinks of a horse that has carried him long and 
 well, and that has come down with him, and is safe 
 no longer. How the deuce to replace him? Where can 
 he get such another animal ! 
 
 In these melancholy cogitations the Major who had 
 donned his own dressing-gown and replaced his head of 
 hair (a little grey had been introduced into the coiffure of 
 late by Mr. Truefitt, which had given the Major's head 
 the most artless and respectable appearance) ; in these 
 cogitations, we say, the Major, who had taken off his 
 wig and put on his night-handkerchief, sate absorbed by 
 the fire-side, when a feeble knock came at his door, 
 which was presently opened by the landlady of the 
 lodgings. 
 
 "God bless my soul, Mrs. Brixham!" cried out the 
 Major, startled that a lady should behold him in the 
 simple appareil of his night-toilette. " It it 's very late, 
 Mrs. Brixham." 
 
 " I wish I might speak to you, sir," said the land- 
 lady, very piteously. 
 
 "About Morgan, I suppose? He has cooled himself 
 at the pump. Can't take him back, Mrs. Brixham. Im- 
 possible. I'd determined to part with him before, when 
 I heard of his dealings in the discount business I sup- 
 pose you've heard of them, Mrs. Brixham? My servant's 
 a capitalist, begad." 
 
 "Oh, sir," said Mrs. Brixham, "1 know it to my 
 cost. I borrowed from him a little money five years 
 ago ; and though I have paid him many times over, I am 
 entirely in his power. I am ruined by him, sir. Every- 
 thing I had is his. He 's a dreadful man." 
 
 " Eh, Mrs. Brixham? tant pis dev'lish sorry for you,
 
 PENDENNIS 69 
 
 and that I must quit your house after lodging here so 
 long: there 's no help for it. I must go." 
 
 " He says we must all go, sir," sobbed out the luck- 
 less widow. " He came downstairs from you just now 
 he had been drinking, and it always makes him very 
 wicked and he said|that you had insulted him, sir, and 
 treated him like a dog, and spoken to him unkindly; 
 and he swore he would be revenged, and and I owe 
 him a hundred and twenty pounds, sir, and he has a 
 bill of sale of all my furniture and says he will turn me 
 out of my house, and send my poor George to prison. 
 He has been the ruin of my family, that man." 
 
 "Dev'lish sorry, Mrs. Brixham; pray take a chair. 
 What can I do?" 
 
 "Could you not intercede with him for us? George 
 will give half his allowance: my daughter can send 
 something. If you will but stay on, sir, and pay a quar- 
 ter's rent in advance " 
 
 " My good madam, I would as soon give a quarter in 
 advance as not, if I were going to stay in the lodgings. 
 But I can't; and I can't afford to fling away twenty 
 pounds, my good madam. I'm a poor half-pay officer, 
 and want every shilling I have, begad. As far as a few 
 pounds goes say five pounds I don't say and shall 
 be most happy, and that sort of thing: and I'll give it to 
 you in the morning with pleasure : but but it 's getting 
 late, and I have made a railroad journey." 
 
 "God's will be done, sir," said the poor woman, dry- 
 ing her tears. " I must bear my fate." 
 
 " And a dev'lish hard one it is, and most sincerely I 
 pity you, Mrs. Brixham. I I'll say ten pounds, if you 
 will permit me. Good-night." 
 
 " Mr. Morgan, sir, when he came downstairs, and 
 when when I besought him to have pity on me, and 
 told him he had been the ruin of my family, said some- 
 thing which I did not well understand that he would 
 ruin every family in the house that he knew something 
 would bring you down too and that you should pay 
 him for your your insolence to him. I I must own to 
 you, that I went down on my knees to him, sir; and he
 
 70 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 said, with a dreadful oath against you, that he would 
 have you on your knees." 
 
 " Me? by Gad, that is too pleasant! Where is the 
 confounded fellow?" 
 
 " He went away, sir. He said he should see you in 
 the morning". Oh, pray try and pacify him, and save me 
 and my poor boy." And the widow went away with this 
 prayer, to pass her night as she might, and look for the 
 dreadful morrow. 
 
 The last words about himself excited Major Pendennis 
 so much, that his compassion for Mrs. Brixham's mis- 
 fortunes was quite forgotten in the consideration of his 
 own case. 
 
 " Me on my knees?" thought he, as he got into bed: 
 " confound his impudence. Who ever saw me on my 
 knees? What the devil does the fellow know? Gad, 
 I've not had an affair these twenty years. I defy him." 
 And the old campaigner turned round and slept pretty 
 sound, being rather excited and amused by the events of 
 the day the last day in Bury Street, he was determined 
 it should be. " For it 's impossible to stay on with a 
 valet over me and a bankrupt landlady. What good can 
 I do this poor devil of a woman ? I'll give her twenty 
 pound there 's Warrington's twenty pound, which he 
 has just paid but what 's the use? She'll want more, 
 and more, and more, and that cormorant Morgan will 
 swallow all. No, dammy, I can't afford to know poor 
 people; and to-morrow I'll say good-bye to Mrs. Brix- 
 ham and Mr. Morgan." 
 
 Early next morning Pendennis's shutters were opened 
 by Morgan, who appeared as usual, with a face perfectly 
 grave and respectful, bearing with him the old gentle- 
 man's clothes, cans of waters, and elaborate toilette 
 requisites. 
 
 " It's you, is it?" said the old fellow from his bed. 
 " I shan't take you back again, you understand." 
 
 " I 'ave not the least wish to be took back agin, Major 
 Pendennis," Mr. Morgan said, with grave dignity, " nor
 
 PENDENNIS 71 
 
 to serve you nor hany man. But as I wish you to be 
 con f 'table as long as you stay in my house, I came up 
 to do what 's ne'ssary." And once more, and for the last 
 time, Mr. James Morgan laid out the silver dressing- 
 case, and strapped the shining razor. 
 
 These offices concluded, he addressed himself to the 
 Majo- with an indescribable solemnity, and said: 
 " Thbkin' that you would most likely be in want of a 
 respeciable pusson, until you suited yourself, I spoke to 
 a youpg man last night, who is 'ere." 
 
 " Indeed," said the warrior in the tent-bed. 
 
 " He 'ave lived in the fust fam'lies, and I can wouch 
 for his respectability." 
 
 "You are monstrous polite," grinned the old Major. 
 And he truth is, that after the occurrences of the pre- 
 vious evening, Morgan had gone out to his own Club at 
 the ' Wheel of Fortune," and there finding Frosch, a 
 courier and valet just returned from a foreign tour with 
 your.g Lord Cubley, and for the present disposable, had 
 represented to Mr. Frosch, that he, Morgan, had had 
 "a devil of a blow-hup with his own Gov'nor, and was 
 goia' to retire from the business haltogether, and that if 
 Frosch wanted a tempo'ry job, he might prob'bly have it 
 by applying in Bury Street." 
 
 " You are very polite," said the Major, " and your re- 
 commendation, I am sure, will have every weight." 
 
 Morgan blushed; he felt his master was " a-chaffin' 
 of him." "The man have awaited on you before, sir," 
 he said with great dignity. " Lord De la Pole, sir, gave 
 him to his nephew young Lord Cubley, and he have 
 been with him on his foring tour, and not wishing to go 
 to Fitzurse Castle, which Frosch's chest is delicate, and 
 he cannot bear the cold in Scotland, he is free to serve 
 you or not, as you choose." 
 
 " I repeat, sir, that you are exceedingly polite," said 
 the Major. " Come in, Frosch you will do very well 
 Mr. Morgan, will you have the great kindness to " 
 
 " I shall show him what is ne'ssary, sir, and what is 
 custom'ry for you to wish to 'ave done. Will you please 
 to take breakfast 'ere or at the Club, Major Pendennis?"
 
 72 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " With your kind permission, I will breakfast here, 
 and afterwards we will make our little arrangements." 
 
 " If you please, sir." 
 
 " Will you now oblige me by leaving the room?' 
 
 Morgan withdrew ; the excessive politeness of his ex- 
 employer made him almost as angry as the Major's 
 bitterest words. And whilst the old gentleman is mgking 
 his mysterious toilet, we will also modestly retire 
 
 After breakfast, Major Pendennis and his new aide-de- 
 camp occupied themselves in preparing for their depar- 
 ture. The establishment of the old bachelor was not 
 very complicated. He encumbered himself with .10 use- 
 less wardrobe. A bible (his mother's), a road-book, 
 Pen's novel (calf elegant), and the Duke of Wellington's 
 Despatches, with a few prints, maps, and portrats of 
 that illustrious general, and of various sovereigns and 
 consorts of this country, and of the General under vhom 
 Major Pendennis had served in India, formed his literary 
 and artistical collection : he was always ready to rr.arch 
 at a few hours' notice, and the cases in which he had 
 brought his property into his lodgings some fifteen years 
 before, were still in the lofts amply sufficient to receive 
 all his goods. These, the young woman who dia the 
 work of the house, and who was known by the na.tie of 
 Betty to her mistress, and of Slavey to Mr. Morgan, 
 brought down from their resting-place, and obediently 
 dusted and cleaned under the eyes of the terrible Mor- 
 gan. His demeanour was guarded and solemn; he had 
 spoken no word as yet to Mrs. Brixham respecting his 
 threats of the past night, but he looked as if he would 
 execute them, and the poor widow tremblingly awaited 
 her fate. 
 
 Old Pendennis, armed with his cane, superintended 
 the package of his goods and chattels, under the hands 
 of Mr. Frosch, and the Slavey burned such of his papers 
 as he did not care to keep : flung open doors and closets 
 until they were all empty ; and now all boxes and chests 
 were closed, except his desk, which was ready to receive 
 the final accounts of Mr. Morgan. 
 
 That individual now made his appearance, and brought
 
 PENDENNIS 73 
 
 his books. " As I wish to speak to you in privick, per'aps 
 you will 'ave the kindness to request Frosch to step 
 downstairs," he said, on entering. 
 
 " Bring a couple of cabs, Frosch, if you please and 
 wait downstairs until I ring for you," said the Major. 
 Morgan saw Frosch downstairs, watched him go along 
 the street upon his errand, and produced his books and 
 accounts, which were simple and very easily settled. 
 
 " And now, sir," said he, having pocketed the cheque 
 which his ex-employer gave him, and signed his name to 
 his book with a flourish, "and now that accounts is 
 closed between us, sir," he said, " I propose to speak to 
 you as one man to another " (Morgan liked the sound of 
 his own voice : and, as an individual, indulged in public 
 speaking whenever he could get an opportunity, at the 
 Club, or the housekeeper's room), " and I must tell you, 
 that I'm \n possussion of certing infamation" 
 
 " And may I inquire of what nature, pray? " asked the 
 Major. 
 
 " It 's valuble information, Major Pendennis, as you 
 know very well. I know of a marriage as is no marriage 
 of a honourable Baronet as is no more married than I 
 am ; and which his wife is married to somebody else, as 
 you know, too, sir." 
 
 Pendennis at once understood all. "Ha! this accounts 
 for your behaviour. You have been listening at the door, 
 sir, I suppose," said the Major, looking very haughty; 
 " I forgot to look at the keyhole when I went to that 
 public-house, or I might have suspected what sort of a 
 person was behind it." 
 
 " I may have my schemes as you may have yours, I 
 suppose," answered Morgan. " I may get my informa- 
 tion, and I may act on that information, and I may find 
 that information valuble as anybody else may. A poor 
 servant may have a bit of luck as well as a gentleman, 
 mayn't he? Don't you be putting on your 'aughty looks, 
 sir, and comin' the aristocrat over me. That 's all gam- 
 mon with me. I'm an Englishman, I am, and as good 
 as you." 
 
 "To what the devil does this tend, sir? and how does
 
 74 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 the secret which you have surprised concern me, I should 
 like to know? " asked Major Pendennis, with great 
 majesty. 
 
 " How does it concern me, indeed? how grand we 
 are! How does it concern my nephew, I wonder? How 
 does it concern my nephew's seat in Parlyment : and to 
 subornation of bigamy? How does it concern that? 
 What, are you to be the only man to have a secret, and 
 to trade on it? Why shouldn't I go halves, Major Pen- 
 dennis? I've found it out too. Look here! I ain't goin' 
 to be unreasonable with you. Make it worth my while, 
 and I'll keep the thing close. Let Mr. Arthur take his 
 seat, and his rich wife, if you like; I don't want to marry 
 her. But I will have my share, as sure as my name' s 
 James Morgan. And if I don't " 
 
 "And if you don't, sir what?" Pendennis asked. 
 
 " If I don't, I split, and tell all. I smash Clavering, 
 and have him and his wife up for bigamy so help me, I 
 will! I smash young Hopeful's marriage, and I show up 
 you and him as makin' use of this secret, in order to 
 squeeze a seat in Parlyment out of Sir Francis, and a 
 fortune out of his wife." 
 
 " Mr. Pendennis knows no more of this business than 
 the babe unborn, sir," cried the Major aghast. "No 
 more than Lady Clavering, than Miss Amory does." 
 
 "Tell that to the marines, Major," replied the valet; 
 " that cock won't fight with me." 
 
 " Do you doubt my word, you villain? " 
 
 " No bad language. I don't care one twopence'a'p'ny 
 whether your word's true or not. I tell you, I intend 
 this to be a nice little annuity to me, Major : for I have 
 every one of you ; and I ain't such a fool as to let you 
 go. I should say that you might make it five hundred a 
 year to me among you, easy. Pay me down the first 
 quarter now, and I'm as mum as a mouse. Just give me 
 a note for one twenty-five. There 's your cheque-book 
 on your desk." 
 
 " And there 's this too, you villain," cried the old gen- 
 tleman. In the desk to which the valet pointed was a 
 little double-barrelled pistol, which had belonged to
 
 PENDENNIS 75 
 
 Pendennis's old patron, the Indian commander-in-chief, 
 and which had accompanied him in many a campaign. 
 "One more word, you scoundrel, and I'll shoot you, 
 like a mad dog. Stop by Jove, I'll do it now. You'll 
 assault me, will you? You'll strike at an old man, will 
 you, you lying- coward? Kneel down and say your 
 prayers, sir, for by the Lord you shall die." 
 
 The Major's face glared with rage at his adversary, 
 who looked terrified before him for a moment, and at 
 the next, with a shriek of "Murder!" sprang towards 
 the open window, under which a policeman happened to 
 be on his beat. "Murder! Police!" bellowed Mr. 
 Morgan. 
 
 To his surprise, Major Pendennis wheeled away the 
 table and walked to the other window, which was also 
 open. He beckoned the policeman. "Come up here, 
 policeman," he said, and then went and placed himself 
 against the door. 
 
 "You miserable sneak," he said to Morgan; "the 
 pistol hasn't been loaded these fifteen years, as you 
 would have known very well, if you had not been such a 
 coward. That policeman is coming, and I will have him 
 up, and have your trunks searched ; I have reason to be- 
 lieve that you are a thief, sir. I know you are. I'll 
 swear to the things." 
 
 "You gave 'em to me you gave 'em to me!" cried 
 Morgan. 
 
 The Major laughed. "We'll see," he said; and the 
 guilty valet remembered some fine lawn-fronted shirts 
 a certain gold-headed cane an opera-glass, which he 
 had forgotten to bring down, and of which he had as- 
 sumed the use along with certain articles of his master's 
 clothes, which the old dandy neither wore nor asked for. 
 
 Policeman X entered; followed by the scared Mrs. 
 Brixham and her maid-of-all-work, who had been at the 
 door and found some difficulty in closing it against the 
 street amateurs, who wished to see the row. The Major 
 began instantly to speak. 
 
 " I have had occasion to discharge this drunken 
 scoundrel," he said. " Both last night and this morning
 
 76 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 he insulted and assaulted me. I am an old man and took 
 up a pistol. You see it is not loaded, and this coward 
 cried out before he was hurt. I am glad you are come. 
 I was charging him with taking my property, and desired 
 to examine his trunks and his room." 
 
 "The velvet coat you ain't worn these three years, 
 nor the weskits, and I thought I might take the shirts, 
 and I I take my hoath I intended to put back the 
 hopera-glass," roared Morgan, writhing with rage and 
 terror. 
 
 "The man acknowledges that he is a thief," the 
 Major said, calmly. " He has been in my service for 
 years, and I have treated him with every kindness and 
 confidence. We will go upstairs and examine his 
 trunks." 
 
 In those trunks Mr. Morgan had things which he 
 would fain keep from public eyes. Mr. Morgan, the 
 bill-discounter, gave goods as well as money to his cus- 
 tomers. He provided young spendthrifts with snuff- 
 boxes and pins and jewels and pictures and cigars, and 
 of a very doubtful quality those cigars and jewels and 
 pictures were. Their display at a police-office, the dis- 
 covery of his occult profession, and the exposure of the 
 Major's property, which he had appropriated, indeed, 
 rather than stolen would not have added to the reputa- 
 tion of Mr. Morgan. He looked a piteous image of 
 terror and discomfiture. 
 
 " He'll smash me, will he?" thought the Major. " I'll 
 crush him now, and finish with him." 
 
 But he paused. He looked at poor Mrs. Brixham's 
 scared face; and he thought for a moment to himself 
 that the man brought to bay and in prison might make 
 disclosures which had best be kept secret, and that it 
 was best not to deal too fiercely with a desperate man. 
 
 "Stop," he said, "policeman. I'll speak with this 
 man by himself." 
 
 "Do you give Mr. Morgan in charge?" said the 
 policeman. 
 
 " I have brought no charge as yet," the Major said, 
 with a significant look at his man.
 
 PENDENNIS 77 
 
 "Thank you, sir," whispered Morgan, very low. 
 
 "Go outside the door, and wait there, policeman, if 
 you please. Now, Morgan, you have played one game 
 with me, and you have not had the best of it, my good 
 man. No, begad, you've not had the best of it, though 
 you had the best hand ; and you've got to pay, too, now, 
 you scoundrel." 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the man. 
 
 "I've only found out, within the last week, the game 
 which you have been driving, you villain. Young De 
 Boots, of the Blues, recognized you as the man who 
 came to barracks, and did business one-third in money, 
 one-third in eau-de-Cologne, and one-third in French 
 prints, you confounded demure old sinner! I didn't miss 
 anything, or care a straw what you'd taken, you booby ; 
 but I took the shot, and it hit hit the bull's-eye, begad. 
 Dammy, sir, I'm an old campaigner." 
 
 " What do you want with me, sir? " 
 
 "I'll tell you. Your bills, I suppose, you keep about 
 you in that dem'd great leather pocket-book, don't you? 
 You'll burn Mrs. Brixham's bill?" 
 
 "Sir, I ain't a-goin' to part with my property," 
 growled the man. 
 
 " You lent her sixty pounds five years ago. She and 
 that poor devil of an insurance clerk, her son, have paid 
 you fifty pounds a year ever since ; and you have got a 
 bill of sale of her furniture, and her note of hand for a 
 hundred and fifty pounds. She told me so last night. 
 By Jove, sir, you've bled that poor woman enough." 
 
 " I won't give it up," said Morgan. " If I do I'm " 
 
 " Policeman! " cried the Major. 
 
 "You shall have the bill," said Morgan. "You're 
 not going to take money of me, and you a gentleman? " 
 
 " I shall want you directly," said the Major to X, who 
 here entered, and who again withdrew. 
 
 "No, my good sir," the old gentleman continued; 
 " I have not any desire to have farther pecuniary trans- 
 actions with you ; but we will draw out a little paper, 
 which you will have the kindness to sign. No, stop ! 
 you shall write it: you have improved immensely in
 
 78 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 writing of late, and have now a very good hand. You 
 shall sit down and write, if you please there, at that 
 table so let me see we may as well have the date. 
 Write 'Bury Street, St. James's, October 21, 18 .'" 
 
 And Morgan wrote as he was instructed, and as the 
 pitiless old Major continued : 
 
 " ' I, James Morgan, having come in extreme poverty 
 into the service of Arthur Pendennis, Esquire, of Bury 
 Street, St. James's, a Major in his Majesty's service, 
 acknowledge that I received liberal wages and board 
 wages from my employer, during fifteen years.' You 
 can't object to that, I am sure," said the Major. 
 
 " During fifteen years," wrote Morgan. 
 
 " ' In which time, by my own care and prudence,'" 
 the dictator resumed, " ' I have managed to amass 
 sufficient money to purchase the house in which my 
 master resides, and besides to effect other savings. 
 Amongst other persons from whom I have had money, 
 I may mention my present tenant, Mrs. Brixham, who, 
 in consideration of sixty pounds advanced by me five 
 years since, has paid back to me the sum of two hundred 
 and fifty pounds sterling, besides giving me a note of 
 hand for one hundred and twenty pounds, which I restore 
 to her at the desire of my late master, Major Arthur 
 Pendennis, and therewith free her furniture, of which I 
 had a bill of sale.' Have you written? " 
 
 " I think if this pistol was loaded, I'd blow your brains 
 out," said Morgan. 
 
 " No, you wouldn't. You have too great a respect for 
 your valuable life, my good man," the Major answered. 
 " Let us go on and begin a new sentence." 
 
 "'And having, in return for my master's kindness, 
 stolen his property from him, which I acknowledge to 
 be now upstairs in my trunks : and having uttered false- 
 hoods regarding his and other honourable families, I do 
 hereby, in consideration of his clemency to me, express 
 my regret for uttering these falsehoods, and for stealing 
 his property ; and declare that I am not worthy of belief, 
 and that I hope ' yes, begad, that I hope ' to amend 
 for the future. Signed, James Morgan.' "
 
 PENDENNIS 79 
 
 " I'm d d if I sign it," said Morgan. 
 
 " My good man, it will happen to you, whether you 
 sign or no, begad," said the old fellow, chuckling at his 
 own wit. "There, I shall not use this, you understand, 
 unless unless I am compelled to do so. Mrs. Brixham, 
 and our friend the policeman, will witness it, I dare say, 
 without reading it: and I will give the old lady back 
 her note of hand, and say, which you will confirm, that 
 she and you are quits. I see there is Frosch come back 
 with the cab for my trunks; I shall go to an hotel. 
 You may come in now, policeman; Mr. Morgan and I 
 have arranged our little dispute. If Mrs. Brixham will 
 sign this paper, and you, policeman, will do so, I shall 
 be very much obliged to you both. Mrs. Brixham, you 
 and your worthy landlord, Mr. Morgan, are quits. I 
 wish you joy of him. Let Frosch come and pack the rest 
 of the things." 
 
 Frosch, aided by the Slavey, under the calm superin- 
 tendence of Mr. Morgan, carried Major Pendennis's 
 boxes to the cab in waiting; and Mrs. Brixham, when 
 her persecutor was not by, came and asked a Heaven's 
 blessing upon the Major, her preserver, and the best 
 and quietest and kindest of lodgers. And having given 
 her a finger to shake, which the humble lady received 
 with a curtsey, and over which she was ready to make 
 a speech full of tears, the Major cut short that valedic- 
 tory oration, and walked out of the house to the hotel 
 in Jermyn Street, which was not many steps from 
 Morgan's door. 
 
 That individual, looking forth from the parlourwindow, 
 discharged anything but blessings at his parting guest ; 
 but the stout old boy could afford not to be frightened 
 at Mr. Morgan, and flung him a look of great contempt 
 and humour as he strutted away with his cane.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 
 
 [The scene of Colonel Newcome in the Cave of Harmony re- 
 quires no introduction, because it is itself the introduction to the 
 whole book, and a very complete and effective introduction at that. 
 The general theme of the book is the general theme of Thackeray : 
 that knaves and fools alike fail, but that there is something digni- 
 fied and genial about the failure of the fools. It may be doubted 
 whether such an idea was ever so exactly expressed as it is in this 
 great scene, where the simpleton is the first to enjoy what is good 
 and the first to repudiate what is evil.] 
 
 COLONEL NEWCOME IN THE CAVE OF 
 HARMONY 
 
 (FROM CHAPTER I) 
 
 THERE was once a time when the sun used to shine 
 brighter than it appears to do in this latter half of the 
 nineteenth century ; when the zest of life was certainly 
 keener; when tavern wines seemed to be delicious, and 
 tavern dinners the perfection of cookery; when the 
 perusal of novels was productive of immense delight, 
 and the monthly advent of magazine-day was hailed as 
 an exciting holiday ; when to know Thompson, who had 
 written a magazine-article, was an honour and a privi- 
 lege; and to see Brown, the author of the last romance, 
 in the flesh, and actually walking in the Park with his 
 umbrella and Mrs. Brown, was an event remarkable, 
 and to the end of life to be perfectly well remembered ; 
 when the women of this world were a thousand times 
 more beautiful than those of the present time; and the 
 houris of the theatres especially so ravishing and angelic, 
 that to see them was to set the heart in motion, and to 
 see them again was to struggle for half an hour pre- 
 So
 
 THE NEWCOMES 81 
 
 viously at the door of the pit ; when tailors called at a 
 man's lodgings to dazzle him with cards of fancy- waist- 
 coats; when it seemed necessary to purchase a grand 
 silver dressing-case, so as to be ready for the beard 
 which was not yet born (as yearling brides provide lace 
 caps, and work rich clothes for the expected darling) ; 
 when to ride in the Park on a ten-shilling hack seemed 
 to be the height of fashionable enjoyment, and to splash 
 your college tutor as you were driving down Regent 
 Street in a hired cab the triumph of satire; when the 
 acme of pleasure seemed to be to meet Jones of Trinity 
 at the Bedford, and to make an arrangement with him, 
 and with King of Corpus (who was staying at the Colon- 
 nade), and Martin of Trinity Hall (who was with his 
 family in Bloomsbury Square), to dine at the Piazza., go 
 to the play and see Braham in " Fra Diavolo," and end 
 the frolic evening by partaking of supper and a song at 
 the " Cave of Harmony." It was in the days of my own 
 youth, then, that I met one or two of the characters 
 who are to figure in this history, and whom I must ask 
 leave to accompany for a short while, and until, familiar- 
 ized with the public, they can make their own way. As 
 I recall them the roses bloom again, and the nightin- 
 gales sing by the calm Bendemeer. 
 
 Going to the play then, and to the pit, as was the 
 fashion in those merry days, with some young fellows 
 of my own age, having listened delighted to the most 
 cheerful and brilliant of operas, and laughed enthu- 
 siastically at the farce, we became naturally hungry at 
 twelve o'clock at night, and a desire for welsh-rabbits 
 and good old glee-singing led us to the " Cave of Har- 
 mony," then kept by the celebrated Hoskins, among 
 whose friends we were proud to count. 
 
 We enjoyed such intimacy with Mr. Hoskins that he 
 never failed to greet us with a kind nod; and John the 
 waiter made room for us near the President of the con- 
 vivial meeting. We knew the three admirable glee- 
 singers, and many a time they partook of brandy-and- 
 water at our expense. One of us gave his call dinner at 
 Hoskins's, and a merry time we had of it. Where are 
 G
 
 82 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 you, O Hoskins, bird of the night? Do you warble your 
 song's by Acheron, or troll your choruses by the banks 
 of black Avernus? 
 
 The goes of stout, "The Chough and Crow," the 
 welsh-rabbit, " The Red-Cross Knight," the hot brandy- 
 and-water (the brown, the strong!) "The Bloom is on 
 the Rye" (the bloom isn't on the rye any more!) the 
 song and the cup, in a word, passed round merrily; and, 
 I daresay, the songs and bumpers were encored. It hap- 
 pened that there was a very small attendance at the 
 " Cave" that night, and we were all more sociable and 
 friendly because the company was select. The songs 
 were chiefly of the sentimental class ; such ditties were 
 much in vogue at the time of which I speak. 
 
 There came into the " Cave " a gentleman with a lean 
 brown face and long black mustachios, dressed in very 
 loose clothes, and evidently a stranger to the place. At 
 least he had not visited it for a long time. He was pointing 
 out changes to a lad who was in his company; and, 
 calling for sherry-and-water, he listened to the music, 
 and twirled his mustachios with great enthusiasm. 
 
 At the very first glimpse of me the boy jumped up 
 from the table, bounded across the room, ran to me 
 with his hands out, and, blushing, said, "Don't you 
 know me? " 
 
 It was little Newcome, my school-fellow, whom I had 
 not seen for six years, grown a fine tall young stripling 
 now, with the same bright blue eyes which I remembered 
 when he was quite a little boy. 
 
 " What the deuce brings you here? " said I. 
 
 He laughed and looked roguish. " My father that's 
 my father would come. He 's just come back from 
 India. He says all the wits used to come here, Mr. 
 Sheridan, Captain Morris, Colonel Hanger, Professor 
 Person. I told him your name, and that you used to be 
 very kind to me when I first went to Smithfield. I've 
 left now: I'm to have a private tutor. I say, I've got 
 such a jolly pony. It 's better fun than old Smiffle." 
 
 Here the whiskered gentleman, Newcome's father, 
 pointing to a waiter to follow him with his glass of
 
 THE NEWCOMES 83 
 
 sherry-and-water, strode across the room twirling his 
 mustachios, and came up to the table where we sate, 
 making 1 a salutation with his hat in a very stately and 
 polite manner, so that Hoskins himself was, as it were, 
 obliged to bow; the glee -singers murmured among 
 themselves (their eyes rolling over their glasses towards 
 one another as they sucked brandy-and- water), and that 
 mischievous little wag, little Nadab the Improvisatore 
 (who had just come in), began to mimic him, feeling 
 his imaginary whiskers, after the manner of the stranger, 
 and flapping about his pocket-handkerchief in the most 
 ludicrous manner. Hoskins checked this ribaldry by 
 sternly looking towards Nadab, and at the same time 
 calling upon the gents to give their orders, the waiter 
 being in the room, and Mr. Bellew about to sing a song. 
 
 Newcome's father came up and held out his hand to 
 me. I daresay I blushed, for I had been comparing him 
 to the admirable Harley in the Critic, and had christened 
 him Don Ferolo Whiskerandos. 
 
 He spoke in a voice exceedingly soft and pleasant, 
 and with a cordiality so simple and sincere, that my 
 laughter shrank away ashamed; and gave place to a 
 feeling much more respectful and friendly. In youth, 
 you see, one is touched by kindness. A man of the 
 world may, of course, be grateful or not as he chooses. 
 . "I have heard of your kindness, sir," says he, "to 
 my boy. And whoever is kind to him is kind to me. 
 Will you allow me to sit down by you? and may I beg 
 you to try my cheroots? " We were friends in a minute 
 young Newcome snuggling by my side, his father 
 opposite, to whom, after a minute or two of conversa- 
 tion, I presented my three college friends. 
 
 "You have come here, gentlemen, to see the wits," 
 says the Colonel. "Are there any celebrated persons 
 in the room? I have been five-and-thirty years from 
 home, and want to see all that is to be seen." 
 
 King of Corpus (who was an incorrigible wag) was 
 on the point of pulling some dreadful long bow, and 
 pointing out a half-dozen of people in the room, as 
 Rogers, and Hook, and Luttrel, etc., the most cele-
 
 84 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 brated wits of that day ; but I cut King's shins under 
 the table, and got the fellow to hold his tongue. 
 
 "Maxima debetur pueris" says Jones (a fellow of 
 very kind feeling, who has gone into the Church since), 
 and, writing on his card to Hoskins, hinted to him that 
 a boy was in the room, and a gentleman who was quite 
 a greenhorn : hence that the songs had better be care- 
 fully selected. 
 
 And so they were. A ladies' school might have come 
 in, and, but for the smell of the cigars and brandy-and- 
 water, have taken no harm by what happened. Why 
 should it not always be so? If there are any " Caves of 
 Harmony " now, I warrant Messieurs the landlords, 
 their interests would be better consulted by keeping 
 their singers within bounds. The very greatest scamps 
 like pretty songs, and are melted by them ; so are honest 
 neople. It was worth a guinea to see the simple Colonel, 
 and his delight at the music. He forgot all about the 
 distinguished wits whom he had expected to see in his 
 ravishment over the glees. 
 
 " I say, Clive, this is delightful. This is better than 
 your aunt's concert with all the Squallinis, hey? I shall 
 come here often. Landlord, may I venture to ask those 
 gentlemen if they will take any refreshment? What are 
 their names?" (to one of his neighbours). "I was 
 scarcely allowed to hear any singing before I went out, 
 except an oratorio, where I fell asleep; but this, by 
 George, is as fine as Incledon ! " He became quite ex- 
 cited over his sherry-and-water (" I'm sorry to see 
 you, gentlemen, drinking brandy-pawnee," says he; 
 "it plays the deuce with our young men in India.") 
 He joined in all the choruses with an exceedingly sweet 
 voice. He laughed at " The Derby Ram " so that it did 
 you good to hear him ; and when Hoskins sang (as he 
 did admirably) "The Old English Gentleman," and de- 
 scribed, in measured cadence, the death of that venerable 
 aristocrat, tears trickled down the honest warrior's 
 cheek, while he held out his hand to Hoskins and said, 
 "Thank you, sir, for that song; it is an honour to 
 human nature." On which Hoskins began to cry too.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 85 
 
 And now young Nadab, having been cautioned, com- 
 menced one of those surprising feats of improvisation 
 with which he used to charm audiences. He took us 
 all off, and had rhymes pat about all the principal per- 
 sons in the room: King's pins (which he wore very 
 splendid), Martin's red waistcoat, etc. The Colonel was 
 charmed with each feat, and joined delighted with the 
 chorus " Ritolderol-ritolderol-ritolderolderay " (bis). 
 And, when coming to the Colonel himself, he burst 
 out 
 
 A military gent I see and while his face I scan, 
 I think you'll all agree with me He came from Hindostan. 
 And by his side sits laughing free A youth with curly head, 
 I think you'll all agree with me that he was best in bed. Ritol- 
 derol, etc. 
 
 The Colonel laughed immensely at this sally, and 
 clapped his son, young Clive, on the shoulder, "Hear 
 what he says of you, sir? Clive, best be off to bed, my 
 boy ho, ho ! No, no. We know a trick worth two of 
 that. ' We won't go home till morning, till daylight 
 does appear.' Why should we? Why shouldn't my boy 
 have innocent pleasure? I was allowed none when I 
 was a young chap, and the severity was nearly the ruin 
 of me. I must go and speak with that young man the 
 most astonishing thing I ever heard in my life. What 's 
 his name? Mr. Nadab? Mr. Nadab, sir, you have de- 
 lighted me. May I make so free as to ask you to come 
 and dine with me to-morrow at six. Colonel Newcome, 
 if you please, Nerot's Hotel, Clifford Street. I am always 
 proud to make the acquaintance of men of genius, and 
 you are one, or my name is not Newcome! " 
 
 " Sir, you do me Hhonour," says Mr. Nadab, pulling 
 up his shirt-collars, " and per'aps the day will come when 
 the world will do me justice. May I put down your 
 hhonoured name for my book of poems? " 
 
 "Of course, my dear sir," says the enthusiastic 
 Colonel; " I'll send them all over India. Put me down 
 for six copies, and do me the favour to bring them to- 
 morrow when you come to dinner." 
 
 And now Mr. Hoskins asking if any gentleman would
 
 86 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 volunteer a song, what was our amazement when the 
 simple Colonel offered to sing himself, at which the room 
 applauded vociferously; whilst methought poor Clive 
 Newcome hung down his head, and blushed as red as a 
 peony. I felt for the young lad, and thought what my 
 own sensations would have been if, in that place, my 
 own uncle, Major Pendennis, had suddenly proposed to 
 exert his lyrical powers. 
 
 The Colonel selected the ditty of "Wapping Old 
 Stairs " (a ballad so sweet and touching that surely any 
 English poet might be proud to be the father of it), and 
 he sang this quaint and charming old song in an ex- 
 ceedingly pleasant voice, with flourishes and roulades 
 in the old Incledon manner, which has pretty nearly 
 passed away. The singer gave his heart and soul to 
 the simple ballad, and delivered Molly's gentle appeal 
 so pathetically that even the professional gentlemen 
 hummed and buzzed a sincere applause ; and some wags, 
 who were inclined to jeer at the beginning of the per- 
 formance, clinked their glasses and rapped their sticks 
 with quite a respectful enthusiasm. When the song was 
 over, Clive held up his head too ; after the shock of the 
 first verse, looked round with surprise and pleasure in 
 his eyes; and we, I need not say, backed our friend, 
 delighted to see him come out of his queer scrape so 
 triumphantly. The Colonel bowed and smiled with very 
 pleasant good nature at our plaudits. It was like Dr. 
 Primrose preaching his sermon in the prison. There was 
 something touching in the naivetd and kindness of the 
 placid and simple gentleman. 
 
 Great Hoskins, placed on high, amidst the tuneful 
 choir, was pleased to signify his approbation, and gave 
 his guest's health in his usual dignified manner. "I am 
 much obliged to you, sir," says Mr. Hoskins; "the 
 room ought to be much obliged to you: I drink your 
 'ealth and song, sir;" and he bowed to the Colonel 
 politely over his glass of brandy-and-water, of which he 
 absorbed a little in his customer's honour. " I have not 
 heard that song," he was kind enough to say, "better 
 performedjsince Mr. Incledon sung it. He was a great
 
 THE NEWCOMES 87 
 
 singer, sir, and I may say, in the words of our immortal 
 Shakespeare, that, take him for all in all, we shall not 
 look upon his like again." 
 
 The Colonel blushed in his turn, and turning round 
 to his boy with an arch smile, said, " I learnt it from 
 Incledon. I used to slip out from Grey Friars to hear 
 him, Heaven bless me, forty years ago, and I used to 
 be flogged afterwards, and served me right too. Lord ! 
 Lord ! how the time passes ! " He drank off his sherry- 
 and-water, and fell back in his chair: we could see he 
 was thinking about his youth the golden time the 
 happy, the bright, the unforgotten. I was myself nearly 
 two-and-twenty years of age at that period, and felt as 
 old as, ay, older than the Colonel. 
 
 Whilst he was singing his ballad, there had walked, 
 or rather reeled, into the room, a gentleman in a military 
 frock coat and duck trowsers of dubious hue, with whose 
 name and person some of my readers are perhaps already 
 acquainted. In fact it .was my friend Captain Costigan, 
 in his usual condition at this hour of the night. 
 
 Holding on by various tables, the Captain had sidled 
 up, without accident to himself or any of the jugs and 
 glasses round about him, to the table where we sat, and 
 had taken his place near the writer, his old acquaintance. 
 He warbled the refrain of the Colonel's song, not inhar- 
 moniously; and saluted its pathetic conclusion with a 
 subdued hiccup and a plentiful effusion of tears. " Be- 
 dad, it is a beautiful song," says he, " and many a time 
 I heard poor Harry Incledon sing it." 
 
 "He's a great character," whispered that unlucky 
 King of Corpus to his neighbour the Colonel; "was a 
 Captain in the army. We call him the General. Captain 
 Costigan, will you take something to drink? " 
 
 " Bedad, I will," says the Captain, "and I'll sing ye 
 a song tu." 
 
 And, having procured a glass of whisky-and-water 
 from the passing waiter, the poor old man, settling his 
 face into a horrid grin, and leering, as he was wont, 
 when he gave what he called one of his prime songs, 
 began his music.
 
 88 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 The unlucky wretch, who scarcely knew what he was 
 doing or saying-, selected one of the most outrageous 
 performances of his rfyertoire, fired off a tipsy howl by 
 way of overture, and away he went. At the end of the 
 second verse the Colonel started up, clapping on his hat, 
 seizing his stick, and looking as ferocious as. though he 
 had been going to do battle with a Pindaree. " Silence ! " 
 he roared out. 
 
 " Hear, hear! " cried certain wags at a farther table. 
 "Go on, Costigan!" said others. 
 
 "Go on!" cries the Colonel, in his high voice, 
 trembling with anger. " Does any gentleman say ' Go 
 on ? ' Does any man who has a wife and sisters, or 
 children at home, say ' Go on ' to such disgusting ribal- 
 dry as this? Do you dare, sir, to call yourself a gentle- 
 man, and to say that you hold the King's commission, 
 and to sit down amongst Christians and men of honour, 
 and defile the ears of young boys with this wicked bal- 
 derdash? " 
 
 "Why do you bring young boys here, old boy?" 
 cries a voice of the malcontents. 
 
 " Why? Because I thought I was coming to a society 
 of gentlemen," cried out the indignant Colonel. "Be- 
 cause I never could have believed that Englishmen could 
 meet together and allow a man, and an old man, so to 
 disgrace himself. For shame, you old wretch ! Go home 
 to your bed, you hoary old sinner! And for my part, 
 I'm not sorry that my son should see, for once in his 
 life, to what shame and degradation and dishonour, 
 drunkenness and whisky may bring a man. Never mind 
 the change, sir! Curse the change! " says the Colonel, 
 facing the amazed waiter. " Keep it till you see me in 
 this place again ; which will be never by George, 
 never! " And shouldering his stick, and scowling round 
 at the company of scared bacchanalians, the indignant 
 gentleman stalked away, his boy after him. 
 
 Clive seemed rather shamefaced; but I fear the rest 
 of the company looked still more foolish. 
 
 " Aussi que diable venait-il faire dans cette galere?" 
 says King of Corpus to Jones of Trinity; and Jones
 
 THE NEWCOMES 89 
 
 gave a shrug of his shoulders, which were smarting, 
 perhaps; for that uplifted cane of the Colonel's had 
 somehow fallen on the back of every man in the room. 
 
 COLONEL NEWCOME'S LAST SONG 
 
 (CHAPTERS XII, XIII) 
 
 [Colonel Newcome resumes the acquaintance which he has made 
 at the Cave of Harmony, adding thereto the acquaintance of his 
 brother-in-law, Honeyman, a popular preacher, and his son's 
 friend, John James Ridley, an artist, a butler's son, and a genius. 
 Despite certain prejudices he attaches himself warmly to this 
 society, having found his reception by his rich brothers, the two 
 great bankers, the reverse of warm. Being the only gentleman of 
 his family he is treated " as a kind of bear." His nephew Barnes, 
 the rising hope of the bankers, is especially exquisite and intoler- 
 able. Nevertheless, with characteristic simplicity, the Colonel 
 tries to make a dinner party out of both sets together, with the 
 results which follow.] 
 
 JOHN JAMES had opened the door, hastening to welcome 
 a friend and patron, the sight of whom always gladdened 
 the youth's eyes; no other than Clive Newcome in 
 young Ridley's opinion, the most splendid, fortunate, 
 beautiful, high-born, and gifted youth this island con- 
 tained. What generous boy in his time has not wor- 
 shipped somebody? Before the female enslaver makes 
 her appearance, every lad has a friend of friends, a 
 crony of cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in 
 vacation, whom he cherishes in his heart of hearts; 
 whose sister he proposes to marry in after life ; whose 
 purse he shares ; for whom he will take a thrashing if 
 need be: who is his hero. Clive was John James' 
 youthful divinity : when he wanted to draw Thaddeus of 
 Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, or some one splendid and 
 egregious, it was Clive he took for a model. His heart 
 leapt when he saw the young fellow. He would walk 
 cheerfully to Grey Friars, with a letter or message for 
 Clive, on the chance of seeing him, and getting a kind
 
 go WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 word from him, or a shake of the hand. An ex-butler of 
 Lord Todmorden was a pensioner in the Grey Friars 
 Hospital (it has been said that at that ancient establish- 
 ment is a college for old men as well as for boys), and 
 this old man would come sometimes to his successor's 
 Sunday dinner, and grumble from the hour of that meal 
 until nine o'clock, when he was forced to depart, so as 
 to be within Grey Friars' gates before ten ; grumble about 
 his dinner grumble about his beer grumble about the 
 number of chapels he had to attend, about the gown he 
 wore, about the Master's treatment of him, about the 
 want of plums in the pudding, as old men and school- 
 boys grumble. It was wonderful what a liking John 
 James took to this odious, querulous, graceless, stupid, 
 and snuffy old man, and how he would find pretexts for 
 visiting him at his lodging in the old hospital. He actu- 
 ally took that journey that he might have a chance of 
 seeing Clive. He sent Clive notes and packets of draw- 
 ings; thanked him for books lent, asked advice about 
 future reading anything, so that he might have a sight 
 of his pride, his patron, his paragon. 
 
 I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle 
 rum-shrub and cigars into the premises; giving him 
 appointments in the school precincts, where young Clive 
 would come and stealthily receive the forbidden goods. 
 The poor lad was known by the boys, and called New- 
 come's Punch. He was all but hunchbacked; long and 
 lean in the arm ; sallow, with a great forehead, and 
 waving black hair, and large melancholy eyes. 
 
 "What, is it you, J. J.?" cries Clive, gaily, when his 
 humble friend appears at the door. " Father, this is my 
 friend Ridley. This is the fellow what can draw." 
 
 " I know whom I will back against any young man 
 of his size at that" says the Colonel, looking at Clive 
 fondly. He considered there was not such a genius in 
 the world ; and had already thought of having some of 
 Clive's drawings published by M 'Lean of the Haymarket. 
 
 "This is my father just come from India and Mr. 
 Pendennis, an old Grey Friars man. Is my uncle at 
 home?" Both these gentlemen bestow rather patroniz-
 
 THE NEWCOMES 91 
 
 ing- nods of the head on the lad introduced to them as 
 J. J. His exterior is but mean-looking-. Colonel New- 
 come, one of the humblest-minded men alive, has yet 
 his old-fashioned military notions; and speaks to a 
 butler's son as to a private soldier, kindly, but not 
 familiarly. 
 
 "Mr. Honeyman is at home, gentlemen," the young 
 lad says, humbly. " Shall I show you up to his room? " 
 And we walk up the stairs after our g-uide. We find 
 Mr. Honeyman deep in study on the sofa, with Pearson 
 on the Creed before him. The novel has been whipped 
 under the pillow. Clive found it there some short time 
 afterwards, during his uncle's temporary absence in his 
 dressing-room. He has agreed to suspend his Theo- 
 logical studies, and go out with his brother-in-law to 
 dine. 
 
 As Clive and his friends were at Honeyman's door, and 
 just as we were entering to see the divine seated in state 
 before his folio, Clive whispers, " J. J., come along, old 
 fellow, and show us some drawings. What are you 
 doing? " 
 
 " I was doing some Arabian Nights," says J. J., " up 
 in my room ; and, hearing a knock which I thought 
 was yours, I came down." 
 
 " Show us the pictures. Let's go up into your room," 
 cries Clive. 
 
 "What will you?" says the other. "It is but a 
 very small place." 
 
 " Never mind, come along," says Clive; and the two 
 lads disappear together, leaving the three grown gentle- 
 men to discourse together, or rather two of us to listen 
 to Honeyman, who expatiates upon the beauty of the 
 weather, the difficulties of the clerical calling, the honour 
 Colonel Newcome does him by a visit, etc., with his 
 usual eloquence. 
 
 After a while Clive comes down without J. J. from 
 the upper regions. He is greatly excited. "Oh, sir," 
 he says to his father, "you talk about my drawings 
 you should see J. J.'s! By Jove, that fellow is a genius. 
 They are beautiful, sir. You seem actually to read the
 
 92 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 'Arabian Nights,' you know, only in pictures. There is 
 Scheherazade telling the stories, and what do you call 
 her? Dinarzade and the Sultan sitting in bed and 
 listening. Such a grim old cove ! You see he has cut off 
 ever so many of his wives' heads. I can't think where 
 that chap gets his ideas from. I can beat him in draw- 
 ing horses, I know, and dogs; but I can only draw 
 what I see. Somehow he seems to see things we don't, 
 don't you know? Oh, father, I'm determined I'd rather 
 be a painter than anything." And he falls to drawing 
 horses and dogs at his uncle's table, round which the 
 elders are seated. 
 
 "I've settled it upstairs with J. J.," says Clive, work- 
 ing away with his pen. " We shall take a studio to- 
 gether; perhaps we will go abroad together. Won't 
 that be fun, father? " 
 
 " My dear Clive," remarks Mr. Honeyman, with 
 bland dignity, "there are degrees in society which we 
 must respect. You surely cannot think of being a pro- 
 fessional artist. Such a profession is very well for your 
 young prote'ge' ; but for you " 
 
 "What for me?" cries Clive. "We are no such 
 great folks that I know of; and if we were, I say a 
 painter is as good as a lawyer, or a doctor, or even a 
 soldier. In Dr. Johnson's life which my father is 
 always reading I like to read about Sir Joshua Rey- 
 nolds best : I think he is the best gentleman of all in the 
 book ! My ! wouldn't I like to paint a picture like Lord 
 Heathfield in the National Gallery! Wouldn't I just! 
 I think I would sooner have done that, than have 
 fought at Gibraltar. And those Three Graces oh, aren't 
 they graceful ! and that Cardinal Beaufort at Dulwich ! 
 it frightens me so, I daren't look at it. Wasn't Rey- 
 nolds a clipper! that's all! and wasn't Rubens a brick? 
 He was an ambassador and knight of the Bath; so was 
 Vandyke. And Titian, and Raphael, and Velasquez? 
 I'll just trouble you to show me better gentlemen than 
 them, Uncle Charles." 
 
 " Far be it from me to say that the pictorial calling is 
 not honourable," says Uncle Charles; "but as the
 
 THE NEWCOMES 93 
 
 world goes there are other professions in greater re- 
 pute; and I should have thought Colonel Newcome's 
 son " 
 
 "He shall follow his own bent," said the Colonel; 
 "as long as his calling is honest, it becomes a gentle- 
 man ; and if he were to take a fancy to play on the 
 fiddle actually on the fiddle I shouldn't object." 
 
 "Such a rum chap there was upstairs!" Clive re- 
 sumes, looking up from his scribbling. He was walk- 
 ing up and down on the landing in a dressing-gown 
 with scarcely any other clothes on, holding a plate in 
 one hand, and a pork-chop he was munching with the 
 other. Like this " (and Clive draws a figure). "What 
 do you think, sir? He was in the ' Cave of Harmony,' 
 he says, that night you flared up about Captain Costi- 
 gan. He knew me at once ; and he says, ' Sir, your 
 father acted like a gentleman, a Christian, and a man 
 of honour. Maxima debetur puero reverentia. Give him 
 my compliments. I don't know his highly respectable 
 name.' His highly respectable name," says Clive, crack- 
 ing with laughter "those were his very words. 'And 
 inform him that I am an orphan myself in needy cir- 
 cumstances ' he said he was in needy circumstances ; 
 ' and I heartily wish he'd adopt me.' " 
 
 The lad puffed out his face, made his voice as loud 
 and as deep as he could ; and from his imitation and the 
 picture he had drawn, I knew at once that Fred Bayham 
 was the man he mimicked. 
 
 "And does the Red Rover live here," cried Mr. Pen- 
 dennis, " and have we earthed him at last? " 
 
 " He sometimes comes here," Mr. Honeyman said, 
 with a careless manner. " My landlord and landlady 
 were butler and housekeeper to his father, Bayham of 
 Bayham, one of the oldest families in Europe. And 
 Mr. Frederick Bayham, the exceedingly eccentric person 
 of whom you speak, was a private pupil of my own 
 dear father in our happy days at Borehambury." 
 
 He had scarcely spoken when a knock was heard at 
 the door, and before the occupant of the lodgings could 
 say "Come in!" Mr. Frederick Bayham made his
 
 94 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 appearance, arrayed in that peculiar costume which he 
 affected. In those days we wore very tall stocks, only a 
 very few poetic and eccentric persons venturing on the 
 Byron collar; but Fred Bayham confined his neck by a 
 simple ribbon, which allowed his great red whiskers to 
 curl freely round his capacious jowl. He wore a black 
 frock and a large broad-brimmed hat, and looked some- 
 what like a Dissenting preacher. At other periods you 
 would see him in a green coat and a blue neckcloth, as 
 if the turf or the driving of coaches was his occupation. 
 
 " I have heard from the young man of the house who 
 you were, Colonel Newcome," he said with the greatest 
 gravity, " and happened to be present, sir, the other 
 night; for I was awerry, having been toiling all the day 
 in literary labour, and needed some refreshment. I 
 happened to be present, sir, at a scene which did you 
 the greatest honour, and of which I spoke, not knowing 
 you, with something like levity to your son. He is an 
 ingenui vultus puer ingenuique pudoris Pendennis, how 
 are you? and I thought, sir, I would come down and 
 tender an apology if I had said any words that might 
 savour of offence to a gentleman who was in the right, 
 as I told the room when you quitted it, as Mr. Pendennis, 
 I am sure, will remember." 
 
 Mr, Pendennis looked surprise, and perhaps negation. 
 
 "You forget, Pendennis? Those who quit that 
 room, sir, often forget on the morrow what occurred 
 during the revelry of the night. You did right in refusing 
 to return to that scene. We public men are obliged 
 often to seek our refreshment at hours when luckier 
 individuals are lapt in slumber." 
 
 " And what may be your occupation, Mr. Bayham? " 
 asked the Colonel rather gloomily, for he had an idea 
 that Bayham was adopting a strain of persiflage 
 which the Indian gentleman by no means relished. 
 Never saying aught but a kind word to any one, he 
 was on fire at the notion that any should take a liberty 
 with him. 
 
 " A barrister, sir, but without business a literary 
 man, who can but seldom find an opportunity to sell the
 
 THE NEWCOMES 95 
 
 works of his brains a gentleman, sir, who has met 
 with neglect, perhaps merited, perhaps undeserved, 
 from his family. I get my bread as best I may. On that 
 evening I had been lecturing on the genius of some of 
 our comic writers, at the Parthenopaeon, Hackney. My 
 audience was scanty, perhaps equal to my deserts. I 
 came home on foot to an egg and a glass of beer after 
 midnight, and witnessed the scene which did you so 
 much honour. What is this? I fancy a ludicrous picture 
 of myself" he had taken up the sketch which Clive 
 had been drawing " I like fun, even at my own expense, 
 and can afford to laugh at a joke which is meant in good 
 humour." 
 
 This speech quite reconciled the honest Colonel. " I 
 am sure the author of that, Mr. Bayham, means you or 
 any man no harm. Why! the rascal, sir, has drawn me, 
 his own father ; and I have sent the drawing to Major 
 Hobbs, who is in command of my regiment. Chinnery 
 himself, sir, couldn't hit off a likeness better; he has 
 drawn me on horseback, and he has drawn me on foot, 
 and he has drawn my friend, Mr. Binnie, who lives with 
 me. We have scores of his drawings at my lodgings ; 
 and if you will favour us by dining with us to-day, and 
 these gentlemen, you shall see that you are not the only 
 person caricatured by Clive here." 
 
 " I just took some little dinner upstairs, sir. I am a 
 moderate man, and can live, if need be, like a Spartan ; 
 but to join such good company I will gladly use the 
 knife and fork again. You will excuse the traveller's 
 dress? I keep a room here, which I use only occasion- 
 ally, and am at present lodging in the country." 
 
 When Honeyman was ready, the Colonel, who had 
 the greatest respect for the Church, would not hear of 
 going out of the room before the clergyman, and took 
 his arm to walk. Bayham then fell to Mr. Pendennis's 
 lot, and they went together. Through Hill Street and 
 Berkeley Square their course was straight enough ; but 
 at Hay Hill, Mr. Bayham made an abrupt tack larboard, 
 engaging in a labyrinth of stables, and walking a long 
 way round from Clifford Street, whither we were bound.
 
 96 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 He hinted at a cab, but Pendennis refused to ride, being, 
 in truth, anxious to see which way his eccentric com- 
 panion would steer. "There are reasons," growled 
 Bayham, " which need not be explained to one of your 
 experience, why Bond Street must be avoided by some 
 men peculiarly situated. The smell of Truefitt's poma- 
 tum makes me ill Tell me, Pendennis, is this Indian 
 warrior a rajah of large wealth? Could he, do you think, 
 recommend me to a situation in the East India Com- 
 pany? I would gladly take any honest post in which 
 fidelity might be useful, genius might be appreciated, 
 and courage rewarded. Here we are. The hotel seems 
 comfortable. I never was in it before." 
 
 When we entered the Colonel's sitting-room at Nerot's, 
 we found the waiter engaged in extending the table. 
 " We are a larger party than I expected," our host said. 
 " I met my brother Brian on horseback leaving cards at 
 that great house in Street." 
 
 "The Russian Embassy," says Mr. Honeyman, who 
 knew the town quite well. 
 
 "And he said he was disengaged and would dine with 
 us," continues the Colonel. 
 
 "Am I to understand, Colonel Newcome," said Mr. 
 Frederick Bayham, " that you are related to the eminent 
 banker, Sir Brian Newcome, who gives such uncom- 
 monly swell parties in Park Lane?" 
 
 " What is a swell party?" asked the Colonel laugh- 
 ing, " I dined with my brother last Wednesday; and it 
 was a very grand dinner certainly. The Governor- 
 General himself could not give a more splendid enter- 
 tainment. But, do you know, I scarcely had enough to 
 eat? I don't eat side-dishes; and as for the roast-beef of 
 old England, why, the meat was put on the table and 
 whisked away like Sancho's inauguration feast at Bara- 
 taria. We did not dine till nine o'clock. I like a few 
 glasses of claret and a cosy talk after dinner; but 
 well, well " (no doubt the worthy gentleman was ac- 
 cusing himself of telling tales out of school and had 
 come to a timely repentance). " Our dinner, I hope, will 
 be different. James Binnie will take care of that. That
 
 THE NEWCOMES 97 
 
 fellow is full of anecdote and fun. You will meet one or 
 two more of our service : Sir Thomas de Boots, who is 
 not a bad chap over a glass of wine ; Mr. Pendennis's 
 chum, Mr. Warrington, and my nephew, Barnes New- 
 come a dry fellow at first, but I daresay he has good 
 about him when you know him ; almost every man has," 
 said the good-natured philosopher. " Clive, you rogue, 
 mind and be moderate with the champagne, sir ! " 
 
 " Champagne 's for women," says Clive. " I stick to 
 claret." 
 
 " I say, Pendennis," here Bayham remarked, "it is 
 my deliberate opinion that F. B. has got Into a good 
 thing." 
 
 Mr. Pendennis seeing there was a great party, was 
 for going home to his chambers to dress. "H'm!" 
 says Mr. Bayham, "don't see the necessity. What 
 right-minded man looks at the exterior of his neigh- 
 bour? He looks here, sir, and examines there" and 
 Bayham tapped his forehead, which was expansive, and 
 then his heart, which he considered to be in the right 
 place. 
 
 " What is this I hear about dressing? " asks our host. 
 " Dine in your frock, my good friend, and welcome, if 
 your dress-coat is in the country." 
 
 " It is at present at an uncle's," Mr. Bayham said, 
 with great gravity, " and I take your hospitality as you 
 offer it, Colonel Newcome, cordially and frankly." 
 
 Honest Mr. Binnie made his appearance a short time 
 before the appointed hour for receiving the guests, 
 arrayed in a tight little pair of trousers, and white silk 
 stockings and pumps, his bald head shining like a 
 billiard-ball, his jolly gills rosy with good humour. He 
 was bent on pleasure. "Hey, lads!" says he; "but 
 we'll make a night of it. We haven't had a night since 
 the farewell dinner off Plymouth." 
 
 "And a jolly night it was, James," ejaculates the 
 Colonel. 
 
 " Egad, what a song that Tom Morris sings ! " 
 
 " And your ' Jock o' Hazeldean ' is as good as a play, 
 James."
 
 98 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 "And I think you beat iny one I iver hard in 'Tom 
 Bowling-,' yourself, Tom! " cries the Colonel's delighted 
 chum. Mr. Pendennis opened the eyes of astonishment 
 at the idea of the possibility of renewing these festivities, 
 but he kept the lips of prudence closed. And now the 
 carriages began to drive up, and the guests of Colonel 
 Newcome to arrive. 
 
 The earliest comers were the first mate and the medical 
 officer of the ship in which the two gentlemen had come to 
 England. The mate was a Scotchman ; the Doctor was 
 a Scotchman; of the gentlemen from the Oriental Club, 
 three were Scotchmen. 
 
 The Southerons, with one exception, were the last to 
 arrive, and for a while we stood looking out of the 
 windows awaiting their coming. The first mate pulled 
 out a penknife, and arranged his nails. The Doctor and 
 Mr. Binnie talked of the progress of medicine. Binnie 
 had walked the hospitals of Edinburgh before getting 
 his civil appointment to India. The three gentlemen 
 from Hanover Square and the Colonel had plenty to say 
 about Tom Smith of the Cavalry, and Harry Hall of the 
 Engineers: how Topham was going to marry poor 
 little Bob Wallis's widow ; how many lakhs Barber had 
 brought home, and the like. The tall grey-headed 
 Englishman, who had been in the East too, in the King's 
 service, joined for a while in this conversation, but pre- 
 sently left it, and came and talked with Clive. " I knew 
 your father in India," said the gentleman to the lad ; 
 " There is not a more gallant or respected officer in that 
 service. I have a boy too, a stepson, who has just gone 
 into the army ; he is older than you ; he was born at the 
 end of the Waterloo year, and so was a great friend of 
 his and mine, who was at your school, Sir Rawdon 
 Crawley." 
 
 "He was in Gown Boys, I know," says the boy; 
 "succeeded his uncle Pitt, fourth Baronet. I don't 
 know how his mother her who wrote the hymns, you 
 know, and goes to Mr. Honeyman's chapel comes to 
 be Rebecca, Lady Crawley. His father, Colonel Rawdon
 
 THE NEWCOMES 99 
 
 Crawley, died at Coventry Island, in August, 182 , 
 and his uncle, Sir Pitt, not till September here. I 
 remember, we used to talk about it at Grey Friars, 
 when I was quite a little chap; and there were bets 
 whether Crawley, I mean the young one, was a Baronet 
 or not." 
 
 " When I sailed to Rigy, Cornel," the first mate was 
 speaking nor can any spelling nor combination of 
 letters of which I am master reproduce this gentleman's 
 accent when he was talking his best " I racklackt they 
 used always to sairve us a drem before denner. And as 
 your frinds are kipping the denner, and as I've no watch 
 to-night, I'll jist do as we used to do at Rigy. James, 
 my fine fellow, jist look alive and breng me a small glass 
 of brandy, will ye? Did ye iver try a brandy cock-tail, 
 Cornel? Whin I sailed on the New York line, we used 
 jest to make bits before denner; and thank ye, James " 
 and he tossed off a glass of brandy. 
 
 Here a waiter announces, in a loud voice, "Sir 
 Thomas de Boots," and the General enters, scowling 
 round the room according to his fashion, very red in the 
 face, very tight in the girth, splendidly attired with a 
 choking white neckcloth, a voluminous waistcoat, and 
 his orders on. 
 
 "Stars and garters, by jingo!" cries Mr. Frederick 
 Bayham; "I say, Pendennis, have you any idea, is the 
 Duke coming? I wouldn't have come in these Bluchers 
 if I had known it. Confound it, no Hoby himself, my 
 own bootmaker, wouldn't have allowed poor F. B. to 
 appear in Bluchers, if he had known that I was going to 
 meet the Duke. My linen's all right, anyhow;" and 
 F. B. breathed a thankful prayer for that. Indeed, who 
 but the very curious could tell that not F. B.'s, but 
 C. H.'s Charles Honeyman's was the mark upon that 
 decorous linen? 
 
 Colonel Newcome introduced Sir Thomas to every 
 one in the room, as he had introduced us all to each 
 other previously ; and as Sir Thomas looked at one after 
 another, his face was kind enough to assume an expres- 
 sion which seemed to ask, " And who the devil are you,
 
 ioo WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 sir? " as clearly as though the General himself had given 
 utterance to the words. With the gentleman in the 
 window talking to Clive he seemed to have some ac- 
 quaintance, and said, not unkindly, " How d'you do, 
 Dobbin?" 
 
 The carriage of Sir Brian Newcome now drove up, 
 from which the Baronet descended in state, leaning 
 upon the arm of the Apollo in plush and powder, who 
 closed the shutters of the great coach, and mounted by 
 the side of the coachman, laced and periwigged. The 
 Bench of Bishops has given up its wigs ; cannot the box, 
 too, be made to resign that insane decoration? Is it 
 necessary for our comfort, that the men who do our 
 work in stable or household, should be dressed like 
 Merry-Andrews? Enter Sir Brian Newcome, smiling 
 blandly; he greets his brother affectionately, Sir Thomas 
 gaily ; he nods and smiles to Clive, and graciously per- 
 mits Mr. Pendennis to take hold of two fingers of his 
 extended right hand. That gentleman is charmed, of 
 course, with the condescension. What man could be 
 otherwise than happy to be allowed a momentary em- 
 brace of two such precious fingers? When a gentleman 
 so favours me, I always ask, mentally, why he has taken 
 the trouble at all, and regret that I have not had the 
 presence of mind to poke one finger against his two. If 
 I were worth ten thousand a year, I cannot help in- 
 wardly reflecting, and kept a large account in Thread- 
 needle Street, I cannot help thinking he would have 
 favoured me with the whole palm. 
 
 The arrival of these two grandees has somehow cast a 
 solemnity over the company. The weather is talked 
 about: brilliant in itself, it does not occasion very 
 brilliant remarks among Colonel Newcome's guests. Sir 
 Brian really thinks it must be as hot as it is in India. 
 Sir Thomas de Boots, swelling in his white waistcoat, 
 in the armholes of which his thumbs are engaged, smiles 
 scornfully, and wishes Sir Brian had ever felt a good 
 sweltering day in the hot winds in India. Sir Brian 
 withdraws the untenable proposition that London is as 
 hot as Calcutta. Mr. Binnie looks at his watch, and at
 
 THE NEWCOMES 101 
 
 the Colonel. "We have only your nephew, Tom, to 
 wait for," he says; " I think we may make so bold as to 
 order the dinner" a proposal heartily seconded by Mr. 
 Frederick Bayham. 
 
 The dinner appears steaming-, borne by steaming 
 waiters. The grandees take their places, one on each 
 side of the Colonel. He begs Mr. Honeyman to say 
 grace, and stands reverentially during that brief cere- 
 mony, while De Boots looks queerly at him from over 
 his napkin. All the young men take their places at the 
 further end of the table, round about Mr. Binnie; and, 
 at the end of the second course, Mr. Barnes Newcome 
 makes his appearance. 
 
 Mr. Barnes does not show the slightest degree of dis- 
 turbance, although he disturbs all the company. Soup 
 and fish are brought for him, and meat, which he leis- 
 urely eats, while twelve other gentlemen are kept wait- 
 ing. We mark Mr. Binnie's twinkling eyes as they 
 watch the young man. "Eh, "he seems to say, "but 
 that 's just about as free-and-easy a young chap as ever 
 I set eyes on." And so Mr. Barnes was a cool young 
 chap. That dish is so good, he must really have some 
 more. He discusses the second supply leisurely; and 
 turning round, simpering, to his neighbour, says, " I 
 really hope I'm not keeping everybody waiting." 
 
 "Hem!" grunts the neighbour, Mr. Bayham, "it 
 doesn't much matter, for we had all pretty well done 
 dinner." Barnes takes a note of Mr. Bayham's dress 
 his long frock-coat, the ribbon round his neck ; and sur- 
 veys him with an admirable impudence. "Who are 
 these people," thinks he, "my uncle has got together?" 
 He bows graciously to the Colonel, who asks him to 
 take wine. He is so insufferably affable, that every man 
 near him would like to give him a beating. 
 
 All the time of the dinner the host was challenging 
 everybody to drink wine, in his honest old-fashioned 
 way, and Mr. Binnie seconding the chief entertainer. 
 Such was the way in England and Scotland when they 
 were young men. And when Binnie, asking Sir Brian, 
 receives for reply from the Baronet " Thank you, no,
 
 102 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 my dear sir; I have exceeded already, positively ex- 
 ceeded ; " the poor discomfited gentleman hardly knows 
 whither to apply; but, luckily, Tom Norris, the first 
 mate, comes to his rescue, and cries out, "Mr. Binnie, 
 I've not had enough, and I'll drink a glass of anything 
 ye like with ye." The fact is, that Mr. Norris has had 
 enough. He has drunk bumpers to the health of every 
 member of the company ; his glass has been filled scores 
 of times by watchful waiters. So has Mr. Bavham ab- 
 sorbed great quantities of drink; but without any visible 
 effect on that veteran toper. So has young Clive taken 
 more than is good for him. His cheeks are flushed and 
 burning; he is chattering and laughing loudly at his end 
 of the table. Mr. Warrington eyes the lad with some 
 curiosity; and then regards Mr. Barnes with a look 
 of scorn, which does not scorch that affable young 
 person. 
 
 I am obliged to confess that the mate of the India- 
 man, at an early period of the dessert, and when nobody 
 had asked him for any such public expression of his 
 opinion, insisted on rising and proposing the health of 
 Colonel Newcome, whose virtues he lauded outrage- 
 ously, and whom he pronounced to be one of the best of 
 mortal men. Sir Brian looked very much alarmed at 
 the commencement of this speech, which the mate de- 
 livered with immense shrieks and gesticulation : but the 
 Baronet recovered during the course of the rambling 
 oration, and, at its conclusion, gracefully tapped the 
 table with one of those patronizing fingers; and lifting 
 up a glass containing at least a thimbleful of claret, said, 
 "My dear brother, I drink your health with all my 
 heart, I'm su-ah." The youthful Barnes had uttered 
 many "Hear, hears!" during the discourse, with an 
 irony which, with every fresh glass of wine he drank, he 
 cared less to conceal. And though Barnes had come 
 late he had drunk largely, making up for lost time. 
 
 Those ironical cheers, and all his cousin's behaviour 
 during dinner, had struck young Clive, who was grow- 
 ing very angry. He growled out remarks uncom- 
 plimentary to Barnes. His eyes, as he looked towards
 
 THE NEWCOMES 103 
 
 his kinsman, flashed challenges, of which we who were 
 watching- him could see the warlike purport. Warring- 
 ton looked at Bayham and Pendennis with glances of 
 apprehension. We saw that danger was brooding, un- 
 less the one young man could be restrained from his 
 impertinence, and the other from his wine. 
 
 Colonel Newcome said a very few words in reply to 
 his honest friend the chief mate, and there the matter 
 might have ended, but I 'am sorry to say Mr. B : nnie now 
 thought it necessary to rise and deliver himself of some 
 remarks regarding the King's service, coupled with the 
 name of Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, K.C.B., 
 etc. the receipt of which that gallant officer was obliged 
 to acknowledge in a confusion amounting almost to 
 apoplexy. The glasses went whack whack upon the 
 hospitable board ; the evening set in for public speaking. 
 Encouraged by his last effort, Mr. Binnie now proposed 
 Sir Brian Newcome's health; and that Baronet rose and 
 uttered an exceedingly lengthy speech, delivered with 
 his wine-glass on his bosom. 
 
 Then that sad rogue Bayham must get up, and call 
 earnestly and respectfully for silence, and the chairman's 
 hearty sympathy, for the few observations which he had 
 to propose. "Our armies had been drunk with proper 
 enthusiasm such men as he beheld around him de- 
 served the applause of all honest hearts, and merited 
 the cheers with which their names had been received. 
 ('Hear, hear!' from Barnes Newcome sarcastically. 
 4 Hear, hear, HEAR!' fiercely from Clive.) But whilst 
 we applauded our army, should we forget a profession 
 still more exalted? Yes, still more exalted, I say in the 
 face of the gallant General opposite; and that profes- 
 sion, I need not say, is the Church. (Applause.) Gen- 
 tlemen, we have among us one who, while partaking 
 largely of the dainties on this festive board, drinking 
 freely of the sparkling wine-cup which our gallant 
 friend's hospitality administers to us, sanctifies by his 
 presence the feast of which he partakes, inaugurates 
 with appropriate benedictions, and graces it, I may say, 
 both before and after meat. Gentlemen, Charles Honey-
 
 io 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 man was the friend of my childhood, his father the in- 
 structor of my early days. If Frederick Bayham's latter 
 life has been chequered by misfortune, it may be that I 
 have forgotten the precepts which the venerable parent 
 of Charles Honeyman poured into an inattentive ear. He 
 too, as a child, was not exempt from faults; as a young 
 man, I am told, not quite free from youthful indis- 
 cretions. But in this present Anno Domini, we hail 
 Charles Honeyman as a precept and an example, as a 
 decus fidei and lumen ecclesice (as I told him in the con- 
 fidence of the private circle this morning, and ere I 
 ever thought to publish my opinion in this distinguished 
 company). Colonel Newcome and Mr. Binnie ! I drink 
 to the health of the Reverend Charles Honeyman, A.M. 
 May we listen to many more of his sermons, as well as 
 to that admirable discourse with which I am sure he is 
 about to electrify us now. May we profit by his elo- 
 quence ; and cherish in our memories the truths which 
 come mended from his tongue!" He ceased; poor 
 Honeyman had to rise on his legs, and gasp out a few 
 incoherent remarks in reply. Without a book before 
 him, the Incumbent of Lady Whittlesea's Chapel was no 
 prophet, and the truth is, he made poor work of his 
 oration. 
 
 At the end of it, he, Sir Brian, Colonel Dobbin, and 
 one of the Indian gentlemen quitted the room, in spite 
 of the loud outcries of our generous host, who insisted 
 that the party should not break up. " Close up, gentle- 
 men, " called out honest Newcome, "we are not going 
 to part just yet. Let me fill your glass, General. You 
 used to have no objection to a glass of wine." And he 
 poured out a bumper for his friend, which the old cam- 
 paigner sucked in with fitting gusto. "Who will give 
 us a song? Binnie, give us the ' Laird of Cockpen.' It 's 
 capital, my dear General. Capital," the Colonel whis- 
 pered to his neighbour. 
 
 Mr. Binnie struck up the " Laird of Cockpen," with- 
 out, I am bound to say, the least reluctance. He bobbed 
 to one man, and he winked to another, and he tossed 
 his glass, and gave all the points of his song in a
 
 THE NEWCOMES 105 
 
 manner which did credit to his simplicity and his humour. 
 You haughty Southerners little know how a jolly Scotch 
 gentleman can desipere in loco, and how he chirrups 
 over his honest cups. I do not say whether it was with 
 the song or with Mr. Binnie that we were most amused. 
 It was a good commonty, as Christopher Sly says ; nor 
 were we sorry when it was done. 
 
 Him the first mate succeeded; after which came a 
 song from the redoubted F. Bayham, which he sang 
 with a bass voice which Lablache might envy, and of 
 which the chorus was frantically sung by the whole com- 
 pany. The cry was then for the Colonel ; on which Barnes 
 Newcome, who had been drinking much, started up with 
 something like an oath, crying, "Oh, I can't stand this." 
 
 "Then leave it, confound you!" said young Clive, 
 with fury in his face. "If our company is not good 
 enough for you, why do you come into it? " 
 
 "What's that?" asks Barnes, who was evidently 
 affected by wine. Bayham roared, "Silence!" and 
 Barnes Newcome, looking round with a tipsy toss of 
 the head, finally sat down. 
 
 The Colonel sang, as we have said, with a very high 
 voice, using freely the falsetto, after the manner of the 
 tenor-singers of his day. He chose one of his maritime 
 songs, and got through the first verse very well, Barnes 
 wagging his head at the chorus, with a "Bravo!" so 
 offensive that Fred Bayham, his neighbour, gripped the 
 young man's arm, and told him to hold his confounded 
 tongue. 
 
 The Colonel began his second verse: and here, as 
 will often happen to amateur singers, his falsetto broke 
 down. He was not in the least annoyed, for I saw him 
 smile very good-naturedly ; and he was going to try the 
 verse again, when that unlucky Barnes first gave a sort 
 of crowing imitation of the song, and then burst into a 
 yell of laughter. Clive dashed a glass of wine in his 
 face at the next minute, glass and all ; and no one who 
 had watched the young man's behaviour was sorry for 
 the insult. 
 
 I never saw a kind face express more terror than
 
 106 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Colonel Newcome's. He started back as if he had him- 
 self received the blow from his son. " Gracious God! " 
 he cried out. ' ' My boy insult a gentleman at my table ! " 
 
 " I'd like to do it again," says Clive, whose whole 
 body was trembling with anger. 
 
 " Are you drunk, sir? " shouted his father. 
 
 " The boy served the young fellow right, sir," growled 
 Fred Bayham in his deepest voice. " Come along, young 
 man. Stand up straight, and keep a civil tongue in your 
 head next time, mind you, when you dine with gentle- 
 men. It's easy to see," says Fred, looking round with 
 a knowing air, "that this young man hasn't got the 
 usages of society he's not been accustomed to it:" 
 and he led the dandy out. 
 
 Others had meanwhile explained the state of the case 
 to the Colonel including Sir Thomas de Boots, who 
 was highly energetic and delighted with Clive's spirit; 
 and some were for having the song to continue ; but the 
 Colonel, puffing his cigar, said, "No. My pipe is out. 
 I will never sing again." So this history will record no 
 more of Thomas Newcome's musical performances. 
 
 MR. GANDISH'S ART SCHOOL 
 (CHAPTER XVII) 
 
 [This extract is only introduced as an example of the exuberant 
 incidental satire that breaks out everywhere in Thackeray's books. 
 It has little or no connection with the actual story, except in so far 
 as it emphasizes the fact that Clive Newcome decides to be an 
 artist. This choice of the hero is indeed a very cunning device of 
 the author. The object being to suggest that the Colonel and his 
 son have the soul of breeding, while their brothers and cousins 
 have only the pomp and occasion of it, no better point could have 
 been made. There is no trade to which a real gentleman might 
 more spontaneously turn, and none from which a sham gentleman 
 (especially in those times) would more immediately shrink. On the 
 whole, however, we introduce this passage for the sake of Gandish 
 and not for the sake of Clive.] 
 
 BRITISH art either finds her peculiar nourishment in 
 melancholy, and loves to fix her abode in desert places ;
 
 THE NEWCOMES 107 
 
 or, it may be, her purse is but slenderly furnished, and 
 she is forced to put up with accommodations rejected 
 by more prosperous calling's. Some of the most dismal 
 quarters of the town are colonized by her disciples and 
 professors. In walking- through streets which may have 
 been g-ay and polite when ladies' chairmen jostled each 
 other on the pavement, and link-boys with their torches 
 lighted the beaux over the mud, who has not remarked 
 the artist's invasion of those regions once devoted to 
 fashion and gaiety? Centre- windows of drawing-rooms 
 are enlarged so as to reach up into bed-rooms bed- 
 rooms where Lady Betty has had her hair powdered, 
 and where the painter's north-light now takes possession 
 of the place which her toilet-table occupied a hundred 
 years ago. There are degrees in decadence: after the 
 Fashion chooses to emigrate, and retreats from Soho 
 or Bloomsbury, let us say, to Cavendish Square, phy- 
 sicians come and occupy the vacant houses, which still 
 have a respectable look, the windows being cleaned, 
 and the knockers and plates kept bright, and the doctor's 
 carriage rolling round the square, almost as fine as the 
 countess's, which has whisked away her ladyship to 
 other regions. A boarding-house, mayhap, succeeds the 
 physician, who has followed after his sick folks into the 
 new country ; and then Dick Tinto comes with his dingy 
 brass-plate, and breaks in his north window, and sets 
 up his sitters' throne. I love his honest moustache, and 
 jaunty velvet jacket, his queer figure, his queer vanities, 
 and his kind heart. Why should he not suffer his ruddy 
 ringlets to fall over his shirt-collar? Why should he 
 deny himself his velvet? it is but a kind of fustian which 
 costs him eighteen-pence a yard. He is naturally what 
 he is, and breaks out into costume as spontaneously as 
 a bird sings, or a bulb bears a tulip. And as Dick, under 
 yonder terrific appearance of waving cloak, bristling 
 beard, and shadowy sombrero, is a good kindly simple 
 creature, got up at a very cheap rate, so his life is con- 
 sistent with his dress ; he gives his genius a darkling 
 swagger, and a romantic envelope, which, being re- 
 moved, you find, not a bravo, but a kind chirping soul ;
 
 io8 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 not a moody poet avoiding mankind for the better com- 
 pany of his own great thoughts, but a jolly little chap 
 who has an aptitude for painting brocade-gowns, or bits 
 of armour (with figures inside them), or trees and cattle, 
 or gondolas and buildings, or what not; an instinct for 
 the picturesque, which exhibits itself in his works, and 
 outwardly on his person ; beyond this, a gentle creature 
 loving his friends, his cups, feasts, merrymakings, and 
 all good things. The kindest folks alive I have found 
 among those scowlingwhiskerandoes. They open oysters 
 with their yataghans, toast muffins on their rapiers, and 
 fill their Venice glasses with half-and-half. If they have 
 money in their lean purses, be sure they have a friend 
 to share it. What innocent gaiety, what jovial suppers 
 on threadbare cloths, and wonderful songs after: what 
 pathos, merriment, humour does not a man enjoy who 
 frequents their company! Mr. Clive Newcome, who has 
 long since shaved his beard, who has become a family 
 man, and has seen the world in a thousand different 
 phases, avers that his life as an art-student at home 
 and abroad was the pleasantest part of his whole exist- 
 ence. It may not be more amusing in the telling than 
 the chronicle of a feast, or the accurate report of two 
 lovers' conversation ; but the biographer, having brought 
 his hero to this period of his life, is bound to relate it, 
 before passing to other occurrences which are to be 
 narrated in their turn. 
 
 We may be sure the boy had many conversations 
 with his affectionate guardian as to the profession which 
 he should follow. As regarded mathematical and class- 
 ical learning, the elder Newcome was forced to admit 
 that, out of every hundred boys, there were fifty as 
 clever as his own, and at least fifty more industrious ; 
 the army in time of peace Colonel Newcome thought a 
 bad trade for a young fellow so fond of ease and pleasure 
 as his son : his delight in the pencil was manifest to all. 
 Were not his school-books full of caricatures of the 
 masters? Whilst his tutor, Grindley, was lecturing him, 
 did he not draw Grindley instinctively under his very 
 nose? A painter Clive was determined to be, and no-
 
 THE NEWCOMES 109 
 
 thing- else ; and Clive, being 1 then some sixteen years of 
 age, began to study the art, en r&gle, under the eminent 
 Mr. Gandish, of Soho. 
 
 It was that well-known portrait -painter, Andrew 
 Smee, Esquire, R.A., who recommended Gandish to 
 Colonel Newcome, one day when the two gentlemen met 
 at dinner at Lady Ann Newcome's table. Mr. Smee hap- 
 pened to examine some of Clive's drawings, which the 
 young fellow had executed for his cousins. Clive found 
 no better amusement than in making pictures for them, 
 and would cheerfully pass evening after evening in that 
 diversion. He had made a thousand sketches of Ethel 
 before a year was over; a year, every day of which 
 seemed to increase the attractions of the fair young 
 creature, develop her nymph-like form, and give her 
 figure fresh graces. Also, of course, Clive drew Alfred 
 and the nursery in general, Aunt Ann and the Blenheim 
 spaniels, and Mr. Kuhn and his ear-rings, the majestic 
 John bringing in the coal-scuttle, and all persons or 
 objects in that establishment with which he was familiar. 
 "What a genius the lad has," the complimentary Mr. 
 Smee averred; " what a force and individuality there is 
 in all his drawings ! Look at his horses ! capital, by 
 Jove, capital! and Alfred on his pony, and Miss Ethel 
 in her Spanish hat, with her hair flowing in the wind ! 
 I must take this sketch, I positively must now, and 
 show it to Landseer." And the courtly artist daintily 
 enveloped the drawing in a sheet of paper, put it away 
 in his hat, and vowed subsequently that the great painter 
 had been delighted with the young man's performance. 
 Smee was not only charmed with Clive's skill as an 
 artist, but thought his head would be an admirable one 
 to paint. Such a rich complexion, such fine turns in his 
 hair! such eyes! to see real blue eyes was so rare now- 
 a-days! And the Colonel, too, if the Colonel would but 
 give him a few sittings, the gray uniform of the Bengal 
 cavalry, the silver lace, the little bit of red ribbon just 
 to warm up the picture! it was seldom, Mr. Smee de- 
 clared, that an artist could get such an opportunity for 
 colour. With our hideous vermilion uniforms there was
 
 no WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 no chance of doing anything; Rubens himself could 
 scarcely manage scarlet. Look at the horseman in 
 Cuyp's famous picture at the Louvre: the red was a 
 positive blot upon the whole picture. There was no- 
 thing like French gray and silver! All which did not 
 prevent Mr. Smee from painting Sir Brian in a flaring 
 deputy-lieutenant's uniform, and entreating all military 
 men whom he met to sit to him in scarlet. Clive New- 
 come the Academician succeeded in painting of course 
 for mere friendship's sake, and because he liked the 
 subject, though he could not refuse the cheque which 
 Colonel Newcome sent him for the frame and picture ; 
 but no cajoleries could induce the old campaigner to sit 
 to any artist save one. He said he should be ashamed 
 to pay fifty guineas for the likeness of his homely face ; 
 he jocularly proposed to James Binnie to have his head 
 put on the canvas, and Mr. Smee enthusiastically caught 
 at the idea; but honest James winked his droll eyes, 
 saying his was a beauty that did not want any paint ; 
 and when Mr. Smee took his leave after dinner in Fitz- 
 roy Square, where this conversation was held, James 
 Binnie hinted that the Academician was no better than 
 an old humbug, in which surmise he was probably not 
 altogether incorrect. Certain young men who frequented 
 the kind Colonel's house were also somewhat of this 
 opinion; and made endless jokes at the painter's ex- 
 pense. Smee plastered his sitters with adulation as 
 methodically as he covered his canvas. He waylaid 
 gentlemen at dinner; he inveigled unsuspecting folks 
 into his studio, and had their heads off their shoulders 
 before they were aware. One day, on our way from 
 the Temple, through Howland Street, to the Colonel's 
 house, we beheld Major-General Sir Thomas de Boots, 
 in full uniform, rushing from Smee's door to his 
 brougham. The coachman was absent refreshing him- 
 self at a neighbouring tap : the little street-boys cheered 
 and hurraed Sir Thomas, as, arrayed in gold and scarlet, 
 he sat in his chariot. He blushed purple when he beheld 
 us. No artist would have dared to imitate those purple 
 tones ; he was one of the numerous victims of Mr. Smee.
 
 THE NEWCOMES in 
 
 One day then, day to be noted with a white stone, 
 Colonel Newcome, with his son and Mr. Smee, R.A., 
 walked from the Colonel's house to Gandish's, which 
 was not far removed thence ; and young" Clive, who was 
 a perfect mimic, described to his friends, and illustrated, 
 as was his wont, by diagrams, the interview which he 
 had with that professor. " By Jove, you must see Gan- 
 dish, Pen!" cries Clive: "Gandish is worth the whole 
 world. Come and be an art-student. You'll find such 
 jolly fellows there! Gandish calls it hart-student, and 
 says, ' Hars est celare Hartem ' by Jove he does ! He 
 treated us to a little Latin, as he brought out a cake and 
 a bottle of wine, you know. 
 
 "The governor was splendid, sir. He wore gloves: 
 you know he only puts them on on parade days; and 
 turned out for the occasion spick and span. He ought 
 to be a general officer. He looks like a field-marshal 
 don't he? You should have seen him bowing- to Mrs. 
 Gandish and the Miss Gandishes, dressed all in their 
 best, round the cake-tray ! He takes his glass of wine, 
 and sweeps them all round with a bow. ' I hope, young 
 ladies,' says he, 'you don't often go to the students' 
 room. I'm afraid the young gentlemen would leave off 
 looking at the statues if you came in.' And so they 
 wculd: for you never saw such Guys; but the dear old 
 boy fancies every woman is a beauty. 
 
 "'Mr. Smee, you are looking at my picture of 
 " Boadishia? " ' says Gandish. Wouldn't he have caught 
 it for his quantities at Grey Friars, that 's all. 
 
 " 'Yes ah yes,' says Mr. Smee, putting his hand 
 over his eyes, and standing before it, looking steady, 
 you know, as if he was going to see whereabouts he 
 should hit ' Boadishia.' 
 
 " ' It was painted when you were a young man, four 
 years before you were an associate, Smee. Had some 
 success in its time, and there 's good pints about that 
 pictur',' Gandish goes on. 'But I never could get my 
 price for it ; and here it hangs in my own room. 'Igh 
 art won't do in this country, Colonel it 's a melancholy 
 fact.'
 
 ii2 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " ' High art! I should think it is high art! " whispers 
 old Smee; 'fourteen feet high, at least! ' And then out 
 loud he says: 'The picture has very fine points in it, 
 Gandish, as you say. Foreshortening of that arm, 
 capital ! That red drapery carried off into the right of 
 the picture very skilfully managed ! ' 
 
 "'It's not like portrait-painting, Smee 'Igh art,' 
 says Gandish. ' The models of the hancient Britons in 
 that pictur' alone cost me thirty pound when I was a 
 struggling man, and had just married my Betsy here. 
 You reckonise Boadishia, Colonel, with the Roman 
 'elmet, cuirass, and javeling of the period all studied 
 from the hantique, sir, the glorious hantique.' 
 
 " 'All but Boadicea,' says father. 'She remains al- 
 ways young.' And he began to speak the lines out of 
 Cowper, he did waving his stick like an old trump 
 and famous they are," cries the lad: 
 
 " ' When the British warrior queen, 
 Bleeding from the Roman rods ' 
 
 Jolly verses! Haven't I translated them into Alcaics?" 
 says Clive, with a merry laugh, and resumes his history. 
 
 " ' Oh, I must have those verses in my album,' cries 
 one of the young ladies. ' Did you compose them, 
 Colonel Newcome?' But Gandish, you see, is never 
 thinking about any works but his own, and goes on, 
 ' Study of my eldest daughter, exhibited 1816.' 
 
 "'No, Pa, not '16,' cries Miss Gandish. She don't 
 look like a chicken, I can tell you. 
 
 " 'Admired,' Gandish goes on, never heeding her. 
 ' I can show you what the papers said of it at the time 
 Morning Chronicle and Examiner spoke most 'ighly 
 of it. My son as an infant 'Ercules, stranglin' the ser- 
 pent JDver the piano. Fust conception of my picture of 
 " Non Hangli sed Hangeli."' 
 
 " ' For which I can guess who were the angels that 
 sat,' says father. Upon my word that old governor! 
 He is a little too strong. But Mr. Gandish listened no 
 more to him than to Mr. Smee, and went on, buttering 
 himself all over, as I have read the Hottentots do.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 113 
 
 ' Myself at thirty-three years of age ! ' says he, pointing 
 to a portrait of a gentleman in leather breeches and 
 mahogany boots ; ' I could have been a portrait-painter, 
 Mr. Smee.' 
 
 " ' Indeed, it was lucky for some of us you devoted 
 yourself to high art, Gandish,' Mr. Smee says, and sips 
 the wine and puts it down again, making a face. It was 
 not first-rate tipple, you see. 
 
 " 'Two girls,' continues that indomitable Mr. Gan- 
 dish. 'Hidea for "Babes in the Wood." "View of 
 Paestum," taken on the spot by myself, when travelling 
 with the late lamented Earl of Kew. " Beauty, Valour, 
 Commerce, and Liberty, condoling with Britannia on 
 the death of Admiral Viscount Nelson," allegorical 
 piece drawn at a very early age after Trafalgar. Mr. 
 Fuseli saw that piece, sir, when I was a student of the 
 Academy, and said to me, "Young man, stick to the 
 antique. There 's nothing like it." Those were 'is very 
 words. If you do me the favour to walk into the 
 Hatrium, you'll remark my great pictures also from 
 English 'ist'ry. An English 'istorical painter, sir, should 
 be employed chiefly in English 'ist'ry. That 's what I 
 would have done. Why ain't there temples for us, where 
 the people might read their 'ist'ry at a glance, and with- 
 out knowing how to read? Why is my " Alfred " 'anging 
 up in this 'all? Because there is no patronage for a 
 man who devotes himself to 'igh art. You know the 
 anecdote, Colonel? King Alfred, flying from the Danes, 
 took refuge in a neat-'erd's 'ut. The rustic's wife told 
 him to bake a cake, and the fugitive severing set down 
 to his ignoble task, and forgetting it in the cares of 
 state, let the cake burn, on which the woman struck 
 him. The moment chose is when she is lifting her 'and 
 to deliver the blow. The King receives it with majesty 
 mingled with meekness. In the background the door 
 of the 'ut is open, letting in the royal officers to announce 
 the Danes are defeated. The daylight breaks in at the 
 aperture, signifying the dawning of 'Ope. That story, 
 sir, which I found in my researches in 'ist'ry, has since 
 become so popular, sir, that hundreds of artists have 
 I
 
 ii4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 painted it, hundreds! I, who discovered the legend, 
 have my picture here ! ' 
 
 "'Now, Colonel,' says the showman, Met me let 
 me lead you through the statue gallery. " Apollo," you 
 see. The "Venus Hanadyomene," the glorious Venus 
 of the Louvre, which I saw in 1814, Colonel, in its 
 glory the " Laocoon " my friend Gibson's "Nymph," 
 you see, is the only figure I admit among the antiques. 
 Now up this stair to the students' room, where I trust 
 my young friend, Mr. Newcome, will labour assidu- 
 ously. Ars longa est, Mr. Newcome. Vita ' 
 
 "I trembled," Clive said, "lest my father should in- 
 troduce a certain favourite quotation, beginning ' ingenuas 
 didicisse^ but he refrained, and we went into the room, 
 where a score of students were assembled, who all 
 looked away from their drawing-boards as we entered. 
 
 " ' Here will be your place, Mr. Newcome,' says the 
 Professor, ' and here that of your young friend what 
 did you say was his name?' I told him Ridley, for my 
 dear old governor has promised to pay for J. J. too, you 
 know. ' Mr. Chivers is the senior pupil and custos of 
 the room in the absence of my son. Mr. Chivers, 
 Mr. Newcome; gentlemen, Mr. Newcome, a new pupil. 
 My son, Charles Gandish, Mr. Newcome. Assiduity, 
 gentlemen, assiduity. Ars longa. Vita brevis, et linea 
 recta brevisstma est. This way, Colonel, down these 
 steps, across the court-yard, to my own studio. There, 
 gentlemen,' and pulling aside a curtain, Gandish says 
 'There!'" 
 
 " And what was the masterpiece behind it? " we ask 
 of Clive, after we have done laughing at his imitation. 
 
 "Hand round the hat, J. J.!" cries Clive. "Now, 
 ladies and gentlemen, pay your money. Now walk in, 
 for the performance is 'just a-going to begin.'" Nor 
 would the rogue ever tell us what Gandish's curtained 
 picture was. 
 
 Not a successful painter, Mr. Gandish was an excel- 
 lent master, and regarding all artists, save one, perhaps 
 a good critic. Clive and his friend J. J. came soon after, 
 and commenced their studies under him. The one took
 
 THE NEWCOMES 115 
 
 his humble seat at the drawing-board, a poor mean- 
 looking- lad, with worn clothes, downcast features, and 
 a figure almost deformed ; the other adorned by good 
 health, good looks, and the best of tailors ushered into 
 the studio with his father and Mr. Smee as his aides-de- 
 camp on his entry, and previously announced there with 
 all the eloquence of honest Gandish. "I bet he's 'ad 
 cake and wine," says one youthful student, of an epicu- 
 rean and satirical turn. " I bet he might have it every 
 day if he liked." In fact, Gandish was always handing 
 him sweetmeats of compliments and cordials of approba- 
 tion. He had coat-sleeves with silk linings he had 
 studs in his shirt. How different was the texture and 
 colour of that garment to the sleeves Bob Grimes dis- 
 played when he took his coat off to put on his working- 
 jacket! Horses used actually to come for him to Gan- 
 dish's door (which was situated in a certain lofty street 
 in Soho). The Miss G.'s would smile at him from the 
 parlour window as he mounted and rode splendidly off, 
 and those opposition beauties, the Miss Levisons, 
 daughters of the professor of dancing over the way, 
 seldom failed to greet the young gentleman with an 
 admiring ogle from their great black eyes. Master Clive 
 was pronounced an "out-and-outer," a "swell and no 
 mistake," and complimented, with scarce one dissentient 
 voice, by the simple academy at Gandish's. Besides, 
 he drew very well there could be no doubt about that. 
 Caricatures of the students, of course, were passing 
 constantly among them, and in revenge for one which a 
 huge red-haired Scotch student, Mr. Sandy M'Collop, 
 had made of John James, Clive perpetrated a picture of 
 Sandy which set the whole room in a roar ; and when 
 the Caledonian giant uttered satirical remarks against 
 the assembled company, averring that they were a 
 parcel of sneaks, a set of lick-spittles, and using epithets 
 still more vulgar, Clive slipped off his fine silk-sleeved 
 coat in an instant, invited Mr. M'Collop into the back- 
 yard, instructed him in a science which the lad himself 
 had acquired at Grey Friars, and administered two 
 black eyes to Sandy, which prevented the young artist
 
 ii6 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 from seeing for some days after the head of the " Lao- 
 coon " which he was copying. The Scotchman's superior 
 weight and age might have given the combat a different 
 conclusion, had it endured long after Clive's brilliant 
 opening attack with his right and left ; but Professor 
 Gandish came out of his painting-room at the sound of 
 battle, and could scarcely credit his own eyes when he 
 saw those of poor M'Collop so darkened. To do the 
 Scotchman justice, he bore Clive no rancour. They 
 became friends there, and afterwards at Rome, whither 
 they subsequently went to pursue their studies. The 
 fame of Mr. M'Collop as an artist has long since been 
 established. His pictures of "Lord Lovat in prison" 
 and "Hogarth painting him," of the "Blowing-up of 
 the Kirk of Field" (painted for M'Collop of M'Collop), 
 of the " Torture of the Covenanters," the "Murder of 
 the Regent," the "Murder of Rizzio," and other his- 
 torical pieces, all of course from Scotch history, have 
 established his reputation in South as well as in North 
 Britain. No one would suppose, from the gloomy 
 character of his works, that Sandy M'Collop is one of 
 the most jovial souls alive. Within six months after 
 their little difference, Clive and he were the greatest of 
 friends, and it was by the former's suggestion that 
 Mr. James Binnie gave Sandy his first commission, who 
 selected the cheerful subject of "The Young Duke of 
 Rothesay starving in Prison." 
 
 During this period, Mr. Clive assumed the toga virilis, 
 and beheld with inexpressible satisfaction the first growth 
 of those mustachios which have since given him such a 
 marked appearance. Being at Gandish's, and so near 
 the dancing academy, what must he do but take lessons 
 in the Terpischorean art too? making himself as popu- 
 lar with the dancing folks as with the drawing folks, and 
 the jolly king of his company everywhere. He gave 
 entertainments to his fellow-students in the upper 
 chambers in Fitzroy Square, which were devoted to 
 his use, inviting his father and Mr. Binnie to those 
 parties now and then. And songs were sung, and pipes 
 were smoked, and many a pleasant supper eaten. There
 
 THE NEWCOMES 117 
 
 was no stint : but no excess. No young- man was ever 
 seen to quit those apartments the worse, as it is called, 
 for liquor. Fred Bayham's uncle, the bishop, could not 
 be more decorous than F. B. as he left the Colonel's 
 house, for the Colonel made that one of the conditions 
 of his son's hospitality, that nothing- like intoxication 
 should ensue from it. The good gentleman did not 
 frequent the parties of the juniors. He saw that his 
 presence rather silenced the young men ; and left them 
 to themselves, confiding in Clive's parole, and went 
 away to play his rubber of whist at the Club. And many 
 a time he heard the young fellow's step tramping by his 
 bedchamber door, as he lay wakeful within, happy to 
 think his son was happy. 
 
 THE DUEL OF LORD KEW 
 (FROM CHAPTER XXXIV) 
 
 [Through all this time Clive Newcome has been slowly falling 
 in love with the sister of his enemy, Barnes. Ethel Newcome, 
 spirited and magnanimous yet worldly and riveted to her class, 
 has never disguised her friendly feeling for him or her affection for 
 the old Colonel. When, however, the Countess of Kew, the omni- 
 potent grandmother, decides that Ethel shall marry young Lord 
 Kew, a careless and sociable creature, wasting his own consider- 
 able kindness and common sense, Ethel submits like a princess to 
 a royal marriage. Clive, who is Kew's friend, immediately departs 
 to paint in Italy; but he leaves a tragedy behind him. The rest 
 of the family, including Kew and Ethel, are assembled at Baden, 
 within the circle of influence of the Duchesse d'lvry, a morbid 
 aristocratic wanton who models herself on Mary Queen of Scots, 
 and who has been one of the unfortunate episodes in Lord Kew's 
 earlier life. The following scene takes place at a ball.] 
 
 THERE was in the Duchess's court a young fellow from 
 the South of France, whose friends had sent him to 
 faire son droit at Paris, where he had gone through the 
 usual course of pleasures and studies of the young 
 inhabitants of the Latin Quarter. He had at one time 
 exalted republican opinions, and had fired his shot with
 
 n8 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 distinction at St. Me"ri. He was a poet of some little 
 note a book of his lyrics, " Les Rales d'un Asphyxia"," 
 having made a sensation at the time of their appearance. 
 He drank great quantities of absinthe of a morning, 
 smoked incessantly, played roulette whenever he could 
 get a few pieces, contributed to a small journal, and 
 was especially great in his hatred of Finfame Angle- 
 terre. Delenda est Carthago was tattooed beneath his 
 shirt-sleeve. Fifine and Clarisse, young milliners of the 
 students' district, had punctured this terrible motto on 
 his manly right arm. Le leopard, emblem of England, 
 was his aversion ; he shook his fist at the caged mon- 
 ster in the Garden of Plants. He desired to have " Here 
 lies an enemy of England " engraved upon his early 
 tomb. He was skilled at billiards and dominoes, adroit 
 in the use of arms, of unquestionable courage and fierce- 
 ness. Mr. Jones of England was afraid of M. de Castil- 
 lonnes, and cowered before his scowls and sarcasms. 
 Captain Blackball, the other English aide-de-camp of 
 the Duchesse d'lvry, a warrior of undoubted courage, 
 who had been "on the ground" more than once, gave 
 him a wide berth, and wondered what the little beggar 
 meant when he used to say, "Since the days of the 
 Prince Noir, Monsieur, my family has been at feud with 
 1'Angleterre ! " His family were grocers at Bordeaux, and 
 his father's name was M. Cabasse. Cabasse had mar- 
 ried a noble in the revolutionary times; and the son at 
 Paris called himself Victor Cabasse de Castillonnes ; then 
 Victor C. de Castillonnes; then M. de Castillonnes. 
 One of the followers of the Black Prince had insulted a 
 lady of the house of Castillonnes, when the English were 
 lords of Guienne; hence our friend's wrath against the 
 Leopard. He had written, and afterwards dramatized, 
 a terrific legend describing the circumstances, and the 
 punishment of the Briton by a knight of the Castillonnes 
 family. A more awful coward never existed in a melo- 
 drama than that felon English knight. His blanche fille, 
 of course, died of hopeless love for the conquering 
 Frenchman, her father's murderer. The paper in which 
 the feuilleton appeared, died at the sixth number of the
 
 THE NEWCOMES 119 
 
 story. The theatre of the Boulevard refused the drama ; 
 so the author's rage against Tinfame Albion was yet 
 unappeased. On beholding Miss Newcome, Victor had 
 fancied a resemblance between her and Agnes de Cal- 
 verley, the blanche Miss of his novel and drama, and 
 cast an eye of favour upon the young creature. He even 
 composed verses in her honour (for I presume that the 
 " Miss Betti" and the Princesse Crimhilde of the poems 
 which he subsequently published, were no other than 
 Miss Newcome, and the Duchess, her rival). He had 
 been one of the lucky gentlemen who had danced with 
 Ethel on the previous evening. On the occasion of the 
 ball, he came to her with a high-flown compliment, and 
 a request to be once more allowed to waltz with her a 
 request to which he expected a favourable answer, 
 thinking, no doubt, that his wit, his powers of conversa- 
 tion, and the amour qui flambait dans son regard, had 
 had their effect upon the charming Meess. Perhaps he 
 had a copy of the very verses in his breast-pocket, with 
 which he intended to complete his work of fascination. 
 For her sake alone, he had been heard to say that he 
 would enter into a truce with England, and forget the 
 hereditary wrongs of his race. 
 
 But the blanche Miss on this evening declined to 
 waltz with him. His compliments were not of the least 
 avail. He retired with them and his unuttered verses 
 in his crumpled bosom. Miss Newcome only danced in 
 one quadrille with Lord Kew, and left the party quite 
 early, to the despair of many of the bachelors, who lost 
 the fairest ornament of their ball. 
 
 Lord' Kew, however, had been seen walking with her 
 in public, and particularly attentive to her during her 
 brief appearance in the ball-room ; and the old Dowager, 
 who regularly attended all places of amusement, and 
 was at twenty parties and six dinners the week before 
 she died, thought fit to be particularly gracious to 
 Madame d'lvry upon this evening, and, far from shun- 
 ning the Duchesse's presence or being rude to her, as 
 on former occasions, was entirely smiling and good- 
 humoured. Lady Kew, too, thought there had been a
 
 120 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 reconciliation between Ethel and her cousin. Lady Ann 
 had given her mother some account of the handshaking 1 . 
 Kew's walk with Ethel, the quadrille which she had 
 danced with him alone, induced the elder lady to believe 
 that matters had been made up between the young 
 people. 
 
 So, by way of showing the Duchesse that her little 
 shot of the morning had failed in its effect, as Frank 
 left the room with his cousin, Lady Kew gaily hinted, 
 "that the young earl was aux petits soins with Miss 
 Ethel ; that she was sure her old friend, the Due d'lvry, 
 would be glad to hear that his godson was about to 
 range himself. He would settle down on his estates. 
 He would attend to his duties as an English peer and a 
 country gentleman. We shall go home," says the 
 benevolent Countess, ll and kill the veau gras, and you 
 shall see our dear prodigal will become a very quiet 
 gentleman." 
 
 The Duchesse said " My Lady Kew's plan was most 
 edifying. She was charmed to hear that Lord Kew 
 loved veal; there were some who thought that meat 
 rather insipid." A waltzer came to claim her hand at 
 this moment; and as she twirled round the room upon 
 that gentleman's arm, wafting odours as she moved, 
 her pink silks, pink feathers, pink ribbons, making a 
 mighty rustling, the Countess of Kew had the satisfac- 
 tion of thinking that she had planted an arrow in that 
 shrivelled little waist which Count Punter's arms em- 
 braced, and had returned the stab which Madame d'lvry 
 had delivered in the morning. 
 
 Mr. Barnes, and his electj bride, had also appeared, 
 danced, and disappeared. Lady Kew soon followed her 
 young ones ; and the ball went on very gaily, in spite 
 of the absence of these respectable personages. 
 
 Being one of the managers of the entertainment, 
 Lord Kew returned to it after conducting Lady Ann and 
 her daughter to their carriage, and now danced with 
 great vigour, and with his usual kindness, selecting 
 those ladies whom other waltzers rejected, because they 
 were too old, or too plain, or too stout, or what not.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 121 
 
 But he did not ask Madame d'lvry to dance. He could 
 condescend to dissemble so far as to hide the pain which 
 he felt; but did not care to engage in that more ad- 
 vanced hypocrisy of friendship, which, for her part, 
 his old grandmother had not shown the least scruple in 
 assuming. 
 
 Amongst other partners, my lord selected that intrepid 
 waltzer, the Grafin von Gumpelheim, who, in spite of 
 her age, size, and large family, never lost a chance of 
 enjoying her favourite recreation. " Look with what a 
 camel my lord waltzes," said M. Victor to Madame 
 d'lvry, whose slim waist he had the honour of embrac- 
 ing to the same music. " What man but an Englishman 
 would ever select such a dromedary?" 
 
 " Avant de se marier," said Madame d'lvry, " il faut 
 avouer que my lord se permet d'e'normes distractions." 
 
 "My lord marries himself! And when and whom?" 
 cries the Duchesse's partner. 
 
 " Miss Newcome. Do you not approve of his choice? 
 I thought the eyes of Stenio" (the Duchesse called 
 M. Victor, Stenio) " looked with some favour upon that 
 little person. She is handsome, even very handsome. 
 Is it not so often in life, Stenio? Are not youth and 
 innocence (I give Miss Ethel the compliment of her 
 innocence, now surtout that the little painter is dismissed) 
 are we not cast into the arms of jaded roue^s? Tender 
 young flowers, are we not torn from our convent gar- 
 dens, and flung into a world of which the air poisons 
 our pure life, and withers the sainted buds of hope and 
 love and faith? Faith! The mocking world tramples on 
 it, n'est-ce pas? Love! The brutal world strangles the 
 heaven-born infant at its birth. Hope ! It smiled at me 
 in my little convent chamber, played among the flowers 
 which I cherished, warbled with the birds that I loved. 
 But it quitted me at the door of the world, Stenio. It 
 folded its white wings and veiled its radiant face! In 
 return for my young love they gave me sixty years, 
 the dregs of a selfish heart, egotism cowering over its 
 fire, and cold for all its mantle of ermine! In place of the 
 sweet flowers of my young years, they gave me these,
 
 122 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Stenio ! " and she pointed to her feathers and her arti- 
 ficial roses. " Oh, I should like to crush them under 
 my feet ! " and she put out the neatest little slipper. 
 The Duchesse was great upon her wrongs, and paraded 
 her blig-hted innocence to every one who would feel 
 interested by that piteous spectacle. The music here 
 burst out more swiftly and melodiously than before ; the 
 pretty little feet forgot their desire to trample upon the 
 world. She shrugged the lean little shoulders " Eh! " 
 said the Queen of Scots, "dansons et oublions;" and 
 Stenio's arm once more surrounded her fairy waist (she 
 called herself a fairy ; other ladies called her a skeleton ;) 
 and they whirled away in the waltz again : and presently 
 she and Stenio came bumping up against the stalwart 
 Lord Kew and the ponderous Madame de Gumpel- 
 heim, as a wherry dashes against the oaken ribs of a 
 steamer. 
 
 The little couple did not fall ; they were struck on to 
 a neighbouring bench, luckily: but there was a laugh 
 at the expense of Stenio and the Queen of Scots and 
 Lord Kew, settling his panting partner on to a seat, 
 came up to make excuses for his awkwardness to the 
 lady who had been its victim. At the laugh produced 
 by the catastrophe, the Duchesse's eyes gleamed with 
 anger. 
 
 " M. de Castillonnes," she said, to her partner, " have 
 you had any quarrel with that Englishman?" 
 
 " With ce Milor? But no," said Stenio. 
 
 " He did it on purpose. There has been no day but 
 his family has insulted me ! " hissed out the Duchesse, 
 and at this moment Lord Kew came up to make his 
 apologies. \ He asked a thousand pardons of Madame la 
 Duchesse for being so maladroit. 
 
 " Maladroit ! et tres maladroit, Monsieur," says Stenio, 
 curling his moustache. " C'est bien le mot, Monsieur." 
 
 "Also, I make my excuses to Madame la Duchesse, 
 which I hope she will receive," said Lord Kew. The 
 Duchesse shrugged her shoulders and sunk her head. 
 
 " When one does not know how to dance, one ought 
 not to dance," continued the Duchesse's knight.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 123 
 
 " Monsieur is very good to give me lessons in dancing," 
 said Lord Kew. 
 
 "Any lessons which you please, Milor! " cries Stenio; 
 " and everywhere where you will them." 
 
 Lord Kew looked at the little man with surprise. He 
 could not understand so much anger for so trifling an 
 accident, which happens a dozen times in every crowded 
 ball. He again bowed to the Duchesse, and walked 
 away. 
 
 "This is your Englishman your Kew, whom you 
 vaunt everywhere," said Stenio to M. de Florae, who 
 was standing by and witnessed the scene. "Is he 
 simply bete, or is he poltron as well? I believe him to 
 be both." 
 
 " Silence, Victor! " cried Florae, seizing his arm, and 
 drawing him away. "You know me, and that I am 
 neither one nor the other. Believe my word, that my 
 Lord Kew wants neither courage nor wit! " 
 
 "Will you be my witness, Florae?" continues the 
 other. 
 
 "To take him your excuses? yes. It is you who have 
 insulted " 
 
 "Yes, parbleu, I have insulted!" says the Gascon. 
 
 " A man who never willingly offended soul alive. A 
 man full of heart: the most frank: the most loyal. I 
 have seen him put to the proof, and believe me he is all 
 I say." 
 
 " Eh ! so much the better for me ! " cried the Southron. 
 " I shall have the honour of meeting a gallant man ; and 
 there will be two on the field." 
 
 " They are making a tool of you, my poor Gascon," 
 said M. de Florae, who saw Madame d'lvry's eyes 
 watching the couple. She presently took the arm of the 
 noble Count de Punter, and went for fresh air into the 
 adjoining apartment, where play was going on as usual ; 
 and Lord Kew and his friend Lord Rooster were pacing' 
 the room apart from the gamblers. 
 
 My Lord Rooster, at something which Kew said, 
 looked puzzled, and said, " Pooh, stuff, damned little 
 Frenchman ! Confounded nonsense ! "
 
 i2 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " I was searching" you, Milor! " said Madame d'lvry, 
 in a most winning- tone, tripping behind him with her 
 noiseless little feet. " Allow me a little word. Your 
 arm ! You used to give it me once, mon filleul ! I hope 
 you think nothing of the rudeness of M. de Castillonnes ; 
 he is a foolish Gascon ; he must have been too often to 
 the buffet this evening." 
 
 Lord Kew said, No, indeed, he thought nothing of 
 M. de Castillonnes' rudeness. 
 
 "I am so glad! These heroes of the salle-d'armes 
 have not the commonest manners. These Gascons are 
 always flamberge au vent. What would the charming 
 Miss Ethel say, if she heard of the dispute? " 
 
 " Indeed there is no reason why she should hear of 
 it," said Lord Kew, " unless some obliging friend should 
 communicate it to her." 
 
 " Communicate it to her the poor dear! who would 
 be so cruel as to give her pain?" asked the innocent 
 Duchesse. <( Why do you look at me so, Frank? " 
 
 " Because I admire you," said her interlocutor, with 
 a bow. " I have never seen Madame la Duchesse to 
 such advantage as to-day." 
 
 " You speak in enigmas! Come back with me to the 
 ball-room. Come and dance with me once more. You 
 used to dance with me. Let us have one waltz more, 
 Kew. And then, and then, in a day or two I shall go 
 back to Monsieur le Due, and tell him that his filleul is 
 going to marry the fairest of all Englishwomen ; and to 
 turn hermit in the country, and orator in the chamber of 
 Peers. You have wit! ah si you have wit!" And she 
 led back Lord Kew, rather amazed himself at what he 
 was doing, into the ball-room ; so that the good-natured 
 people who were there, and who beheld them dancing, 
 could not refrain from clapping their hands at the sight 
 of this couple. 
 
 The Duchess danced as if she was bitten by that 
 Neapolitan spider which, according to the legend, is such 
 a wonderful dance-incentor. She would have the music 
 quicker and quicker. She sank on Kew's arm, and 
 clung on his support. She poured out all the light of
 
 THE NEWCOMES 125 
 
 her languishing- eyes into his face. Their glances rather 
 confused than charmed him. But the bystanders were 
 pleased; they thought it so good-hearted of the Duchess, 
 after the little quarrel, to make a public avowal of recon- 
 ciliation ! 
 
 Lord Rooster looking on, at the entrance of the 
 dancing-room, over Monsieur de Florae's shoulder, said, 
 "It's all right! She's a clipper to dance, the little 
 Duchess." 
 
 " The viper," said Florae, " how she writhes ! " 
 
 "I suppose that business with the Frenchman is all 
 over," says Lord Rooster. "Confounded piece of 
 nonsense! " 
 
 " You believe it finished? We shall see ! " said Florae, 
 who perhaps knew his fair cousin better. When the 
 waltz was over, Kew led his partner to a seat, and 
 bowed to her; but though she made room for him at 
 her side, pointing to it, and gathering up her rustling 
 robes so that he might sit down, he moved away, his 
 face full of gloom. He never wished to be near her 
 again. There was something more odious to him in her 
 friendship than her hatred. He knew hers was the hand 
 that had dealt that stab at him and Ethel in the morning. 
 He went back and talked with his two friends in the 
 doorway. "Couch yourself, my little Kiou," said Florae. 
 " You are all pale. You were best in bed, mon garcon ! " 
 
 " She has made me promise to take her in to supper," 
 Kew said with a sigh. 
 
 " She will poison you," said the other. "Why have 
 they abolished the roue chez nous? My word of honour, 
 they should re-establish it for this woman." 
 
 " There is one in the next room," said Kew with a 
 laugh. "Come, Vicomte, let us try our fortune," and 
 he walked back into the play-room. 
 
 That was the last night on which Lord Kew ever 
 played a gambling game. He won constantly. The 
 double zero seemed to obey him ; so that the croupiers 
 wondered at his fortune. Florae backed it: saying 
 with the superstition of a gambler, " I am sure some- 
 thing goes to arrive to this boy." From time to time
 
 126 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 M. de Florae went back to the dancing-room, leaving 
 his mise under Kew's charge. He always found his 
 heaps increased; indeed the worthy Vicomte wanted a 
 turn of luck in his favour. On one occasion he returned 
 with a grave face, saying to Lord Rooster, "She has 
 the other one in hand. We are going to see." " Trente- 
 six encore ! et rouge gagne," cried the croupier with his 
 nasal tone. Monsieur de Florae's pockets overflowed 
 with double napoleons, and he stopped his play, luckily, 
 for Kew, putting down his winnings, once, twice, thrice, 
 lost them all. 
 
 When Lord Kew had left the dancing-room, Madame 
 d'lvry saw Stenio following him with fierce looks, and 
 called back that bearded bard. " You were going to 
 pursue M. de Kew," she said: " I knew you were. Sit 
 down here, sir," and she patted him down on her seat 
 with her fan. 
 
 " Do you wish that I should call him back, Madame? " 
 said the poet, with the deepest tragic accent. 
 
 " I can bring him when I want him, Victor," said the 
 lady. 
 
 " Let us hope others will be equally fortunate," the 
 Gascon said, with one hand in his breast, the other 
 stroking his mustachio. 
 
 " Fi, Monsieur, que vous sentez le tabac! je vous le 
 defends, entendez-vous, Monsieur!" 
 
 " Pourtant, I have seen the day when Madame la 
 Duchesse did not disdain a cigar," said Victor. " If the 
 odour incommodes, permit that I retire." 
 
 " And you also would quit me, Stenio? Do you think 
 I did not mark your eyes towards Miss Newcome? your 
 anger when she refused you to dance? Ah! we see all. 
 A woman does not deceive herself, do you see? You 
 send me beautiful verses, Poet. You can write as well 
 of a statue or a picture, of a rose or a sunset, as of the 
 heart of a woman. You were angry just now because I 
 danced with M. de Kew. Do you think in a woman's 
 eyes jealousy is unpardonable? " 
 
 "You know how to provoke it, Madame," continued 
 the tragedian.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 127 
 
 " Monsieur," replied the lady with dignity, " am I to 
 render you an account of all my actions, and ask your 
 permission for a walk? " 
 
 " In fact, I am but the slave, Madame," groaned the 
 Gascon, " J am not the master." 
 
 "You are a very rebellious slave, Monsieur," con- 
 tinues the lady, with a pretty moue, and a glance of the 
 large eyes artfully brightened by her rouge. " Suppose 
 suppose I danced with M. de Kew, not for his sake 
 heaven knows to dance with him is not a pleasure but 
 for yours. Suppose I do not want a foolish quarrel to 
 proceed. Suppose I know that he is ni sot ni poltron as 
 you pretend. I overheard you, sir, talking with one of the 
 basest of men, my good cousin, M. de Florae: but it is 
 not of him I speak. Suppose I know the Comte de Kew 
 to be a man, cold and insolent, ill-bred, and grossier, as 
 the men of his nation are but one who lacks no courage 
 one who is terrible when roused; might I have no 
 occasion to fear, not for him, but " 
 
 "But for me! Ah Marie! Ah Madame! Believe you 
 that a man of my blood will yield a foot to any English- 
 man? Do you know the story of my race? do you know 
 that since my childhood I have vowed hatred to that 
 nation? Tenez, Madame, this M. Jones who frequents 
 your salon, it was but respect for you that has enabled 
 me to keep my patience with this stupid islander. This 
 Captain Blackball, whom you distinguish, who certainly 
 shoots well, who mounts well to horse, I have always 
 thought his manners were those of the marker of a bil- 
 liard. But I respect him because he has made war with 
 Don Carlos against the English. But this young M. de 
 Kew, his laugh crisps me the nerves; his insolent air 
 makes me bound ; in beholding him I said to myself, I 
 hate you ; think whether I love him better after having 
 seen him as I did but now, Madame?" Also, but this 
 Victor did not say, he thought Kew had laughed at him 
 at the beginning of the evening, when the blanche Miss 
 had refused to dance with him. 
 
 "Ah, Victor, it is not him, but you that I would 
 save," said the Duchess. And the people round about,
 
 128 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and the Duchess herself afterwards said, yes, certainly, 
 she had a good heart. She entreated Lord Kew ; she 
 implored M. Victor; she did everything in her power to 
 appease the quarrel between him and the Frenchman. 
 
 After the ball came the supper, which was laid at 
 separate little tables, where parties of half-a-dozen en- 
 joyed themselves. Lord Kew was of the Duchess's 
 party, where our Gascon friend had not a seat. But 
 being one of the managers of the entertainment, his 
 lordship went about from table to table, seeing that the 
 guests at each lacked nothing. He supposed, too, that 
 the dispute with the Gascon had possibly come to an 
 end; at any rate, disagreeable as the other's speech had 
 been, he had resolved to put up with it, not having the 
 least inclination to drink the Frenchman's blood, or to 
 part with his own on so absurd a quarrel. He asked 
 people, in his own good-natured way, to drink wine 
 with him; and catching M. Victor's eye scowling at him 
 from a distant table, he sent a waiter with a champagne 
 bottle to his late opponent, and lifted his glass as a 
 friendly challenge. The waiter carried the message to 
 M. Victor, who, when he heard it, turned up his glass, 
 and folded his arms in a stately manner. " M. de Cas- 
 tillonnes dit qu'il refuse, Milor," said the waiter, rather 
 scared. " He charged me to bring that message to 
 Milor." Florae ran across to the angry Gascon. It was 
 not while at Madame d'lvry's table that Lord Kew sent 
 his challenge and received his reply ; his duties as 
 steward had carried him away from that pretty early. 
 
 Meanwhile the glimmering dawn peered into the 
 windows of the refreshment-room, and behold, the sun 
 broke in and scared all the revellers. The ladies scurried 
 away like so many ghosts at cock-crow, some of them 
 not caring to face that detective luminary. Cigars had 
 been lighted ere this ; the men remained smoking them 
 with those sleepless German waiters still bringing fresh 
 supplies of drink. Lord Kew gave the Duchesse d'lvry 
 his arm, and was leading her out; M. de Castillonnes 
 stood scowling directly in their way, upon which, with 
 rather an abrupt turn of the shoulder, and a " Pardon,
 
 THE NEWCOMES 129 
 
 Monsieur," Lord Kew pushed by, and conducted the 
 Duchess to her carriage. She did not in the least see 
 what had happened between the two gentlemen in the 
 passage ; she ogled, and nodded, and kissed her hands 
 quite affectionately to Kew as the fly drove away. 
 
 Florae, in the meanwhile, had seized his compatriot, 
 who had drunk champagne copiously with others, if not 
 with Kew, and was in vain endeavouring to make him 
 hear reason. The Gascon was furious; he vowed that 
 Lord Kew had struck him. " By the tomb of my mother," 
 he bellowed, "I swear I will have his blood!" Lord 
 
 Rooster was bawling out " D him, carry him to 
 
 bed, and shut him up ; " which remarks Victor did not 
 understand, or two victims would doubtless have been 
 sacrificed on his mamma's mausoleum. 
 
 When Kew came back (as he was only too sure to 
 do), the little Gascon rushed forward with a glove in his 
 hand, and having an audience of smokers round about 
 him, made a furious speech about England, leopards, 
 cowardice, insolent islanders, and Napoleon at St. Helena; 
 and demanded reason for Kew's conduct during the night. 
 As he spoke, he advanced towards Lord Kew, glove 
 in hand, and lifted it as if he was actually going to 
 strike. 
 
 "There is no need for further words," said Lord 
 Kew, taking his cigar out of his mouth. " If you don't 
 drop that glove, upon my word I will pitch you out 
 of the window. Ha! . . . Pick the man up, somebody. 
 You'll bear witness, gentlemen, I couldn't help myself. 
 If he wants me in the morning, he knows where to 
 find me." 
 
 " I declare that my Lord Kew has acted with great 
 forbearance, and under the most brutal provocation 
 the most brutal provocation, entendez-vous,M. Cabasse?" 
 cried out M. de Florae, rushing forward to the Gascon, 
 who had now risen; " Monsieur's conduct has been un- 
 worthy of a Frenchman and a galant homme." 
 
 "D it, he has had it on his nob, though," said 
 
 Lord Viscount Rooster, laconically. 
 
 "Ah, Roosterre! ceci n'est pas pour rire," Florae 
 K
 
 1 3 o WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 cried sadly, as they both walked away with Lord Kew; 
 " I wish that first blood was all that was to be shed in 
 this quarrel." 
 
 "Gaw! how he did go down!" cried Rooster, con- 
 vulsed with laughter. 
 
 " I am very sorry for it," said Kew, quite seriously; 
 " I couldn't help it. God forgive me." And he hung 
 down his head. He thought of the past, and its levities, 
 and punishment coming after him pede claudo. It was 
 with all his heart the contrite young man said " God 
 forgive me." He would take what was to follow as the 
 penalty of what had gone before. 
 
 "Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas immolat,- mon pauvre 
 Kiou," said his French friend. And Lord Rooster, whose 
 classical education had been much neglected, turned 
 round and said, " Hullo, mate, what ship's that?" 
 
 Viscount Rooster had not been two hours in bed, when 
 the Count de Punter (formerly of the Black Jagers,) 
 waited upon him upon the part of M. de Castillonnes 
 and the Earl of Kew, who had referred him to the 
 Viscount to arrange matters for a meeting between 
 them. As the meeting must take place out of the Baden 
 territory, and they ought to move before the police pre- 
 vented them, the Count proposed that they should at 
 once make for France; where, as it was an affair of 
 honour, they would assuredly be let to enter without 
 passports. 
 
 Lady Ann and Lady Kew heard that the gentlemen 
 after the ball had all gone out on a hunting party, and 
 were not alarmed for four-and-twenty hours at least. On 
 the next day none of them returned; and on the day 
 after, the family heard that Lord Kew had met with 
 rather a dangerous accident ; but all the town knew he 
 had been shot by M. de Castillonnes on one of the islands 
 on the Rhine, opposite Kehl, where he was now lying.
 
 THE NEWCOMES 131 
 
 FRED BAYHAM AND CHARLES HONEYMAN 
 (FROM CHAPTER XLIV) 
 
 [This short episode again is only introduced because leaving 
 all the incidental humour out of Thackeray is really leaving all 
 Thackeray out of Thackeray. Both Fred Bayham and Charles 
 Honeyman, belong not so much to the plot as to the under plot. 
 Honeyman, the self-indulgent popular preacher, has little to do 
 with the story except to show the patience and chivalry of the 
 Colonel. Bayham has nothing to do with the story ; he exists for 
 his own sake, almost like a character in Dickens. But Thackeray 
 wrote with such evident zest about such Bohemian societies, that 
 to leave out a specimen of the thing at its best would be to un- 
 derrate him altogether.] 
 
 MR. FREDERICK BAYHAM waited at Fitzroy Square while 
 Clive was yet talking with his friends there, and favoured 
 that gentleman with his company home to the usual 
 smoky refreshment. Clive always rejoiced in F. B.'s 
 society, whether he was in a sportive mood, or, as now, 
 in a solemn and didactic vein. F. B. had been more 
 than ordinarily majestic all the evening. " I daresay you 
 find me a good deal altered, Clive,'' he remarked: "I 
 am a good deal altered. Since that good Samaritan, 
 your kind father, had compassion on a poor fellow fallen 
 among thieves (though I don't say, mind you, he was 
 much better than his company), F. B. has mended some 
 of his ways. I am trying a course of industry, sir. 
 Powers, perhaps naturally great, have been neglected 
 over the wine-cup and the die. I am beginning to feel 
 my way ; and my chiefs yonder, who have just walked 
 home with their cigars in their mouths, and without as 
 much as saying, ' F. B., my boy, shall we go to the 
 " Haunt '* and have a cool lobster and a glass of table- 
 beer? ' which they certainly do not consider themselves 
 to be, I say, sir, the Politician and the Literary Critic " 
 (there was a most sarcastic emphasis laid on these 
 phrases, characterizing Messrs. Warrington and Pen- 
 dennis) " may find that there is a humble contributor to 
 the Pall Mall Gazette, whose name, may be, the amateur
 
 132 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 shall one day reckon even higher than their own. 
 Mr. Warrington I do not say so much about he is an 
 able man, sir, an able man; but there is that about your 
 exceedingly self-satisfied friend, Mr. Arthur Pendennis, 
 which well, well let time show. You did not get the 
 hem paper at Rome and Naples, I suppose? " 
 
 " Forbidden by the Inquisition," says Clive, delighted ; 
 " and at Naples the king furious against it." 
 
 " I don't wonder they don't like it at Rome, sir. There's 
 serious matter in it which may set the prelates of a 
 certain church rather in a tremor. You haven't read 
 the ahem the Pulpit Pencillings in the P. M. G.P 
 Slight sketches, mental and corporeal, of our chief 
 divines now in London and signed Laud Latimer? " 
 
 " I don't do much in that way," said Clive. 
 
 " So much the worse for you, my young friend. Not 
 that I mean to judge any other fellow harshly I mean 
 any other fellow sinner harshly or that I mean that 
 those Pulpit Pencillings would be likely to do you any 
 great good. But, such as they are, they have been 
 productive of benefit. Thank you, Mary, my dear, the 
 tap is uncommonly good, and I drink to your future 
 husband's good health. A glass of good sound beer 
 refreshes after all that claret. Well, sir, to return to the 
 Pencillings, pardon my vanity in saying, that though 
 Mr. Pendennis laughs at them, they have been of 
 essential service to the paper. They give it a character, 
 they rally round it the respectable classes. They create 
 correspondence. I have received many interesting letters, 
 chiefly from females, about the Pencillings. Some com- 
 plain that their favourite preachers are slighted ; others 
 applaud because the clergymen they sit under are sup- 
 ported by F. B. / am Laud Latimer, sir, though I 
 have heard the letters attributed to the Rev. Mr. Bunker, 
 and to a Member of Parliament eminent in the religious 
 world." 
 
 " So you are the famous Laud Latimer? " cries Clive, 
 who had, in fact, seen letters signed by those right 
 reverend names in our paper. 
 
 "Famous is hardly the word. One who scoffs at
 
 THE NEWCOMES 133 
 
 everything I need not say I allude to Mr. Arthur 
 Pendennis would have had the letters signed the 
 Beadle of the Parish. He calls me the Venerable Beadle 
 sometimes it being, I grieve to say, his way to deride 
 grave subjects. You wouldn't suppose now, my young 
 Clive, that the same hand which pens the Art criticisms, 
 occasionally, when his Highness Pendennis is lazy, takes 
 a minor Theatre, or turns the sportive epigram, or the 
 ephemeral paragraph, should adopt a grave theme on a 
 Sunday, and chronicle the sermons of British Divines? 
 For eighteen consecutive Sunday evenings, Clive, in 
 Mrs. Ridley's front parlour, which I now occupy, vice 
 Miss Cann promoted, I have written the Pencillings 
 scarcely allowing a drop of refreshment, except under 
 extreme exhaustion, to pass my lips. Pendennis laughs 
 at the Pencillings. He wants to stop them; and says 
 they bore the public I don't want to think a man is 
 jealous, who was himself the cause of my engagement 
 at the P. M. G., perhaps my powers were not de- 
 veloped then." 
 
 "Pen thinks he writes better now than when he 
 began," remarked Clive; " I have heard him say so." 
 
 " His opinion of his own writings is high, whatever 
 their date. Mine, sir, are only just coming into notice. 
 They begin to know F. B., sir, in the sacred edifices of 
 his metropolitan city. I saw the Bishop of London look- 
 ing at me last Sunday week, and am sure his Chaplain 
 whispered him, ' It's Mr. Bayham, my lord, nephew of 
 your lordship's right reverend brother, the Lord Bishop 
 of Bullock-smithy.' And last Sunday being at church 
 at Saint Mungo the Martyr's, Rev. S. Sawders by 
 Wednesday I got in a female hand Mrs. Sawders's, 
 no doubt the biography of the Incumbent of St. Mungo; 
 an account of his early virtues; a copy of his poems ; and 
 a hint that he was the gentleman destined for the vacant 
 Deanery. 
 
 "Ridley is not the only man I have helped in this 
 world," F. B. continued. "Perhaps I should blush to 
 own it I do blush : but I feel the ties of early acquaint- 
 ance, and I own that I have puffed your uncle, Charles
 
 134 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Honeyman, most tremendously. It was partly for the 
 sake of the Ridleys and the tick he owes 'em : partly 
 for old times' sake. Sir, are you aware that thing's are 
 greatly changed with Charles Honeyman, and that the 
 poor F. B. has very likely made his fortune? " 
 
 " I am delighted to hear it," cried Clive; " and how, 
 F. B., have you wrought this miracle?" 
 
 "By common sense and enterprise, lad by a know- 
 ledge of the world and a benevolent disposition. You'll 
 see Lady Whittlesea's chapel bears a very different 
 aspect now. That miscreant Sherrick owns that he 
 owes me a turn, and has sent me a few dozen of wine 
 without any stamped paper on my part in return as an 
 acknowledgment of my service. It chanced, sir, soon 
 after your departure for Italy, that going to his private 
 residence respecting a little bill to which a heedless 
 friend had put his hand, Sherrick invited me to partake 
 of tea in the bosom of his family. I was thirsty having 
 walked in from 'Jack Straw's Castle,' at Hampstead, 
 where poor Kitely and I had been taking a chop and 
 accepted the proffered entertainment. The ladies of the 
 family gave us music after the domestic muffin and 
 then, sir, a great idea occurred to me. You know how 
 magnificently Miss Sherrick and the mother sing? They 
 sang Mozart, sir. 'Why,' I asked of Sherrick, 'should 
 those ladies who sing- Mozart to a piano, not sing Handel 
 to an organ? ' 
 
 " ' Dash it, you don't mean a hurdy-gurdy? ' 
 
 " ' Sherrick, 'says I, 'you are no better than a Heathen 
 ignoramus. I mean, why shouldn't they sing Handel's 
 Church Music, and Church Music in general, in Lady 
 Whittlesea's Chapel? Behind the screen up in the organ- 
 loft, what's to prevent 'em, by Jingo? Your singing- 
 boys have gone to the " Cave of Harmony; " you and 
 your choir have split why should not these ladies lead 
 it? ' He caught at the idea. You never heard the chants 
 more finely given and they would be better still if the 
 congregation would but hold their confounded tongues. 
 It was an excellent though a harmless dodge, sir: and 
 drew immensely, to speak profanely. They dress the
 
 THE NEWCOMES 135 
 
 part, sir, to admiration a sort of nun-like costume they 
 come in : Mrs. Sherrick has the soul of an artist still 
 by Jove, sir, when they have once smelt the lamps, the 
 love of the trade never leaves 'em. The ladies actually 
 practised by moonlight in the Chapel, and came over to 
 Honeyman's to an oyster afterwards. The thing took, 
 sir. People began to take box seats, I mean, again 
 and Charles Honeyman, easy in his mind through your 
 noble father's generosity, perhaps inspirited by returning 
 good fortune, has been preaching more eloquently than 
 ever. He took some lessons of Husler, of the Hay- 
 market, sir. His sermons are old, I believe; but so to 
 speak, he has got them up with new scenery, dresses, 
 and effects, sir. They have flowers, sir, about the 
 buildin' pious ladies are supposed to provide 'em, but, 
 entre nous, Sherrick contracts for them with Nathan, or 
 some one in Covent Garden. And don't tell this now, 
 upon your honour! " 
 
 ''Tell what, F. B.?" says Clive. 
 
 " I got up a persecution against your uncle for Popish 
 practices : summoned a meetin' at the ' Running Foot- 
 man,' in Bolingbroke Street. Billings, the butterman; 
 Sharwood, the turner and blacking-maker; and the 
 Honourable Phelim O'Curragh, Lord Scullabogue's son, 
 made speeches. Two or three respectable families (your 
 aunt, Mrs. What-d'you-call-'em Newcome amongst the 
 number) quitted the Chapel in disgust I wrote an 
 article of controversial biography in the P. M. G. ; set 
 the business going in the daily press ; and the thing was 
 done, sir. That property is a paying one to the Incum- 
 bent, and to Sherrick over him. Charles's affairs are 
 getting all right, sir. He never had the pluck to owe 
 much, and if it be a sin to have wiped his slate clean, 
 satisfied his creditors, and made Charles easy upon 
 my conscience, I must confess that F. B. has done it. 
 I hope I may never do anything worse in this life, Clive. 
 It ain't bad to see him doing the martyr, sir: Sebastian 
 riddled with paper pellets ; Bartholomew on a cold grid- 
 iron. Here comes the lobster. Upon my word, Mary, a 
 finer fish I've seldom seen."
 
 136 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE COLONEL 
 (CHAPTER LXXX) 
 
 [It says something for the unity of The Ne-wcomes as compared 
 with Thackeray's other books, that it is pre-eminently the novel in 
 which it is impossible to leave out either the first chapter or the 
 last. Especially it would be absurd to omit that great scene which 
 so many know without ever knowing the novel ; the scene which 
 has almost given a nobler meaning to the phrase " second child- 
 hood." Thackeray called his book The Ne-wcomes; but there is 
 only one Newcome. On him our eyes are fixed when he first walks 
 into the Cave of Harmony, and our eyes are fixed on him until he 
 dies. He dies in great poverty, a pensioner of Grey Friars. He 
 has known an accidental and perilous prosperity as the head of 
 a financial operation that he does not understand. It collapses, 
 destroying not merely his wealth but his personal dignity and 
 domestic happiness. He is tormented almost to his last hour by 
 the evil Mrs. Mackenzie, who has a financial grievance against 
 him. He has nothing left but his goodness, and with that he con- 
 fronts God.] 
 
 THE vow which Clive had uttered, never to share bread 
 with his mother-in-law, or sleep under the same roof 
 with her, was broken on the very next day. A stronger 
 will than the young" man's intervened, and he had to 
 confess the impotence of his wrath before that superior 
 power. In the forenoon of the day following" that un- 
 lucky dinner, I went with my friend to the banking- 
 house whither Mr. Luce's letter directed us, and carried 
 away with me the principal sum, in which the Cam- 
 paigner said Colonel Newcome was indebted to her, 
 with the interest accurately computed and reimbursed. 
 Clive went off with a pocketful of money to the dear old 
 Poor Brother of Grey Friars ; and he promised to return 
 with his father, and dine with my wife in Queen Square. 
 I had received a letter from Laura by the morning's 
 post, announcing her return by the express train from 
 Newcome, and desiring that a spare bed-room should 
 be got ready for a friend who accompanied her. 
 
 On reaching Howland Street, Clive's door was opened, 
 rather to my surprise, by the rebellious maid-servant
 
 THE NEWCOMES 137 
 
 who had received her dismissal on the previous night; 
 and the Doctor's carriage drove up as she was still 
 speaking- to me. The polite practitioner sped upstairs 
 to Mrs. Newcome's apartment. Mrs. Mackenzie, in a 
 robe-de-chambre and cap very different from yesterday's, 
 came out eagerly to meet the physician on the landing. 
 Ere they had been a quarter of an hour together, arrived 
 a cab, which discharged an elderly person with her 
 band-box and bundles ; I had no difficulty in recognizing 
 a professional nurse in the new-comer. She too disap- 
 peared into the sick-room, and left me sitting in the 
 neighbouring chamber, the scene of the last night's 
 quarrel. 
 
 Hither presently came to me Maria, the maid. She 
 said she had not the heart to go away now she was 
 wanted ; that they had passed a sad night, and that no 
 one had been to bed. Master Tommy was below, and 
 the landlady taking care of him : the landlord had gone 
 out for the nurse. Mrs. Clive had been taken bad after 
 Mr. Clive went away the night before. Mrs. Mackenzie 
 had gone to the poor young thing, and there she went 
 on, crying, and screaming, and stamping, as she used 
 to do in her tantrums, which was most cruel of her, and 
 made Mrs. Clive so ill. And presently the young lady 
 began : my informant told me. She came screaming 
 into the sitting-room, her hair over her shoulders, call- 
 ing out she was deserted, deserted, and would like to 
 die. She was like a mad woman for some time. She 
 had fit after fit of hysterics : and there was her mother, 
 kneeling, and crying, and calling out to her darling 
 child to calm herself; which it was all her own doing, 
 and she had much better have held her own tongue, re- 
 marked the resolute Maria. I understood only too well 
 from the girl's account what had happened, and that 
 Clive, if resolved to part with his mother-in-law, should 
 not have left her, even for twelve hours, in possession 
 of his house. The wretched woman, whose Self was 
 always predominant, and who, though she loved her 
 daughter after her own fashion, never forgot her own 
 vanity or passion, had improved the occasion of Clive's
 
 138 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 absence: worked upon her child's weakness, jealousy, 
 ill-health, and driven her, no doubt, into the fever which 
 yonder physician was called to quell. 
 
 The Doctor presently enters to write a prescription, 
 followed by Clive's mother-in-law, who had cast Rosey's 
 fine Cashmere shawl over her shoulders, to hide her dis- 
 array. "You here still, Mr. Pendennis! " she exclaims. 
 She knew I was there. Had not she changed her dress 
 in order to receive me? 
 
 " I have to speak to you for two minutes on important 
 business, and then I shall go," I replied gravely. 
 
 " Oh, sir! to what a scene you have come! To what 
 a state has Clive's conduct last night driven my darling 
 child!" 
 
 As the odious woman spoke so, the Doctor's keen 
 eyes, looking up from the prescription, caught mine. 
 " I declare before heaven, madam," I said hotly, "I 
 believe you yourself are the cause of your daughter's 
 present illness, as you have been of the misery of my 
 friends." 
 
 "Is this, sir, " she was breaking out, ' ' is this language 
 to be used to ? " 
 
 " Madam, will you be silent?" I said. " I am come 
 to bid you farewell on the part of those whom your 
 temper has driven into infernal torture. I am come to 
 pay you every halfpenny of the sum which my friends 
 do not owe you, but which they restore. Here is the 
 account, and here is the money to settle it. And I take 
 this gentleman to witness, to whom, no doubt, you 
 have imparted what you call your wrongs " (the Doctor 
 smiled, and shrugged his shoulders), " that now you are 
 paid." 
 
 "A widow a poor, lonely, insulted widow!" cries 
 the Campaigner, with trembling hands, taking pos- 
 session of the notes. 
 
 "And I wish to know," I continued, "when my 
 friend's house will be free to him, and he can return 
 in peace?" 
 
 Here Rosey's voice was heard from the inner apart- 
 ment, screaming, " Mamma, mamma! "
 
 THE NEWCOMES 139 
 
 "1 go to my child, sir," she said. "If Captain 
 Mackenzie had been alive, you would not have dared 
 to insult me so." And carrying off her money, she 
 left us. 
 
 " Cannot she be got out of the house? " I said to the 
 Doctor. " My friend will never return until she leaves 
 it. It is my belief she is the cause of her daughter's 
 present illness." 
 
 "Not altogether, my dear sir. Mrs. Newcome was 
 in a very, very delicate state of health. Her mother is 
 a lady of impetuous temper, who expresses herself very 
 strongly too strongly, I own. In consequence of un- 
 pleasant family discussions, which no physician can 
 prevent, Mrs. Newcome has been wrought up to a state 
 of of agitation. Her fever is, in fact, at present, very 
 high. You know her condition. I am apprehensive of 
 ulterior consequences. I have recommended an excel- 
 lent and experienced nurse to her. Mr. Smith, the 
 medical man at the corner, is a most able practitioner. 
 I shall myself call again in a few hours, and I trust that, 
 after the event which I apprehend, everything will go 
 well." 
 
 "Cannot Mrs. Mackenzie leave the house, sir?" I 
 asked. 
 
 "Her daughter cries out for her at every moment. 
 Mrs. Mackenzie is certainly not a judicious nurse, but 
 in Mrs. Newcome's present state I cannot take upon 
 myself to separate them. Mr. Newcome may return, 
 and I do think and believe that his presence may tend 
 to impose silence and restore tranquillity." 
 
 I had to go back to Clive with these gloomy tidings. 
 The poor fellow must put up a bed in his studio, and 
 there await the issue of his wife's illness. I saw Thomas 
 Newcome could not sleep under his son's roof that night. 
 That dear meeting, which both so desired, was delayed, 
 who could say for how long? 
 
 "The Colonel may come to us," I thought; "our old 
 house is big enough." I guessed who was the friend 
 coming in my wife's company ; and pleased myself by 
 thinking that two friends so dear should meet in our
 
 140 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 home. Bent upon these plans, I repaired to Grey Friars, 
 and to Thomas Newcome's chamber there. 
 
 Bayham opened the door when I knocked, and came 
 towards me with a finger on his lip, and a sad, sad 
 countenance. He closed the door gently behind him, 
 and led me into the court. " Clive is with him, and 
 Miss Newcome. He is very ill. He does not know 
 them," said Bayham with a sob. "He calls out for 
 both of them : they are sitting there, and he does not 
 know them." 
 
 In a brief narrative, broken by more honest tears, 
 Fred Bayham, as we paced up and down the court, told 
 me what had happened. The old man must have passed 
 a sleepless night, for on going to his chamber in the 
 morning, his attendant found him dressed in his chair, 
 and his bed undisturbed. He must have sat all through 
 the bitter night without a fire ; but his hands were burn- 
 ing hot, and he rambled in his talk. He spoke of some 
 one coming to drink tea with him, pointed to the fire, 
 and asked why it was not made ; he would not go to 
 bed, though the nurse pressed him. The bell began to 
 ring for morning chapel ; he got up and went towards 
 his gown, groping towards it as though he could hardly 
 see, and put it over his shoulders, and would go out, 
 but he would have fallen in the court if the good nurse 
 had not given him her arm ; and the physician of the 
 Hospital, passing fortunately at this moment, who had 
 always been a great friend of Colonel Newcome's, in- 
 sisted upon leading him back to his room again, and 
 got him to bed. " When the bell stopped, he wanted to 
 rise once more; he fancied he was a boy at school 
 again," said the nurse, "and that he was going in to 
 Dr. Raine, who was schoolmaster here ever so many 
 years ago." So it was, that when happier days seemed 
 to be dawning for the good man, that reprieve came too 
 late. Grief, and years, and humiliation, and care, and 
 cruelty had been too strong for him, and Thomas New- 
 come was stricken down. 
 
 Bayham's story told, I entered the room, over which 
 the twilight was falling, and saw the figures of Clive
 
 THE NEWCOMES 141 
 
 and Ethel seated at each end of the bed. The poor old 
 man within it was calling in incoherent sentences. I had 
 to call Clive from the present grief before him, with 
 intelligence of further sickness awaiting him at home. 
 Our poor patient did not heed what I said to his son. 
 " You must go home to Rosey," Ethel said. " She will 
 be sure to ask for her husband, and forgiveness is best, 
 dear Clive. I will stay with uncle. I will never leave 
 him. Please God, he will be better in the morning when 
 you come back." So Clive's duty called him to his own 
 sad home ; and, the bearer of dismal tidings, I returned 
 to mine. The fires were lit there, and the table spread ; 
 and kind hearts were waiting to welcome the friend who 
 never more was to enter my door. 
 
 It may be imagined that the intelligence which I 
 brought alarmed and afflicted my wife, and Madame de 
 Florae, our guest. Laura immediately went away to 
 Rosey's house to offer her services if needed. The 
 accounts which she brought hence were very bad : Clive 
 came to her for a minute or two, but Mrs. Mackenzie 
 could not see her. Should she not bring the little boy 
 home to her children? Laura asked; and Clive thank- 
 fully accepted that offer. The little man slept in our 
 nursery that night, and was at play with our young ones 
 on the morrow happy and unconscious of the fate im- 
 pending over his home. 
 
 Yet two more days passed, and I had to take two 
 advertisements to The Times newspaper on the part of 
 poor Clive. Among the announcements of Births was 
 printed, " On the 28th, in Howland Street, Mrs. Clive 
 Newcome of a son still-born." And a little lower, in the 
 third division of the same column, appeared the words, 
 "On the 29th, in Howland Street, aged 26, Rosalind, 
 wife of Clive Newcome, Esq." So, one day, shall the 
 names of all of us be written there ; to be deplored by 
 how many? to be remembered how long? to occasion 
 what tears, praises, sympathy, censure? yet for a day 
 or two, while the busy world has time to recollect us 
 who have passed beyond it. So this poor little flower
 
 142 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 had bloomed for its little day, and pined, and withered, 
 and perished. There was only one friend by Clive's side 
 following" the humble procession which laid poor Rosey 
 and her child out of sight of a world that had been but 
 unkind to her. Not many tears were there to water her 
 lonely little grave. A grief that was akin to shame and 
 remorse humbled him as he knelt over her. Poor little 
 harmless lady ! no more childish triumphs and vanities, 
 no more hidden griefs are you to enjoy or suffer; and 
 earth closes over your simple pleasures and tears ! The 
 snow was falling and whitening the coffin as they lowered 
 it into the ground. It was at the same cemetery in 
 which Lady Kew was buried. I daresay the same clergy- 
 man read the same service over the two graves, as he 
 will read it for you or any of us to-morrow, and until 
 his own turn comes. Come away from the place, poor 
 Clive ! Come sit with your orphan little boy, and bear 
 him on your knee, and hug- him to your heart. He 
 seems yours now, and all a father's love may pour out 
 upon him. Until this hour, Fate uncontrollable and 
 home tyranny had separated him from you. 
 
 Itwas touchingto see the eagerness and tenderness with 
 which the great strong man now assumed the guardian- 
 ship of the child, and endowed him with his entire wealth 
 of affection. The little boy now ran to Clive whenever 
 he came in, and sat for hours prattling to him. He 
 would take the boy out to walk, and from our windows 
 we could see Clive's black figure striding over the snow 
 in St. James's Park, the little man trotting beside him, 
 or perched on his father's shoulder. My wife and I 
 looked at them one morning as they were making their 
 way towards the City. " He has inherited that loving 
 heart from his father," Laura said; "and he is paying 
 over the whole property to his son." 
 
 Clive, and the boy sometimes with him, used to go 
 daily to Grey Friars, where the Colonel still lay ill. 
 After some days the fever which had attacked him left 
 him ; but left him so weak and enfeebled that he could 
 only go from his bed to the chair by his fire-side. The
 
 THE NEWCOMES 143 
 
 season was extremely bitter, the chamber which he in- 
 habited was warm and spacious; it was considered 
 unadvisable to move him until he had attained greater 
 strength, and till warmer weather. The medical men of 
 the House hoped he might rally in spring. My friend, 
 Dr. Goodenough, came to him; he hoped too: but not 
 with a hopeful face. A chamber, luckily vacant, hard 
 by the Colonel's, was assigned to his friends, where we 
 sat when we were too many for him. Besides his 
 customary attendant, he had two dear and watchful 
 nurses, who were almost always with him Ethel and 
 Madame de Florae, who had passed many a faithful 
 year by an old man's bedside ; who would have come, 
 as to a work of religion, to any sick couch, much more 
 to this one, where he lay for whose life she would once 
 gladly have given her own. 
 
 But our Colonel, we all were obliged to acknowledge, 
 was no more our friend of old days. He knew us again, 
 and was good to every one round him, as his wont 
 was ; especially when Boy came, his old eyes lighted up 
 with simple happiness, and, with eager trembling hands, 
 he would seek under his bed-clothes, or the pockets of 
 his dressing-gown, for toys or cakes, which he had 
 caused to be purchased for his grandson. There was a 
 little laughing, red-cheeked, white-headed gown-boy of 
 the school, to whom the old man had taken a great 
 fancy. One of the symptoms of his returning conscious- 
 ness and recovery, as we hoped, was his calling for this 
 child, who pleased our friend by his archness and merry 
 ways ; and who, to the old gentleman's unfailing delight, 
 
 used to call him, " Codd Colonel." "Tell little F , 
 
 that Codd Colonel wants to see him ; " and the little 
 gown-boy was brought to him ; and the Colonel would 
 listen to him for hours ; and hear all about his lessons 
 and his play; and prattle, almost as childishly, about 
 Dr. Raine, and his own early school-days. The boys of 
 the school, it must be said, had heard the noble old 
 gentleman's touching history, and had all got to know 
 and love him. They came every day to hear news of 
 him ; sent him in books and papers to amuse him ; and
 
 i 4 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 some benevolent young" souls God's blessing on all 
 honest boys, say I painted theatrical characters, and 
 sent them in to Codd Colonel's grandson. The little 
 fellow was made free of gown-boys, and once came 
 thence to his grandfather in a little gown, which de- 
 lighted the old man hugely. Boy said he would like to 
 be a little gown-boy; and I make no doubt, when he is 
 old enough, his father will get him that post, and put 
 him under the tuition of my friend Dr. Senior. 
 
 So, weeks passed away, during which our dear old 
 friend still remained with us. His mind was gone at 
 intervals, but would rally feebly ; and with his conscious- 
 ness returned his love, his simplicity, his sweetness. 
 He would talk French with Madame de Florae, at which 
 time his memory appeared to awaken with surprising 
 vividness, his cheek flushed, and he was a youth again, 
 a youth all love and hope, a stricken old man, with a 
 beard as white as snow covering the noble careworn 
 face. At such times he called her by her Christian name 
 of L^onore ; he addressed courtly old words of regard 
 and kindness to the aged lady; anon he wandered in his 
 talk, and spoke to her as if they still were young. Now, 
 as in those early days, his heart was pure; no anger 
 remained in it ; no guile tainted it ; only peace and good- 
 will dwelt in it. 
 
 Rosey's death had seemed to shock him for a while 
 when the unconscious little boy spoke of it. Before that 
 circumstance, Clive had even forborne to wear mourn- 
 ing, lest the news should agitate his father. The Colonel 
 remained silent and was very much disturbed all that 
 day, but he never appeared to comprehend the fact 
 quite; and, once or twice afterwards, asked, Why she 
 did not come to see him? She was prevented, he sup- 
 posed she was prevented, he said, with a look of terror : 
 he never once otherwise alluded to that unlucky tyrant 
 of his household, who had made his last years so un- 
 happy. 
 
 The circumstance of dive's legacy he never under- 
 stood: but more than once spoke of Barnes to Ethel, 
 and sent his compliments to him, and said he should
 
 THE NEWCOMES 145 
 
 like to shake him by the hand. Barnes Newcome never 
 once offered to touch that honoured hand, though his 
 sister bore her uncle's message to him. They came often 
 from Bryanston Square; Mrs. Hobson even offered to 
 sit with the Colonel, and read to him, and brought him 
 books for his improvement. But her presence disturbed 
 him ; he cared not for her books ; the two nurses whom 
 he loved faithfully watched him ; and my wife and I were 
 admitted to him sometimes, both of whom he honoured 
 with regard and recognition. As for F. B., in order to 
 be near his Colonel, did not that good fellow take up his 
 lodging in Cistercian Lane, at the " Red Cow"? He is 
 one whose errors, let us hope, shall be pardoned, quia 
 multiim amavit. I am sure he felt ten times more joy at 
 hearing of Clive's legacy, than if thousands had been be- 
 queathed to himself. May good health and good fortune 
 speed him! 
 
 The days went on, and our hopes, raised sometimes, 
 began to flicker and fail. One evening the Colonel left 
 his chair for his bed in pretty good spirits, but passed a 
 disturbed night, and the next morning was too weak to 
 rise. Then he remained in his bed, and his friends 
 visited him there. One afternoon he asked for his little 
 gown-boy, and the child was brought to him, and sat by 
 the bed with a very awe-stricken face : and then gathered 
 courage, and tried to amuse him by telling him how it 
 was a half-holiday, and they were having a cricket- 
 match with the St. Peter's boys in the green, and Grey 
 Friars was in and winning. The Colonel quite under- 
 stood about it ; he would like to see the game ; he had 
 played many a game on that green when he was a boy. 
 He grew excited ; Clive dismissed his father's little 
 friend, and put a sovereign into his hand; and away he 
 ran to say that Codd Colonel had come into a fortune, 
 and to buy tarts, and to see the match out. /, curre> 
 little white-haired gown-boy! Heaven speed you, little 
 friend ! 
 
 After the child had gone, Thomas Newcome began to 
 wander more and more. He talked louder; he gave the 
 word of command, spoke Hindustanee as if to his men. 
 L
 
 146 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Then he spoke words in French rapidly, seizing a hand 
 that was near him, and crying", "Toujours, toujours"! 
 But it was Ethel's hand which he took. Ethel and Clive 
 and the nurse were in the room with him; the nurse 
 came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apart- 
 ment ; Madame de Florae was there, with my wife and 
 Bay ham. 
 
 At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de 
 Florae started up. " He is very bad, he wanders a great 
 deal," the nurse whispered. The French lady fell in- 
 stantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer. 
 
 Some time afterwards Ethel came in with a scared 
 face to our pale group. " He is calling for you again, 
 dear lady," she said, going up to Madame de Florae, 
 who was still kneeling ; ' ' and just now he said he wanted 
 Pendennis to take care of his boy. He will not know 
 you." She hid her tears as she spoke. 
 
 She went into the room where Clive was at the bed's 
 foot ; the old man within it talked on rapidly for a while : 
 then again he would sigh and be still : once more I heard 
 him say hurriedly, "Take care of him when I'm in 
 India;" and then with a heartrending voice he called 
 out, " Leonore, L6onore !" She was kneeling by his side 
 now. The patient's voice sank into faint murmurs ; only 
 a moan now and then announced that he was not asleep. 
 
 At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to 
 toll, and Thomas Newcome's hands outside the bed 
 feebly beat time. And just as the last bell struck, a pecu- 
 liar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up his 
 head a little, and quickly said " Adsum!" and fell back. 
 It was the word we used at school, when names were 
 called; and lo, he, whose heart was that of a little 
 child, had answered to his name, and stood in the pre- 
 sence of The Master.
 
 ESMOND 
 
 [In Esmond Thackeray attempted what was, if not his greatest 
 work at least his most difficult. Technically the task was difficult, 
 being that of writing a flowing and sympathetic tale in the old and 
 even artificial diction of Queen Anne. But spiritually the matter was 
 far more delicate. He had to tell so as to make it pure and stately 
 a tale which wanted but one or two false touches to make it gro- 
 tesque and even indecent. He had to tell the tale of a young man 
 standing in a romantic relation at once to a mother and a daughter, 
 loved by the mother, loving the daughter, and finally marrying the 
 mother. This strange story is managed so that it moves like music. 
 Young Henry Esmond, a studious and somewhat sombre lad, en- 
 dures the repute of illegitimacy, though he could, if he chose, dis- 
 possess his patrons, Lord and Lady Castlewood. Lord Castlewood 
 is a loose but kind man; Lady Castlewood a loyal and lofty- 
 minded woman whose heart is already embittered, though she 
 hardly knows it, by her involuntary love for Harry. It bursts out 
 in tragic reaction when Lord Castlewood is killed in a duel with 
 Lord Mohun; and his lady reviles herself inwardly and Harry 
 openly for the silent wrong done to her dead lord. The following 
 is the story of the duel.] 
 
 THE DEATH OF LORD CASTLEWOOD 
 (FROM BOOK I, CHAPTERS XIII, XIV) 
 
 As my lord and his friend Lord Mohun were such close 
 companions, Mistress Beatrix chose to be jealous of the 
 latter; and the two gentlemen often entertained each 
 other by laughing, in their rude boisterous way, at the 
 child's freaks of anger and show of dislike. ' ' When thou 
 art old enough, thou shalt marry Lord Mohun," Beatrix's 
 father would say: on which the girl would pout and 
 say, " I would rather marry Tom Tusher." And because 
 the Lord Mohun always showed an extreme gallantry to 
 H7
 
 148 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 my Lady Castlewood, whom he professed to admire de- 
 votedly, one day, in answer to this old joke of her 
 father's, Beatrix said, " I think my lord would rather 
 marry mamma than marry me ; and is waiting till you 
 die to ask her." 
 
 The words were said lightly and pertly by the girl one 
 night before supper, as the family party were assembled 
 near the great fire. The two lords, who were at cards, 
 both gave a start ; my lady turned as red as scarlet, and 
 bade Mistress Beatrix go to her own chamber; where- 
 upon the girl, putting on, as her wont was, the most 
 innocent air, said, " I am sure I meant no wrong; I am 
 sure mamma talks a great deal more to Harry Esmond 
 than she does to papa and she cried when Harry went 
 away, and she never does when papa goes away! and 
 last night she talked to Lord Mohun for ever so long, 
 and sent us out of the room, and cried when we came 
 back, and " 
 
 " D n!" cried out my Lord Castlewood, out of all 
 patience. "Go out of the room, you little viper!" and 
 he started up and flung down his cards. 
 
 "Ask Lord Mohun what I said to him, Francis," her 
 ladyship said, rising up with a scared face, but yet with 
 a great and touching dignity and candour in her look 
 and voice. "Come away with me, Beatrix." Beatrix 
 sprung up too ; she was in tears now. 
 
 " Dearest mamma, what have I done?" she asked. 
 " Sure I meant no harm." And she clung to her mother, 
 and the pair went out sobbing together. 
 
 " I will tell you what your wife said to me, Frank," 
 my Lord Mohun cried. "Parson Harry may hear it; 
 and, as I hope for heaven, every word is true. Last 
 night, with tears in her eyes, your wife implored me 
 to play no more with you at dice or at cards, and you 
 know best whether what she asked was not for your 
 good." 
 
 " Of course it was, Mohun," says my lord in a dry hard 
 voice. " Of course you are a model of a man: and the 
 world knows what a saint you are." 
 
 My Lord Mohun was separated from his wife, and had
 
 ESMOND 149 
 
 had many affairs of honour: of which women as usual 
 had been the cause. 
 
 "I am no saint, though your wife is and I can 
 answer for my actions as other people must for their 
 words," said my Lord Mohun. 
 
 " By G , my lord, you shall," cried the other, start- 
 ing up. 
 
 "We have another little account to settle first, my 
 lord," says Lord Mohun. Whereupon Harry Esmond, 
 filled with alarm for the consequences to which this dis- 
 astrous dispute might lead, broke out into the most 
 vehement expostulations with his patron and his adver- 
 sary. " Gracious heavens!" he said, " my lord, are you 
 going to draw a sword upon your friend in your own 
 house ? Can you doubt the honour of a lady who is as pure 
 as heaven, and would die a thousand times rather than 
 do you a wrong? Are the idle words of a jealous child 
 to set friends at variance? Has not my mistress, as 
 much as she dared do, besought your lordship, as the 
 truth must be told, to break your intimacy with my Lord 
 Mohun ; and to give up the habit which may bring ruin 
 on your family? But for my Lord Mohun's illness, had 
 he not left you?" 
 
 " 'Faith, Frank, a man with a gouty toe can't run 
 after other men's wives," broke out my Lord Mohun, 
 who indeed was in that way, and with a laugh and a 
 look at his swathed limb so frank and comical, that the 
 other dashing his fist across his forehead was caught 
 by that infectious good-humour, and said with his oath, 
 
 "D it, Harry, I believe thee," and so this quarrel 
 
 was over, and the two gentlemen, at swords drawn but 
 just now, dropped their points, and shook hands. 
 
 Beati pacifici. "Go, bring my lady back," said 
 Harry's patron. Esmond went away only too glad to 
 be the bearer of such good news. He found her at the 
 door ; she had been listening there, but went back as he 
 came. She took both his hands ; hers were marble cold. 
 She seemed as if she would fall on his shoulder. "Thank 
 you, and God bless you, my dear brother Harry," she 
 said. She kissed his hand, Esmond felt her tears upon
 
 150 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 it : and leading- her into the room, and up to my lord, 
 the Lord Castlewood, with an outbreak of feeling and 
 affection such as he had not exhibited for many a long 
 day, took his wife to his heart, and bent over and kissed 
 her and asked her pardon. 
 
 " 'Tis time for me to go to roost. I will have my 
 gruel a-bed," said my Lord Mohun: and limped off 
 comically on Harry Esmond's arm. "By George, that 
 woman is a pearl! " he said; "and 'tis only a pig that 
 wouldn't value her. Have you seen the vulgar trapesing 
 orange girl whom Esmond " but here Mr. Esmond 
 interrupted him, saying, that these were not affairs for 
 him to know. 
 
 My lord's gentleman came in to wait upon his master, 
 who was no sooner in his nightcap and dressing-gown 
 than he had another visitor whom his host insisted on 
 sending to him : and this was no other than the Lady 
 Castlewood herself with the toast and gruel, which her 
 husband bade her make and carry with her own hands 
 in to her guest. 
 
 Lord Castlewood stood looking after his wife as she 
 went on this errand, and as he looked, Harry Esmond 
 could not but gaze on him, and remarked in his patron's 
 face an expression of love, and grief and care, which 
 very much moved and touched the young man. Lord 
 Castlewood's hands fell down at his sides, and his head 
 on his breast, and presently he said : 
 
 " You heard what Mohun said, parson? " 
 
 " That my lady was a saint? " 
 
 "That there are two accounts to settle. I have been 
 going wrong these five years, Harry Esmond. Ever 
 since you brought that damned small-pox into the house, 
 there has been a fate pursuing me, and I had best have 
 died of it, and not run away from it like a coward. I left 
 Beatrix with her relations, and went to London ; and I 
 fell among thieves, Harry, and I got back to confounded 
 cards and dice, which I hadn't touched since my marri- 
 age no, not since I was in the Duke's Guard, with 
 those wild Mohocks. And I have been playing worse 
 and worse, and going deeper and deeper into it : and I
 
 ESMOND 151 
 
 owe Mohun two thousand pounds now ; and when it's 
 paid I am little better than a beggar. I don't like to 
 look my boy in the face ; he hates me, I know he does. 
 And I have spent Beaty's little portion: and the Lord 
 knows what will come if I live ; the best thing I can do 
 is to die, and release what portion of the estate is re- 
 deemable for the boy." 
 
 Mohun was as much master at Castlewood as the 
 owner of the Hall itself; and his equipages filled the 
 stables, where, indeed, there was room in plenty for 
 many more horses than Harry Esmond's impoverished 
 patron could afford to keep. He had arrived on horse- 
 back with his people ; but when his gout broke out my 
 Lord Mohun sent to London for a light chaise he had, 
 drawn by a pair of small horses, and running as swift, 
 wherever roads were good, as a Laplander's sledge. 
 When this carriage came, his lordship was eager to 
 drive the Lady Castlewood abroad in it, and did so 
 many times, and at a rapid pace, greatly to his com- 
 panion's enjoyment, who loved the swift motion and the 
 healthy breezes over the Downs which lie hard upon 
 Castlewood, and stretch thence towards the sea. As 
 this amusement was very pleasant to her, and her lord, 
 far from showing any mistrust of her intimacy with 
 Lord Mohun, encouraged her to be his companion as if 
 willing by his present extreme confidence to make up for 
 any past mistrust which his jealousy had shown the 
 Lady Castlewood enjoyed herself freely in this harmless 
 diversion, which, it must be owned, her guest was very 
 eager to give her ; and it seemed that she grew the 
 more free with Lord Mohun, and pleased with his com- 
 pany, because of some sacrifice which his gallantry was 
 pleased to make in her favour. 
 
 Seeing the two gentlemen constantly at cards still of 
 evenings, Harry Esmond one day deplored to his mis- 
 tress that this fatal infatuation of her lord should con- 
 tinue ; and now they seemed reconciled together, begged 
 his lady to hint to her husband that he should play no 
 more. 
 
 But Lady Castlewood, smiling archly and gaily, said
 
 152 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 she would speak to him presently, and that, for a few 
 nights more at least, he might be let to have his amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 " Indeed, madam," said Harry, " you know not what 
 it costs you ; and 'tis easy for any observer who knows 
 the game, to see that Lord Mohun is by far the stronger 
 of the two." 
 
 " I know he is," says my lady, still with exceeding 
 good-humour; "he is not only the best player, but the 
 kindest player in the world." 
 
 "Madam, madam!" Esmond cried, transported and 
 provoked. "Debts of honour must be paid sometime 
 or other; and my master will be ruined if he goes on." 
 
 "Harry, shall I tell you a secret?" my lady replied, 
 with kindness and pleasure still in her eyes. "Francis 
 will not be ruined if he goes on : he will be rescued if he 
 goes on. I repent of having' spoken and thought un- 
 kindly of the Lord Mohun when he was here in the 
 past year. He is full of much kindness and good ; and 
 'tis my belief that we shall bring him to better things. 
 I have lent him Tillotson and your favourite Bishop 
 Taylor, and he is much touched, he says; and as a 
 proof of his repentance (and herein lies my secret) 
 what do you think he is doing with Francis? He is let- 
 ting poor Frank win his money back again. He hath 
 won already at the last four nights; and my Lord 
 Mohun says that he will not be the means of injuring 
 poor Frank and my dear children." 
 
 " And in God's name, what do you return him for the 
 sacrifice?" asked Esmond, aghast; who knew enough 
 of men, and of this one in particular, to be aware that 
 such a finished rake gave nothing for nothing. " How, 
 in heaven's name, are you to pay him? " 
 
 "Pay him! With a mother's blessing and a wife's 
 prayers ! " cries my lady, clasping her hands together. 
 Harry Esmond did not know whether to laugh, to be 
 angry, or to love his dear mistress more than ever for 
 the obstinate innocency with which she chose to regard 
 the conduct of a man of the world, whose designs he 
 knew better how to interpret. He told the lady, guard-
 
 ESMOND 153 
 
 edly, but so as to make his meaning quite clear to her, 
 what he knew in respect of the former life and conduct 
 of this nobleman; of other women against whom he 
 had plotted, and whom he had overcome; of the con- 
 versation which he, Harry himself, had had with Lord 
 Mohun, wherein the lord made a boast of his libertin- 
 ism, and frequently avowed that he held all women to 
 be fair game (as his lordship styled this pretty sport), 
 and that they were all, without exception, to be won. 
 And the return Harry had for his entreaties and remon- 
 strances was a fit of anger on Lady Castlewood's part, 
 who would not listen to his accusations; she said and 
 retorted that he himself must be very wicked and per- 
 verted to suppose evil designs where she was sure none 
 were meant. "And this is the good meddlers get of 
 interfering," Harry thought to himself with much bitter- 
 ness ; and his perplexity and annoyance were only the 
 greater because he could not speak to my Lord Castle- 
 wood himself upon a subject of this nature, or venture 
 to advise or warn him regarding a matter so very sacred 
 as his own honour, of which my lord was naturally the 
 best guardian. 
 
 But though Lady Castlewood would listen to no ad- 
 vice from her young dependant, and appeared indignantly 
 to refuse it when offered, Harry had the satisfaction to 
 find that she adopted the counsel which she professed 
 to reject ; for the next day she pleaded a headache, when 
 my Lord Mohun would have had her drive out, and the 
 next day the headache continued; and next day, in a 
 laughing gay way, she proposed that the children should 
 take her place in his lordship's car, for they would be 
 charmed with a ride of all things; and she must not 
 have all the pleasure for herself. My lord gave them a 
 drive with a very good grace, though, I daresay, with 
 rage and disappointment inwardly not that his heart 
 was very seriously engaged in his designs upon this 
 simple lady : but the life of such men is often one of 
 intrigue, and they can no more go through the day 
 without a woman to pursue, than a fox-hunter without 
 his sport after breakfast.
 
 154 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Under an affected carelessness of demeanour, and 
 though there was no outward demonstration of doubt 
 upon his patron's part since the quarrel between the two 
 lords, Harry yet saw that Lord Castlewood was watch- 
 ing" his guest very narrowly ; and caught sight of dis- 
 trust and smothered rage (as Harry thought) which fore- 
 boded no good. On the point of honour Esmond knew 
 how touchy his patron was ; and watched him almost as 
 a physician watches a patient, and it seemed to him 
 that this one was slow to take the disease, though he 
 could not throw off the poison when once it had mingled 
 with his blood. We read in Shakspeare (whom the 
 writer for his part considers to be far beyond Mr. Con- 
 greve, Mr. Dryden, or any of the wits of the present 
 period), that when jealousy is once declared, nor poppy, 
 nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the East, 
 will ever soothe it, or medicine it away. 
 
 In fine, the symptoms seemed to be so alarming to 
 this young physician (who, indeed, young as he was, 
 had felt the kind pulses of all those dear kinsmen), that 
 Harry thought it would be his duty to warn my Lord 
 Mohun, and let him know that his designs were sus- 
 pected and watched. So one day, when in rather a pet- 
 tish humour his lordship had sent to Lady Castlewood, 
 who had promised to drive with him, and now refused 
 to come, Harry said " My lord, if you will kindly give 
 me a place by your side I will thank you ; I have much 
 to say to you, and would like to speak to you alone." 
 
 " You honour me by giving me your confidence, Mr. 
 Henry Esmond," says the other, with a very grand bow. 
 My lord was always a fine gentleman, and young as he was 
 there was that in Esmond's manner which showed that 
 he was a gentleman too, and that none might take a 
 liberty with him so the pair went out and mounted the 
 little carriage, which was in waiting for them in the 
 court, with its two little cream-coloured Hanoverian 
 horses covered with splendid furniture and champing 
 at the bit. 
 
 " My lord," says Harry Esmond, after they were got 
 into the country, and pointing to my Lord Mohun's
 
 ESMOND 155 
 
 foot, which was swathed in flannel, and put up rather 
 ostentatiously on a cushion " my lord, I studied medi- 
 cine at Cambridge." 
 
 "Indeed, Parson Harry," says he; "and are you 
 going to take out a diploma: and cure your fellow- 
 students of the " 
 
 "Of the gout," says Harry, interrupting him, and 
 looking him hard in the face; "I know a good deal 
 about the gout." 
 
 " I hope you may never have it. Tis an infernal 
 disease," says my lord, "and its twinges are diabolical. 
 Ah ! " and he made a dreadful wry face, as if he just felt 
 a twinge. 
 
 " Your lordship would be much better if you took off 
 all that flannel it only serves to inflame the toe," Harry 
 continued, looking his man full in the face. 
 
 "Oh! it only serves to inflame the toe, does it?" 
 says the other, with an innocent air. 
 
 " If you took off that flannel, and flung that absurd 
 slipper away, and wore a boot," continues Harry. 
 
 "You recommend me boots, Mr. Esmond? asks 
 my lord. 
 
 " Yes, boots and spurs. I saw your lordship three 
 days ago run down the gallery fast enough," Harry 
 goes on. " I am sure that taking gruel at night is not 
 so pleasant as claret to your lordship ; and besides it 
 keeps your lordship's head cool for play, whilst my 
 patron's is hot and flustered with drink." 
 
 " 'Sdeath, sir, you dare not say that I don't play 
 fair?" cries my lord, whipping his horses, which went 
 away at a gallop. 
 
 "You are cool when my lord is drunk," Harry con- 
 tinued; "your lordship gets the better of my patron. 
 I have watched you as I looked up from my books." 
 
 "You young Argus!" says Lord Mohun, who liked 
 Harry Esmond and for whose company and wit, and a 
 certain daring manner, Harry had a great liking too 
 "You young Argus! you may look with all your hun- 
 dred eyes and see we play fair. I've played away an 
 estate of a night, and I've played my shirt off my back;
 
 156 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and I've played away my periwig" and gone home in a 
 nightcap. But no man can say I ever took advantage 
 of him beyond the advantage of the game. I played a 
 dice-cogging scoundrel in Alsatia for his ears and won 
 'em, and have one of 'em in my lodgings in Bow Street 
 in a bottle of spirits. Harry Mohun will play any man 
 for anything always would." 
 
 "You are playing awful stakes, my lord, in my 
 patron's house," Harry said, " and more games than 
 are on the cards." 
 
 "What do you mean, sir? "cries my lord, turning 
 round, with a flush on his face. 
 
 " I mean," answers Harry, in a sarcastic tone, "that 
 your gout is well if ever you had it." 
 
 " Sir ! " cried my lord, getting hot. 
 
 " And to tell the truth I believe your lordship has no 
 more gout than I have. At any rate, change of air will 
 do you good, my Lord Mohun. And I mean fairly that 
 you had better go from Castlewood." 
 
 "And were you appointed to give me this message? " 
 cries the Lord Mohun. " Did Frank Esmond commis- 
 sion you? " 
 
 " No one did. 'Twas the honour of my family that 
 commissioned me." 
 
 "And you are prepared to answer this?" cries the 
 other, furiously lashing his horses. 
 
 "Quite, my lord: your lordship will upset the car- 
 riage if you whip so hotly." 
 
 "By George, you have a brave spirit!" my lord 
 cried out, bursting into a laugh. " I suppose 'tis that 
 infernal botte de Jdsuite that makes you so bold," he 
 added. 
 
 " Tis the peace of the family I love best in the world," 
 Harry Esmond said warmly "'tis the honour of a 
 noble benefactor the happiness of my dear mistress 
 and her children. I owe them everything in life, my 
 lord; and would lay it down for any one of them. 
 What brings you here to] disturb this quiet household? 
 What keeps you lingering month after month in the 
 country? What makes you feign illness and invent
 
 ESMOND 157 
 
 pretexts for delay? Is it to win my poor patron's money? 
 Be generous, my lord, and spare his weakness for the 
 sake of his wife and children. Is it to practise upon the 
 simple heart of a virtuous lady? You mig-ht as well 
 storm the Tower single-handed. But you may blemish 
 her name by light comments on it, or by lawless pur- 
 suits and I don't deny that 'tis in your power to make 
 her unhappy. Spare these innocent people, and leave 
 them." 
 
 " By the Lord, I believe thou hast an eye to the pretty 
 Puritan thyself, Master Harry," says my lord, with his 
 reckless, good-humoured laugh, and as if he had been 
 listening with interest to the passionate appeal of the 
 young man. "Whisper, Harry. Art thou in love with 
 her thyself? Hath tipsy Frank Esmond come by the 
 way of all flesh? " 
 
 " My lord, my lord," cried Harry, his face flushing 
 and his eyes filling as he spoke, " I never had a mother, 
 but I love this lady as one. I worship her as a devotee 
 worships a saint. To hear her name spoken lightly 
 seems blasphemy to me. Would you dare think of your 
 own mother so, or suffer any one so to speak of her? 
 It is a horror to me to fancy that any man should think 
 of her impurely. I implore you, I beseech you, to leave 
 her. Danger will come out of it." 
 
 "Danger, psha!" says my lord, giving a cut to the 
 horses, which at this minute for we were got on to the 
 Downs fairly ran off into a gallop that no pulling could 
 stop. The rein broke in Lord Mohun's hands, and the 
 furious beasts scampered madly forwards, the carriage 
 swaying to and fro, and the persons within it holding 
 on to the sides as best they might, until seeing a great 
 ravine before them, where an upset was inevitable, the 
 two gentlemen leapt for their lives, each out of his side 
 of the chaise. Harry Esmond was quit for a fall on the 
 grass, which was so severe that it stunned him for a 
 minute ; but he got up presently very sick, and bleeding 
 at the nose, but with no other hurt. The Lord Mohun 
 was not so fortunate ; he fell on his head against a stone, 
 and lay on the ground, dead to all appearance.
 
 158 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 This misadventure happened as the gentlemen were 
 on their return homewards ; and my Lord Castlewood, 
 with his son and daughter, who were going out for a 
 ride, met the ponies as they were galloping with the car 
 behind, the broken traces entangling their heels, and 
 my lord's people turned and stopped them. It was 
 young Frank who spied out Lord Mohun's scarlet coat as 
 he lay on the ground, and the party made up to that 
 unfortunate gentleman and Esmond, who was now 
 standing over him. His large periwig and feathered 
 hat had fallen off, and he was bleeding profusely from 
 a wound on the forehead, and looking, and being, 
 indeed, a corpse. 
 
 "Great God! he's dead!" says my lord. "Ride, 
 someone: fetch a doctor stay. I'll go home and bring 
 back Tusher; he knows surgery," and my lord, with his 
 son after him, galloped away. 
 
 They were scarce gone when Harry Esmond, who 
 was indeed but just come to himself, bethought him of 
 a similar accident which he had seen on a ride from 
 Newmarket to Cambridge, and taking off a sleeve of 
 my lord's coat, Harry, with a penknife, opened a vein 
 in his arm, and was greatly relieved, after a moment, to 
 see the blood flow. He was near half an hour before he 
 came to himself, by which time Dr. Tusher and little 
 Frank arrived, and found my lord not a corpse indeed, 
 but as pale as one. 
 
 After a time, when he was able to bear motion, they 
 put my lord upon a groom's horse, and gave the other 
 to Esmond, the men walking on each side of my lord, 
 to support him, if need were, and worthy Dr. Tusher 
 with them. Little Frank and Harry rode together at a 
 foot pace. 
 
 When we rode together home, the boy said: "We 
 met mamma, who was walking on the terrace with the 
 Doctor, and papa frightened her, and told her you were 
 dead ..." 
 
 " That I was dead? " asks Harry. 
 
 "Yes. Papa says: 'Here's poor Harry killed, my 
 dear; ' on which mamma gives a great scream; and oh,
 
 ESMOND 159 
 
 Harry! she drops down; and I thought she was dead, 
 too. And you never saw such a way as papa was in : 
 he swore one of his great oaths : and he turned quite 
 pale; and then he began to laugh somehow, and he 
 told the Doctor to take his horse, and me to follow him ; 
 and we left him. And I looked back, and saw him 
 dashing water out of the fountain on to mamma. Oh, 
 she was so frightened ! " 
 
 Musing upon this curious history for my Lord 
 Mohun's name was Henry to, and they called each other 
 Frank and Harry often and not a little disturbed and 
 anxious, Esmond rode home. His dear lady was on the 
 terrace still, one of her women with her, and my lord no 
 longer there. There are steps and a little door thence 
 down into the road. My lord passed, looking very 
 ghastly, with a handkerchief over his head, and without 
 his hat and periwig, which a groom carried, but his 
 politeness did not desert him, and he made a bow to the 
 lady above. 
 
 " Thank heaven, you are safe," she said. 
 
 " And so is Harry too, mamma," says little Frank, 
 " huzzay ! " 
 
 Harry Esmond got off the horse to run to his mistress, 
 as did little Frank, and one of the grooms took charge 
 of the two beasts, while the other, hat and periwig in 
 hand, walked by my lord's bridle to the front gate, 
 which lay half-a-mile away. 
 
 " Oh, my boy ! what a fright you have given me! " 
 Lady Castlewood said, when Harry Esmond came up, 
 greeting him with one of her shining looks and a voice 
 of tender welcome ; and she was so kind as to kiss the 
 young man ('twas the second time she had so honoured 
 him), and she walked into the house between him and 
 her son, holding a hand of each. 
 
 After a repose of a couple of days, the Lord Mohun 
 was so far recovered of his hurt as to be able to an- 
 nounce his departure for the next morning; when, ac- 
 cordingly, he took leave of Castlewood, proposing to
 
 160 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 ride to London by easy stages, and lie two nights upon 
 the road. His host treated him with a studied and cere- 
 monious courtesy, certainly different from my lord's 
 usual frank and careless demeanour ; but there was no 
 reason to suppose that the two lords parted otherwise 
 than good friends, though Harry Esmond remarked that 
 my Lord Viscount only saw his guest in company with 
 other persons, and seemed to avoid being alone with 
 him. Nor did he ride any distance with Lord Mohun, as 
 his custom was with most of his friends, whom he was 
 always eager to welcome and unwilling to lose: but 
 contented himself, when his lordship's horses were an- 
 nounced, and their owner appeared, booted for his jour- 
 ney, to take a courteous leave of the ladies of Castle- 
 wood, by following the Lord Mohun downstairs to his 
 horses, and by bowing and wishing him a good-day, in 
 the court-yard. " I shall see you in London before very 
 long, Mohun," my lord said, with a smile; "when we 
 will settle our accounts together." 
 
 " Do not let them trouble you, Frank," said the other 
 good-naturedly, and, holding out his hand, looked 
 rather surprised at the grim and stately manner in 
 which his host received his parting salutation ; and so, 
 followed by his people, he rode away. 
 
 Harry Esmond was witness of the departure. It was 
 very different to my lord's coming, for which great pre- 
 paration had been made (the old house putting on its 
 best appearance to welcome its guest), and there was a 
 sadness and constraint about all persons that day, which 
 filled Mr. Esmond with gloomy forebodings and sad in- 
 definite apprehensions. Lord Castlewood stood at the 
 door, watching his guest and his people as they went 
 out under the arch of the outer gate. When he was 
 there, Lord Mohun turned once more; my Lord Viscount 
 slowly raised his beaver and bowed. His face wore a 
 peculiar livid look, Harry thought. He cursed and 
 kicked away his dogs, which came jumping about him 
 then he walked up to the fountain in the centre of the 
 court, and leaned against a pillar and looked into the 
 basin. As Esmond crossed over to his own room, late
 
 ESMOND 161 
 
 the chaplain's, on the other side of the court, and turned 
 to enter in at the low door, he saw Lady Castlewood 
 looking through the curtains of the great window of the 
 drawing-room overhead, at my lord as he stood regard- 
 ing the fountain. There was in the court a peculiar 
 silence somehow; and the scene remained long in Es- 
 mond's memory: the sky bright overhead; the but- 
 tresses of the building and the sun-dial casting shadow 
 over the gilt memento mori inscribed underneath ; the 
 two dogs, a black greyhound and a spaniel nearly white, 
 the one with his face up to the sun, and the other snuff- 
 ing amongst the grass and stones, and my lord leaning 
 over the fountain, which was bubbling audibly. 'Tis 
 strange how that scene, and the sound of that fountain, 
 remain fixed on the memory of a man who has beheld a 
 hundred sights of splendour, and danger too, of which 
 he has kept no account. 
 
 It was Lady Castlewood she had been laughing all 
 the morning, and especially gay and lively before her 
 husband and his guest who, as soon as the two gentle- 
 men went together from her room, ran to Harry, the 
 expression of her countenance quite changed now, and 
 with a face and eyes full of care, and said, " Follow 
 them, Harry, I am sure something has gone wrong." 
 And so it was that Esmond was made an eavesdropper 
 at this lady's orders : and retired to his own chamber, 
 to give himself time in truth to try and compose a story 
 which would soothe his mistress, for he could not but 
 have his own apprehension that some serious quarrel 
 was pending between the two gentlemen. 
 
 And now for several days the little company at Castle- 
 wood sat at table as of evenings : this care, though un- 
 named and invisible, being nevertheless present alway, 
 in the minds of at least three persons there. My lord 
 was exceeding gentle and kind. Whenever he quitted 
 the room, his wife's eyes followed him. He behaved to 
 her with a kind of mournful courtesy and kindness re- 
 markable in one of his blunt ways and ordinary rough 
 manner. He called her by her Christian name often and 
 fondly, was very soft and gentle with the children, 
 M
 
 162 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 especially with the boy, whom he did not love, and being 
 lax about church generally, he went thither and per- 
 formed all the offices (down even to listening to Dr. 
 Tusher's sermon) with great devotion. 
 
 " He paces his room all night; what is it? Henry, find 
 out what it is," Lady Castlewood said constantly to her 
 young dependant. "He has sent three letters to Lon- 
 don," she said, another day. 
 
 "Indeed, madam, they were to a lawyer," Harry 
 answered, who knew of these letters, and had seen a 
 part of the correspondence, which related to a new loan 
 my lord was raising; and when the young man remon- 
 strated with his patron, my lord said: "He was only 
 raising money to pay off an old debt on the property, 
 which must be discharged." 
 
 Regarding the money, Lady Castlewood was not in 
 the least anxious. Few fond women feel money-dis- 
 tressed ; indeed you can hardly give a woman a greater 
 pleasure than to bid her pawn her diamonds for the man 
 she loves; and I remember hearing Mr. Congreve say 
 of my Lord Marlborough, that the reason why my lord 
 was so successful with women as a young man, was 
 because he took money of them. "There are few men 
 who will make such a sacrifice for them," says Mr. Con- 
 greve, who knew a part of the sex pretty well. 
 
 Harry Esmond's vacation was just over, and, as hath 
 been said, he was preparing to return to the University 
 for his last term before taking his degree and entering 
 into the Church. He had made up his mind for this 
 office, not indeed with that reverence which becomes a 
 man about to enter upon a duty so holy, but with a 
 worldly spirit of acquiescence in the prudence of adopt- 
 ing that profession for his calling. But his reasoning 
 was that he owed all to the family of Castlewood, and 
 loved better to be near them than anywhere else in the 
 world ; that he might be useful to his benefactors, who 
 had the utmost confidence in him and affection for him 
 in return; that he might aid in bringing up the young 
 heir of the house and acting as his governor; that he 
 might continue to be his dear patron's and mistress's
 
 ESMOND 163 
 
 friend and adviser, who both were pleased to say that 
 they should ever look upon him as such ; and so, by 
 making himself useful to those he loved best, he pro- 
 posed to console himself for giving up any schemes of 
 ambition which he might have had in his own bosom. 
 Indeed, his mistress had told him that she would not 
 have him leave her ; and whatever she commanded was 
 will to him. 
 
 The Lady Castlewood's mind was greatly relieved in 
 the last few days of this well-remembered holiday time, 
 by my lord's announcing one morning, after the post 
 had brought him letters from London, in a careless tone, 
 that the Lord Mohun was gone to Paris, and was about 
 to make a great journey in Europe; and though Lord 
 Castlewood's own gloom did not wear off, or his be- 
 haviour alter, yet this cause of anxiety being removed 
 from his lady's mind, she began to be more hopeful and 
 easy in her spirits, striving too, with all her heart, and 
 by all the means of soothing in her power, to call back 
 my lord's cheerfulness and dissipate his moody humour. 
 
 He accounted for it himself, by saying that he was out 
 of health ; that he wanted to see his physician ; that he 
 would go to London, and consult Doctor Cheyne. It 
 was agreed that his lordship and Harry Esmond should 
 make the journey as far as London together; and of a 
 Monday morning, the roth of October, in the year 1700, 
 they set forwards towards London on horseback. The 
 day before being Sunday, and the rain pouring down, 
 the family did not visit church; and at night my lord 
 read the service to his family very finely, and with a 
 peculiar sweetness and gravity speaking the parting 
 benediction, Harry thought, as solemn as ever he heard 
 it. And he kissed and embraced his wife and children 
 before they went to their own chambers with more fond- 
 ness than he was ordinarily wont to show, and with a 
 solemnity and feeling of which they thought in after 
 days with no small comfort. 
 
 They took horse the next morning (after adieux from 
 the family as tender as on the night previous), lay that 
 night on the road, and entered London at nightfall ; my
 
 164 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 lord going 1 to the "Trumpet," in the Cockpit, White- 
 hall, a house used by the military in his time as a young 
 man, and accustomed by his lordship ever since. 
 
 An hour after my lord's arrival (which showed that his 
 visit had been arranged beforehand), my lord's man of 
 business arrived from Gray's Inn ; and thinking that his 
 patron might wish to be private with the lawyer, Esmond 
 was for leaving them : but my lord said his business was 
 short ; introduced Mr. Esmond particularly to the law- 
 yer, who had been engaged for the family in the old 
 lord's time ; who said that he had paid the money, as 
 desired that day, to my Lord Mohun himself, at his 
 lodgings in Bow Street ; that his lordship had expressed 
 some surprise, as it was not customary to employ law- 
 yers, he said, in such transactions between men of 
 honour; but nevertheless, he had returned my Lord 
 Viscount's note of hand, which he held at his client's 
 disposition. 
 
 "I thought the Lord Mohun had been in Paris!" 
 cried Mr. Esmond, in great alarm and astonishment. 
 
 "He is come back at my invitation," said my Lord 
 Viscount. " We have accounts to settle together." 
 
 " I pray heaven they are over, sir," says Esmond. 
 
 "Oh, quite," replied the other, looking hard at the 
 young man. " He was rather troublesome about that 
 money which I told you I had lost to him at play. And 
 now 'tis paid, and we are quits on that score, and we 
 shall meet good friends again." 
 
 "My lord," cried out Esmond, "I am sure you are 
 deceiving me, and that there is a quarrel between the 
 Lord Mohun and you." 
 
 "Quarrel pish! We shall sup together this very 
 night, and drink a bottle. Every man is ill-humoured 
 who loses such a sum as I have lost. But now 'tis paid, 
 and my anger is gone with it." 
 
 " Where shall we sup, sir? " says Harry. 
 
 " We! Let some gentlemen wait till they are asked," 
 says my Lord Viscount, with a laugh. "You go to 
 Duke Street, and see Mr. Betterton. You love the play, 
 I know. Leave me to follow my own devices: and in
 
 ESMOND 165 
 
 the morning we'll breakfast together, with what appetite 
 we may, as the play says." 
 
 " By G ! my lord, I will not leave you this night," 
 says Harry Esmond. "I think I know the cause of 
 your dispute. I swear to you 'tis nothing. On the very 
 day the accident befell Lord Mohun, I was speaking to 
 him about it. I know that nothing has passed but idle 
 gallantry on his part." 
 
 " You know that nothing has passed but idle gallantry 
 between Lord Mohun and my wife," says my lord, in a 
 thundering voice "you knew of this and did not tell 
 me? " 
 
 " I knew more of it than my dear mistress did her- 
 self, sir a thousand times more. How was she, who 
 was as innocent as a child, to know what was the mean- 
 ing of the covert addresses of a villain? " 
 
 " A villain he is, you allow, and would have taken my 
 wife away from me." 
 
 "Sir, she is as pure as an angel," cried young 
 Esmond. 
 
 " Have I said a word against her?" shrieks out my 
 lord. " Did I ever doubt that she was pure? It would 
 have been the last day of her life when I did. Do you 
 fancy I think that she would go astray? No, she hasn't 
 passion enough for that. She neither sins nor forgives. 
 I know her temper and now I've lost her, by heaven I 
 love her ten thousand times more than ever I did yes, 
 when she was young and as beautiful as an angel when 
 she smiled at me in her old father's house, and used to 
 lie in wait for me there as I came from hunting when 
 I used to fling my head down on her little knees and 
 cry like a child on her lap and swear I would reform, 
 and drink no more, and play no more, and follow women 
 no more; when all the men of the Court used to be 
 following her when she used to look, with her child, 
 more beautiful, by George, than the Madonna in the 
 Queen's Chapel. I am not good like her, I know it. 
 Who is by heaven, who is? I tired and wearied her, I 
 know that very well. I could not talk to her. You men 
 of wit and books could do that, and I couldn't I felt I
 
 166 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 couldn't. Why, when you was but a boy of fifteen I 
 could hear you two together talking your poetry and 
 your books till I was in such a rage that I was fit to 
 strangle you. But you were always a good lad, Harry, 
 and I loved you, you know I did. And I felt she didn't 
 belong to me : and the children don't. And I besotted 
 myself, and gambled, and drank, and took to all sorts 
 of devilries out of despair and fury. And now comes 
 this Mohun, and she likes him, I know she likes him." 
 
 "Indeed and on my soul, you are wrong, sir," Es- 
 mond cried. 
 
 "She takes letters from him," cries my lord "look 
 here, Harry," and he pulled out a paper with a brown 
 stain of blood upon it. " It fell from him that day he 
 wasn't killed. One of the grooms picked it up from the 
 
 ground and gave it me. Here it is in their d d 
 
 comedy jargon. ' Divine Gloriana Why look so coldly 
 on your slave who adores you? Have you no compassion 
 on the tortures you have seen me suffering? Do you 
 vouchsafe no reply to billets that are written with the 
 blood of my heart.' She had more letters from him." 
 
 " But she answered none," cries Esmond. 
 
 "That's not Mohun's fault," says my lord, "and I 
 will be revenged on him, as God 's in heaven, I will." 
 
 " For a light word or two, will you risk your lady's 
 honour and your family's happiness, my lord? " Esmond 
 interposed beseechingly. 
 
 " Psha there shall be no question of my wife's 
 honour," said my lord; "we can quarrel on plenty of 
 grounds beside. If I live, that villain will be punished; 
 if I fall, my family will be only the better: there will 
 only be a spendthrift the less to keep in the world : and 
 Frank has better teaching than his father. My mind is 
 made up, Harry Esmond, and whatever the event is, I 
 am easy about it. I leave my wife and you as guardians 
 to the children." 
 
 Seeing that my lord was bent upon pursuing this 
 quarrel, and that no entreaties would draw him from it, 
 Harry Esmond (then of a hotter and more impetuous 
 nature than now, when care, and reflection, and grey
 
 ESMOND 167 
 
 hairs have calmed him) thought it was his duty to stand 
 by his kind, generous patron, and said, " My lord, if 
 you are determined upon war, you must not go into it 
 alone. Tis the duty of our house to stand by its chief; 
 and I should neither forgive myself nor you if you did 
 not call me, or I should be absent from you at a moment 
 of danger." 
 
 "Why, Harry, my poor boy, you are bred for a 
 parson," says my lord, taking Esmond by the hand very 
 kindly ; ' ' and it were a great pity that you should 
 meddle in the matter." 
 
 " Your lordship thought of being a churchman once," 
 Harry answered, "and your father's orders did not 
 prevent him fighting at Castlewood against the Round- 
 heads. Your enemies are mine, sir; I can use the foils, 
 as you have seen, indifferently well, and don't think I 
 shall be afraid when the buttons are taken off 'em." 
 And then Harry explained, with some blushes and 
 hesitation (for the matter was delicate, and he feared 
 lest, by having put himself forward in the quarrel, he 
 might have offended his patron), how he had himself 
 expostulated with the Lord Mohun, and proposed to 
 measure swords with him if need were, and he could 
 not be got to withdraw peaceably in this dispute. "And 
 I should have beat him, sir," says Harry, laughing. 
 " He never could parry that botte I brought from Cam- 
 bridge. Let us have half-an-hour of it, and rehearse 
 I can teach it your lordship : 'tis the most delicate point 
 in the world, and if you miss it, your adversary's sword 
 is through you." 
 
 " By George, Harry, you ought to be the head of the 
 house," says my lord, gloomily. "You had been a 
 better Lord Castlewood than a lazy sot like me," he 
 added, drawing his hand across his eyes, and surveying 
 his kinsman with very kind and affectionate glances. 
 
 " Let us take our coats off and have half-an-hour's 
 practice before nightfall," says Harry, after thankfully 
 grasping his patron's manly hand. 
 
 "You are but a little bit of a lad," says my lord, 
 good-humouredly ; "but, in faith, I believe you could
 
 168 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 do for that fellow. No, my boy," he continued. "I'll 
 have none of your feints and tricks of stabbing- : I can 
 use my sword pretty well too, and will fight my own 
 quarrel my own way." 
 
 " But I shall be by to see fair play?" cries Harry. 
 
 " Yes, God bless you you shall be by." 
 
 "When is it, sir?" says Harry, for he saw that the 
 matter had been arranged privately and beforehand by 
 my lord. 
 
 " Tis arranged thus: I sent off a courier to Jack 
 Westbury to say that I wanted him specially. He knows 
 for what, and will be here presently, and drink part of 
 that bottle of sack. Then we shall go to the theatre in 
 Duke Street, where we shall meet Mohun ; and then we 
 shall all go sup at the ' Rose ' or the ' Greyhound.' Then 
 we shall call for cards, and there will be probably a 
 difference over the cards and then, God help us ! 
 either a wicked villain and traitor shall go out of the 
 world, or a poor worthless devil, that doesn't care to 
 remain in it. I am better away, Hal my wife will be 
 all the happier when I am gone," says my lord, with a 
 groan, that tore the heart of Harry Esmond, so that he 
 fairly broke into a sob over his patron's kind hand. 
 
 "The business was talked over with Mohun before 
 he left home Castlewood I mean " my lord went on. 
 " I took the letter in to him, which I had read, and I 
 charged him with his villany, and he could make no 
 denial of it, only he said that my wife was innocent." 
 
 "And so she is; before heaven, my lord, she is!" 
 cries Harry. 
 
 "No doubt, no doubt. They always are," says my 
 lord. "No doubt, when she heard he was killed, she 
 fainted from accident." 
 
 " But, my lord, my name is Harry," cried out Esmond, 
 burning red. "You told my lady, ' Harry was killed ! ' " 
 
 " Damnation ! shall I fight you too? " shouts my lord 
 in a fury. " Are you, you little serpent, warmed by my 
 fire, going to sting you? No, my boy, you're an 
 honest boy; you are a good boy." (And here he broke 
 from rage into tears even more cruel to see.) " You are
 
 ESMOND 169 
 
 an honest boy, and I love you ; and, by heavens, I am 
 so wretched that I don't care what sword it is that ends 
 me. Stop, here 's Jack Westbury. Well, Jack ! Wel- 
 come, old boy! This is my kinsman, Harry Esmond." 
 
 "Who brought your bowls for you at Castlewood, 
 sir ! " says Harry, bowing ; and the three gentlemen sat 
 down and drank of that bottle of sack which was pre- 
 pared for them. 
 
 " Harry is number three," says my lord. "You 
 needn't be afraid of him, Jack." And the Colonel gave 
 a look, as much as to say, " Indeed, he don't look as if 
 I need." And then my lord explained what he had only 
 told by hints before. When he quarrelled with Lord 
 Mohun he was indebted to his lordship in a sum of six- 
 teen hundred pounds, for which Lord Mohun said he 
 proposed to wait until my Lord Viscount should pay 
 him. My lord had raised the sixteen hundred pounds 
 and sent them to Lord Mohun that morning, and before 
 quitting home had put his affairs into order, and was 
 now quite ready to abide the issue of the quarrel. 
 
 When we had drunk a couple of bottles of sack, a 
 coach was called, and the three gentlemen went to the 
 Duke's Playhouse, as agreed. The play was one of 
 Mr. Wycherley's " Love in a Wood." 
 
 Harry Esmond has thought of that play ever since 
 with a kind of terror, and of Mrs. Bracegirdle, the 
 actress who performed the girl's part in the comedy. 
 She was disguised as a page, and came and stood before 
 the gentlemen as they sat on the stage, and looked over 
 her shoulder with a pair of arch black eyes, and laughed 
 at my lord, and asked what ailed the gentleman from 
 the country, and had he had bad news from Bullock 
 fair? 
 
 Between the acts of the play the gentlemen crossed 
 over and conversed freely. There were two of Lord 
 Mohun's party, Captain Macartney, in a military habit, 
 and a gentleman in a suit of blue velvet and silver in a 
 fair periwig, with a rich fall of point of Venice lace my 
 Lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland. My lord had 
 a paper of oranges, which he ate and offered to the
 
 170 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 actresses, joking with them. And Mrs. Bracegfirdle, 
 when my Lord Mohun said something" rude, turned on 
 him, and asked him what he did there, and whether he 
 and his friends had come to stab anybody else, as they 
 did poor Will Mountford? My lord's dark face grew 
 darker at this taunt, and wore a mischievous fatal 
 look. They that saw it remembered it, and said so 
 afterward. 
 
 When the play was ended the two parties joined com- 
 pany ; and my Lord Castlewood then proposed that they 
 should go to a tavern and sup. Lockit's, the "Grey- 
 hound," in Charing Cross, was the house selected. All 
 six marched together that way; the three lords going 
 a-head, Lord Mohun's captain, and Colonel Westbury, 
 and Harry Esmond, walking behind them. As they 
 walked, Westbury told Harry Esmond about his old 
 friend Dick the Scholar, who had got promotion, and 
 was Cornet of the Guards, and had wrote a book called 
 the Christian Hero, and had all the Guards to laugh 
 at him for his pains, for the Christian Hero was break- 
 ing the commandments constantly, Westbury said, and 
 had fought one or two duels already. And, in a lower 
 tone, Westbury besought young Mr. Esmond to take 
 no part in the quarrel. "There was no need for more 
 seconds than one," said the Colonel, "and the Captain 
 or Lord Warwick might easily withdraw." But Harry 
 said no ; he was bent on going through with the busi- 
 ness. Indeed, he had a plan in his head, which, he 
 thought, might prevent my Lord Viscount from engaging. 
 
 They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired a 
 private room and wine and cards, and when the drawer 
 had brought these, they began to drink and call healths, 
 and as long as the servants were in the room appeared 
 very friendly. 
 
 Harry Esmond's plan was no other than to engage in 
 talk with Lord Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first 
 of the quarrel. So when cards were proposed he offered 
 to play. " Psha!" says my Lord Mohun (whether wish- 
 ing to save Harry, or not choosing to try the botte de 
 Jtsuite, it is not to be known) " Young gentlemen
 
 ESMOND 171 
 
 from College should not play these stakes. You are too 
 young." 
 
 "Who dares say I am too young?" broke out Harry. 
 " Is your lordship afraid?" 
 
 "Afraid!" cries out Mohun. 
 
 But my good Lord Viscount saw the move "I'll play 
 you for ten moidores, Mohun," says he. " You silly boy, 
 we don't play for groats here as you do at Cambridge." 
 And Harry, who had no such sum in his pocket (for his 
 half-year's salary was always pretty well spent before it 
 was due), fell back with rage and vexation in his heart 
 that he had not money enough to stake. 
 
 " I'll stake the young gentleman a crown," says the 
 Lord Mohun's captain. 
 
 " I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentle- 
 men of the army," says Harry. 
 
 " Do they birch at College?" says the Captain. 
 
 "They birch fools," says Harry, "and they cane 
 bullies, and they fling puppies into the water." 
 
 " Faith, then there 's some escapes drowning," says 
 the Captain, who was an Irishman ; and all the gentle- 
 men began to laugh, and made poor Harry only more 
 angry. 
 
 My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle. It was 
 when the drawers brought in fresh bottles and glasses 
 and were in the room on which my Lord Viscount said 
 " The Deuce take you, Mohun, how damned awkward 
 you are. Light the candle, you drawer." 
 
 "Damned awkward is a damned awkward expres- 
 sion, my lord," says the other. " Town gentlemen don't 
 use such words or ask pardon if they do." 
 
 " I'm a country gentleman," says my Lord Viscount. 
 
 " I see it by your manner," says my Lord Mohun. 
 " No man shall say damned awkward to me." 
 
 " I fling the words in your face, my lord," says the 
 other; " shall I send the cards too? " 
 
 "Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?" cry 
 out Colonel Westbury and my Lord Warwick in a 
 breath. The drawers go out of the room hastily. They 
 tell the people below of the quarrel upstairs.
 
 172 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " Enough has been said," says Colonel Westbury. 
 " Will your lordships meet to-morrow morning 1 ?" 
 
 "Will my Lord Castlewood withdraw his words?" 
 asks the Earl of Warwick. 
 
 " My Lord Castlewood will be first," says Colonel 
 
 Westbury. 
 
 "Then we having nothing for it. Take notice, gentle- 
 men, there have been outrageous words reparation 
 asked and refused." 
 
 " And refused," says my Lord Castlewood, putting 
 on his hat. " Where shall the meeting be ? and when? " 
 
 "Since my lord refuses me satisfaction, which I 
 deeply regret, there is no time so good as now," says 
 my Lord Mohun. " Let us have chairs and go to Leices- 
 ter Field." 
 
 " Are your lordship and I to have the honour of ex- 
 changing a pass or two?" says Colonel Westbury, with 
 a low bow to my Lord of Warwick and Holland. 
 
 "It is an honour for me," says my lord, with a pro- 
 found congee, "to be matched with a gentleman who 
 has been at Mons and Namur." 
 
 "Will your Reverence permit me to give you a les- 
 son?" says the Captain. 
 
 " Nay, nay, gentlemen, two on a side are plenty," 
 says Harry's patron. " Spare the boy, Captain Macart- 
 ney," and he shook Harry's hand for the last time, save 
 one, in his life. 
 
 At the bar of the tavern all the gentlemen stopped, 
 and my Lord Viscount said, laughing, to the barwoman, 
 that those cards set people sadly a-quarrelling ; but that 
 the dispute was over now, and the parties were all going 
 away to my Lord Mohun's house, in Bow Street, to 
 drink a bottle more before going to bed. 
 
 A half-dozen of chairs were now called, and the six 
 gentlemen stepping into them, the word was privately 
 given to the chairmen to go to Leicester Field, where 
 the gentlemen were set down opposite the "Standard 
 Tavern." It was midnight, and the town was a-bed by 
 this time, and only a few lights in the windows of the 
 houses ; but the night was bright enough for the un-
 
 ESMOND 173 
 
 happy purpose which the disputants came about ; and so 
 all six entered into that fatal square, the chairmen stand- 
 ing without the railing and keeping the gate, lest any 
 persons should disturb the meeting. 
 
 All that happened there hath been matter of public 
 notoriety, and is recorded, for warning to lawless men, 
 in the annals of our country. After being engaged for 
 not more than a couple of minutes, as Harry Esmond 
 thought (though being occupied at the time with his own 
 adversary's point, which was active, he may not have 
 taken a good note of time), a cry from the chairmen 
 without, who were smoking their pipes, and leaning over 
 the railings of the field as they watched the dim combat 
 within, announced that some catastrophe had happened, 
 which caused Esmond to drop his sword and look round, 
 at which moment his enemy wounded him in the right 
 hand. But the young man did not heed this hurt much, 
 and ran up to the place where he saw his dear master 
 was down. 
 
 My Lord Mohun was standing over him. 
 
 " Are you much hurt, Frank?" he asked in a hollow 
 voice. 
 
 " I believe I'm a dead man," my lord said from the 
 ground. 
 
 " No, no, not so," says the other; " and I call God to 
 witness, Frank Esmond, that I would have asked your 
 pardon, had you but given me a chance. In in 
 the first cause of our falling out, I swear that no one was 
 to blame but me, and and that my lady " 
 
 " Hush ! " says my poor Lord Viscount, lifting himself 
 on his elbow and speaking faintly. " 'Twas a dispute 
 about the cards the cursed cards. Harry my boy, are 
 you wounded, too? God help thee! I loved thee, Harry, 
 and thou must watch over my little Frank and and 
 carry this little heart to my wife." 
 
 And here my dear lord felt in his breast for a locket he 
 wore there, and, in the act, fell back fainting. 
 
 We were all at this terrified, thinking him dead; but 
 Esmond and Colonel Westbury bade the chairmen come 
 into the field; and so my lord was carried to one Mr.
 
 i 74 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Aimes, a surgeon in Long Acre, who kept a bath, and 
 there the house was wakened up, and the victim of this 
 quarrel carried in. 
 
 My Lord Viscount was put to bed, and his wound 
 looked to by the surgeon, who seemed both kind and 
 skilful. When he had looked to my lord, he bandaged 
 up Harry Esmond's hand (who, from loss of blood, had 
 fainted too, in the house, and may have been some time 
 unconscious) ; and when the young man came to himself, 
 you may be sure he eagerly asked what news there were 
 of his dear patron ; on which the surgeon carried him to 
 the room where the Lord Castlewood lay ; who had 
 already sent for a priest; and desired earnestly, they 
 said, to speak with his kinsman. He was lying on a bed, 
 very pale and ghastly, with that fixed, fatal look in his 
 eyes, which betokens death ; and faintly beckoning all 
 the other persons away from him with his hand, and 
 crying out " Only Harry Esmond," the hand fell power- 
 less down on the coverlet, as Harry came forward, and 
 knelt down and kissed it. 
 
 " Thou art all but a priest, Harry," my Lord Viscount 
 gasped out, with a faint smile, and pressure of his cold 
 hand. " Are they all gone? Let me make thee a death- 
 bed confession." 
 
 And with sacred Death waiting, as it were, at the bed- 
 foot, as an awful witness of his words, the poor dying 
 soul gasped out his last wishes in respect of his family ; 
 his humble profession of contrition for his faults ; 
 and his charity towards the world he was leaving. Some 
 things he said concerned Harry Esmond as much as 
 they astonished him. And my Lord Viscount, sinking 
 visibly, was in the midst of these strange confessions, 
 when the ecclesiastic for whom my lord had sent, Mr. 
 Atterbury, arrived. 
 
 This gentleman had reached to no great church dignity 
 as yet, but was only preacher at St. Bride's, drawing all 
 the town thither by his eloquent sermons. He was god- 
 son to my lord, who had been pupil to his father; had 
 paid a visit to Castlewood from Oxford more than once ; 
 and it was by his advice, I think, that Harry Esmond
 
 ESMOND 175 
 
 was sent to Cambridge, rather than to Oxford, of which 
 place Mr. Atterbury, though a distinguished member, 
 spoke but ill. 
 
 Our messenger found the good priest already at his 
 books at five o'clock in the morning, and he followed 
 the man eagerly to the house where my poor Lord 
 Viscount lay Esmond watching him, and taking his 
 dying words from his mouth. 
 
 My lord, heariiig- of Mr. Atterbury's arrival, and 
 squeezing Esmond's hand, asked to be alone with the 
 priest ; and Esmond left them there for this solemn in- 
 terview. You may be sure that his own prayers and 
 grief accompanied that dying benefactor. My lord had 
 said to him that which confounded the young man in- 
 formed him of a secret which greatly concerned him. 
 Indeed, after hearing it, he had had good cause for 
 doubt and dismay; for mental anguish as well as resolu- 
 tion. While the colloquy between Mr. Atterbury and his 
 dying penitent took place within, an immense contest 
 of perplexity was agitating Lord Castlewood's young 
 companion. 
 
 At the end of an hour it may be more Mr. Atterbury 
 came out of the room, looking very hard at Esmond, and 
 holding a paper. 
 
 " He is on the brink of God's awful judgment," the 
 priest whispered. " He has made his breast clean to 
 me. He forgives and believes, and makes restitution. 
 Shall it be in public? Shall we call a witness to sign 
 it?" 
 
 "God knows," sobbed out the young man, "my 
 dearest lord has only done me kindness all his life." 
 
 The priest put the paper into Esmond's hand. He 
 looked at it. It swam before his eyes. 
 
 " 'Tis a confession," he said. 
 
 " 'Tis as you please," said Mr. Atterbury. 
 
 There was a fire in the room, where the cloths were 
 drying for the baths, and there lay a heap in a corner, 
 saturated with the blood of my dear lord's body. Es- 
 mond went to the fire, and threw the paper into it. 
 'Twas a great chimney with glazed Dutch tiles. How
 
 176 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 we remember such trifles in such awful moments! the 
 scrap of the book that we have read in a great grief 
 the taste of that last dish that we have eaten before a 
 duel, or some such supreme meeting or parting. On 
 the Dutch tiles at the Bagnio was a rude picture repre- 
 senting Jacob in hairy gloves, cheating Isaac of Esau's 
 birthright. The burning paper lighted it up. 
 
 "'Tis only a confession, Mr. Atterbury," said the 
 young man. He leaned his head against the mantel- 
 piece: a burst of tears came to his eyes. They were 
 the first he had shed as he sat by his lord, scared by 
 this calamity, and more yet by what the poor dying 
 gentleman had told him, and shocked to think that he 
 should be the agent of bringing this double misfortune 
 on those he loved best. 
 
 " Let us go to him," said Mr. Esmond. And accord- 
 ingly they went into the next chamber, where by this 
 time the dawn had broke, which showed my lord's poor 
 pale face and wild appealing eyes, that wore that awful 
 fatal look of coming dissolution. The surgeon was with 
 him. He went into the chamber as Atterbury came out 
 thence. My Lord Viscount turned round his sick eyes 
 towards Esmond. It choked the other to hear that 
 rattle in his throat. 
 
 "My Lord Viscount," says Mr. Atterbury, "Mr. 
 Esmond wants no witnesses, and hath burned the 
 paper." 
 
 " My dearest master! " Esmond said, kneeling down, 
 and taking his hand and kissing it. 
 
 My Lord Viscount sprang up in his bed, and flung 
 
 his arms round Esmond. "Godbl bless ,"wasallhe 
 
 said. The blood rushed from his mouth, deluging the 
 young man. My dearest lord was no more. He was 
 gone with a blessing on his lips, and love and repent- 
 ance and kindness in his manly heart. 
 
 " Benedicti benedicentes" says Mr. Atterbury, and 
 the young man, kneeling at the bedside, groaned out 
 an " Amen." 
 
 "Who shall take the news to her?" was Mr. Es- 
 mond's next thought. And on this he besought Mr.
 
 ESMOND 177 
 
 Atterbury to bear the tidings to Castlewood. He could 
 not face his mistress himself with those dreadful news. 
 Mr. Atterbury complying- kindly, Esmond writ a hasty 
 note on his table-book to my lord's man, bidding him 
 get the horses for Mr. Atterbury, and ride with him, 
 and send Esmond's own valise to the Gatehouse prison, 
 whither he resolved to go and give himself up. 
 
 MR. JOSEPH ADDISON 
 (BOOK II, CHAPTER XI) 
 
 [One of Thackeray's continuous aims was a certain familiar and, 
 as it were, friendly treatment of the past ; as if it were the present. 
 He sought his age of Queen Anne, not because it was romantic, 
 but because it was realistic. His romances, therefore, are every- 
 where relieved by sketches and episodes which have little to 
 do with the story; and merely express the author's longing to 
 mingle with those great dead who seem so much alive. The por- 
 traits of Sir Richard Steele and Lord Bolingbroke are both most 
 vivid and spirited ; but perhaps the most complete, as well as the 
 most detachable, is the sketch of Addison which is here sub- 
 joined.] 
 
 THE gentlemen-ushers had a table at Kensington, and 
 the Guard a very splendid dinner daily at St. James's, 
 at either of which ordinaries Esmond was free to dine. 
 Dick Steele liked the Guard-table better than his own 
 at the gentlemen-ushers', where there was less wine 
 and more ceremony; and Esmond had many a jolly 
 afternoon in company of his friend, and a hundred times 
 at least saw Dick into his chair. If there is verity in 
 wine, according to the old adage, what an amiable- 
 natured character Dick's must have been! In propor- 
 tion as he took in wine he overflowed with kindness. 
 His talk was not witty so much as charming. He never 
 said a word that could anger anybody, and only became 
 the more benevolent the more tipsy he grew. Many of 
 the wags derided the poor fellow in his cups, and chose 
 him as a butt for their satire : but there was a kindness 
 
 N
 
 178 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 about him, and a sweet playful fancy, that seemed to 
 Esmond far more charming than the pointed talk of the 
 brightest wits, with their elaborate repartees and affected 
 severities. I think Steele shone rather than sparkled. 
 Those famous beaux-esprits of the coffee-houses (Mr. 
 William Congreve, for instance, when his gout and his 
 grandeur permitted him to come among us) would make 
 many brilliant hits half-a-dozen in a night sometimes 
 but, like sharp-shooters, when they had fired their shot, 
 they were obliged to retire under cover till their pieces 
 were loaded again, and wait till they got another chance 
 at their enemy; whereas Dick never thought that his 
 bottle companion was a butt to aim at only a friend to 
 shake by the hand. The poor fellow had half the town 
 in his confidence ; everybody knew everything about his 
 loves and his debts, his creditors or his mistress's ob- 
 duracy. When Esmond first came on to the town, honest 
 Dick was all flames and raptures for a young lady, a 
 West India fortune, whom he married. In a couple of 
 years the lady was dead, the fortune was all but spent, 
 and the honest widower was as eager in pursuit of a 
 new paragon of beauty as if he had never courted and 
 married and buried the last one. 
 
 Quitting the Guard-table one Sunday afternoon, when 
 by chance Dick had a sober fit upon him, he and his 
 friend were making their way down Germain Street, and 
 Dick all of a sudden left his companion's arm, and ran 
 after a gentleman who was poring over a folio volume 
 at the book-shop near to St. James's Church. He was 
 a fair, tall man, in a snuff-coloured suit, with a plain 
 sword, very sober, and almost shabby in appearance 
 at least when compared to Captain Steele, who loved to 
 adorn his jolly round person with the finest of clothes, 
 and shone in scarlet and gold lace. The Captain rushed 
 up, then, to the student of the book-stall, took him in 
 his arms, hugged him, and would have kissed him for 
 Dick was always hugging and bussing his friends but 
 the other stepped back with a flush on his pale face, 
 seeming to decline this public manifestation of Steele's 
 regard.
 
 ESMOND 179 
 
 " My dearest Joe, where hast thou hidden thyself this 
 age?" cries the Captain, still holding both his friend's 
 hands ; " I have been languishing for thee this fortnight." 
 
 "A fortnight is not an age, Dick," says the other, 
 very good-humouredly. (He had light blue eyes, extra- 
 ordinary bright, and a face perfectly regular and hand- 
 some, like a tinted statue.) " And I have been hiding 
 myself where do you think?" 
 
 "What! not across the water, my dear Joe?" says 
 Steele, with a look of great alarm: "thou knowest I 
 have always " 
 
 " No," says his friend, interrupting him with a smile: 
 " we are not come to such straits as that, Dick. I have 
 been hiding, sir, at a place where people never think of 
 finding you at my own lodgings, whither I am going 
 to smoke a pipe now and drink a glass of sack ; will 
 your honour come? " 
 
 " Harry Esmond, come hither, "cries out Dick. "Thou 
 hast heard me talk over and over again of my dearest 
 Joe, my guardian angel? " 
 
 " Indeed," says Mr. Esmond, with a bow, "it is not 
 from you only that I have learnt to admire Mr. Addison. 
 We loved good poetry at Cambridge as well as at Ox- 
 ford ; and I have some of yours by heart, though I have 
 put on a red coat. . . . ' O qui canoro blandius Orpheo 
 vocale ducis carmen;' shall I go on, sir?" says Mr. 
 Esmond, who, indeed, had read and loved the charming 
 Latin poems of Mr. Addison, as every scholar of that 
 time knew and admired them. 
 
 "This is Captain Esmond, who was at Blenheim," 
 says Steele. 
 
 " Lieutenant Esmond," says the other, with a low 
 bow, " at Mr. Addison's service." 
 
 " I have heard of you," says Mr. Addison, with a 
 smile ; as, indeed, everybody about town had heard that 
 unlucky story about Esmond's dowager aunt and the 
 Duchess. 
 
 "We were going to the 'George,' to take"a bottle 
 before the play," says Steele : " wilt thou be one, Joe? " 
 
 Mr. Addison said his own lodgings were hard by,
 
 180 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 where he was still rich enough to give a good bottle of 
 wine to his friends; and invited the two gentlemen to 
 his apartment in the Haymarket, whither we accordingly 
 went. 
 
 " I shall get credit with my landlady," says he, with 
 a smile, "when she sees two such fine gentlemen as 
 you come up my stair." And he politely made his visitors 
 welcome to his apartment, which was indeed but a shabby 
 one, though no grandee of the land could receive his 
 guests with a more perfect and courtly grace than this 
 gentleman. A frugal dinner, consisting of a slice of 
 meat and a penny loaf, was awaiting the owner of the 
 lodgings. " My wine is better than my meat," says 
 Mr. Addison ; "my Lord Halifax sent me the Bur- 
 gundy." And he set a bottle and glasses before his 
 friends, and ate his simple dinner in a very few minutes, 
 after which the three fell to, and began to drink. " You 
 see," says Mr. Addison, pointing to his writing-table, 
 whereon was a map of the action at Hochstedt, and 
 several other gazettes and pamphlets relating to the 
 battle, "that I, too, am busy about your affairs, Cap- 
 tain. I am engaged as a poetical gazetteer, to say truth, 
 and am writing a poem on the campaign." 
 
 So Esmond, at the request of his host, told him what 
 he knew about the famous battle, drew the river on the 
 table altquo merOj and with the aid of some bits of 
 tobacco-pipe showed the advance of the left wing, where 
 he had been engaged. 
 
 A sheet or two of the verses lay already on the table 
 beside our bottle and glasses, and Dick having plenti- 
 fully refreshed himself from the latter, took up the pages 
 of manuscript, writ out with scarce a blot or correction, 
 in the author's slim, neat handwriting, and began to 
 read therefrom with great emphasis and volubility. At 
 pauses of the verse, the enthusiastic reader stopped and 
 fired off a great salvo of applause. 
 
 Esmond smiled at the enthusiasm of Addison's friend. 
 "You are like the German Burghers," says he, "and 
 the Princes on the Mozelle; when our army came to a 
 halt, they always sent a deputation to compliment the
 
 ESMOND 181 
 
 chief, and fired a salute with all their artillery from their 
 walls." 
 
 "And drunk the great chief's health afterward, did 
 not they?" says Captain Steele, gaily filling up a bum- 
 per; he never was tardy at that sort of acknowledg- 
 ment of a friend's merit. 
 
 " And the Duke, since you will have me act his Grace's 
 part," says Mr. Addison, with a smile, and something 
 of a blush, " pledged his friends in return. Most Serene 
 Elector of Covent Garden, I drink to your Highness's 
 health," and he filled himself a glass. Joseph required 
 scarce more pressing than Dick to that sort of amuse- 
 ment; but the wine never seemed at all to fluster Mr. 
 Addison's brains ; it only unloosed his tongue : whereas 
 Captain Steele's head and speech were quite overcome 
 by a single bottle. 
 
 No matter what the verses were, and to say truth, 
 Mr. Esmond found some of them more than indifferent, 
 Dick's enthusiasm for his chief never faltered, and in 
 every line from Addison's pen, Steel found a master- 
 stroke. By the time Dick had come to that part of the 
 poem, wherein the bard describes as blandly as though 
 he were recording a dance at the opera, or a harmless 
 bout of bucolic cudgelling at a village fair, that bloody 
 and ruthless part of our campaign, with the remem- 
 brance whereof every soldier who bore a part in it must 
 sicken with shame when we were ordered to ravage 
 and lay waste the Elector's country ; and with fire and 
 murder, slaughter and crime, a great part of his do- 
 minions was overrun ; when Dick came to the lines 
 
 In vengeance roused the soldier fills his hand 
 With sword and fire, and ravages the land : 
 In crackling flames a thousand harvests burn, 
 A thousand villages to ashes turn. 
 To the thick woods the woolly flocks retreat, 
 And mixed with bellowing herds confusedly bleat. 
 Their trembling lords the common shade partake, 
 And cries of infants sound in every brake. 
 The listening soldier fixed in sorrow stands, 
 Loth to obey his leader's just commands. 
 The leader grieves, by generous pity swayed, 
 To see his just commands so well obeyed ;
 
 i82 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 by this time wine and friendship had brought poor Dick 
 to a a perfectly maudlin state, and he hiccupped out the 
 last line with a tenderness that set one of his auditors 
 a-laughing. 
 
 "I admire the licence of your poets," says Esmond 
 to Mr. Addison. (Dick, after reading- of the verses, was 
 fain to go off, insisting 1 on kissing 1 his two dear friends 
 before his departure, and reeling away with his periwig 
 over his eyes.) " I admire your art: the murder of the 
 campaign is done to military music, like a battle at the 
 opera, and the virgins shriek in harmony, as our victori- 
 ous grenadiers march into their villages. Do you know 
 what a scene it was? " (by this time, perhaps, the wine 
 had warmed Mr. Esmond's head too,) " what a triumph 
 you are celebrating? what scenes of shame and horror 
 were enacted, over which the commander's genius pre- 
 sided, as calm as though he didn't belong to our sphere? 
 You talk of the 'listening soldier fixed in sorrow,' the 
 ' leader's grief swayed by generous pity ; ' to my beliet 
 the leader cared no more for bleating flocks than he did 
 for infants' cries, and many of our ruffians butchered 
 one or the other with equal alacrity. I was ashamed of 
 my trade when I saw those horrors perpetrated, which 
 came under every man's eyes. You hew out of your 
 polished verses a stately image of smiling victory; I 
 tell you 'tis an uncouth, distorted, savage idol; hideous, 
 bloody, and barbarous. The rites performed before it 
 are shocking to think of. You great poets should show 
 it as it is ugly and horrible, not beautiful and serene. 
 Oh, sir, had you made the campaign, believe me, you 
 never would have sung it so." 
 
 During this little outbreak, Mr. Addison was listen- 
 ing, smoking out of his long pipe, and smiling very 
 placidly. " What would you have? " says he. " In our 
 polished days, and according to the rules of art, 'tis 
 impossible that the Muse should depict tortures or be- 
 grime her hands with the horrors of war. These are 
 indicated rather than described ; as in the Greek trage- 
 dies, that, I daresay, you have read (and sure there can 
 be no more elegant specimens of composition), Agamem-
 
 ESMOND 183 
 
 non is slain, or Medea's children destroyed, away from 
 the scene ; the chorus occupying the stage and singing 
 of the action to pathetic music. Something of this I 
 attempt, my dear sir, in my humble way : 'tis a pane- 
 gyric I mean to write, not a satire. Were I to sing as 
 you would have me, the town would tear the poet in 
 pieces, and burn his book by the hands of the common 
 hangman. Do you not use tobacco? Of all the weeds 
 grown on earth, sure the nicotian is the most soothing 
 and salutary. We must paint our great Duke," Mr. 
 Addison went on, " not as a man, which no doubt he 
 is, with weaknesses like the rest of us, but as a hero. 
 Tis in a triumph, not a battle, that your humble serv- 
 ant is riding his sleek Pegasus. We college poets trot, 
 you know, on very easy nags ; it hath been, time out of 
 mind, part of the poet's profession to celebrate the 
 actions of heroes in verse, and to sing the deeds which 
 you men of war perform. I must follow the rules of my 
 art, and the composition of such a strain as this must be 
 harmonious and majestic, not familiar, or too near the 
 vulgar truth. Si parva licet: if Virgil could invoke the 
 divine Augustus, a humbler poet from the banks of the 
 Isis may celebrate a victory and a conqueror of our own 
 nation, in whose triumphs every Briton has a share, and 
 whose glory and genius contributes to every citizen's 
 individual honour. When hath there been, since our 
 Henrys' and Edwards' days, such a great feat of arms 
 as that from which you yourself have brought away 
 marks of distinction? If 'tis in my power to sing that 
 song worthily, I will do so, and be thankful to my Muse. 
 If I fail as a poet, as a Briton at least I will show my 
 loyalty, and fling up my cap and huzzah for the con- 
 queror : 
 
 " ' Rheni pacator et Istri, 
 
 Omnis in hoc uno variis discordia cessit 
 Ordinibus; laetatur eques, plauditque senator, 
 Votaque patricio certant plebeia favori.' " 
 
 "There were as brave men on that field," says Mr. 
 Esmond (who never could be made to love the Duke of
 
 1 84 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Marlborough, nor to forget those stories which he used 
 to hear in his youth regarding- that great chief's selfish- 
 ness and treachery) " There were men at Blenheim as 
 good as the leader, whom neither knights nor senators 
 applauded, nor voices plebeian or patrician favoured, 
 and who lie there forgotten, under the clods. What 
 poet is there to sing them? " 
 
 "To sing the gallant souls of heroes sent to Hades ! " 
 says Mr. Addison with a smile. "Would you celebrate 
 them all? If I may venture to question anything in such 
 an admirable work, the catalogue of the ships in Homer 
 hath always appeared to me as somewhat wearisome ; 
 what had the poem been, supposing the writer had 
 chronicled the names of captains, lieutenants, rank and 
 file? One of the greatest of a great man's qualities is 
 success; 'tis the result of all the others; 'tis a latent 
 power in him which compels the favour of the gods, and 
 subjugates fortune. Of all his gifts I admire that one in 
 the great Marlborough. To be brave? every man is 
 brave. But in being victorious, as he is, I fancy there 
 is something divine. In presence of the occasion, the 
 great soul of the leader shines out, and the god is con- 
 fessed. Death itself respects him, and passes by him to 
 lay others low. War and carnage flee before him to 
 ravage other parts of the field, as Hector from before 
 the divine Achilles. You say he hath no pity ; no more 
 have the gods, who are above it, and superhuman. The 
 fainting battle gathers strength at his aspect; and, 
 wherever he rides, victory charges with him." 
 
 A couple of days after, when Mr. Esmond revisited 
 his poetic friend, he found this thought, struck out in 
 the fervour of conversation, improved and shaped into 
 those famous lines, which are in truth the noblest in the 
 poem of the "Campaign." As the two gentlemen sat 
 engaged in talk, Mr. Addison solacing himself with his 
 customary pipe, the little maid-servant that waited on 
 his lodging came up, preceding a gentleman in fine 
 laced clothes, that had evidently been figuring at Court 
 or a great man's leve"e. The courtier coughed a little at 
 the smoke of the pipe, and looked round the room
 
 ESMOND 185 
 
 curiously, which was shabby enough, as was the owner 
 in his worn, snuff-coloured suit and plain tie-wig. 
 
 "How goes on the magnum opus, Mr. Addison?" 
 says the Court gentleman on looking down at the 
 papers that were on the table. 
 
 " We were but now over it," says Addison (the great- 
 est courtier in the land could not have a more splendid 
 politeness, or greater dignity of manner). " Here is the 
 plan," says he, " on the table: hac ibat Simois, here ran 
 the little river Nebel : hie est Sigeia tellus, here are Tal- 
 lard's quarters, at the bowl of this pipe, at the attack of 
 which Captain Esmond was present. I have the honour 
 to introduce him to Mr. Boyle ; and Mr. Esmond was 
 but now depicting aliquo proelia mixta mero, when you 
 came in." In truth, the two gentlemen had been so en- 
 gaged when the visitor arrived, and Addison, in his 
 smiling way, speaking of Mr. Webb, colonel of Esmond's 
 regiment (who commanded a brigade in the action, and 
 greatly distinguished himself there), was lamenting that 
 he could find never a suitable rhyme for Webb, other- 
 wise the brigade should have had a place in the poet's 
 verses. "And for you, you are but a lieutenant," says 
 Addison, "and the Muse can't occupy herself with any 
 gentleman under the rank of a field officer." 
 
 Mr. Boyle was all impatient to hear, saying that my 
 Lord Treasurer and my Lord Halifax were equally 
 anxious; and Addison, blushing, began reading of his 
 verses, and, I suspect, knew their weak parts as well 
 as the most critical hearer. When he came to the lines 
 describing the angel that 
 
 Inspired repulsed battalions to engage 
 
 And taught the doubtful battle where to rage, 
 
 he read with great animation, looking at Esmond, as 
 much as to say, "You know where that simile came 
 from from our talk, and our bottle of Burgundy, the 
 other day." 
 
 The poet's two hearers were caught with enthusiasm, 
 and applauded the verses with all their might. The 
 gentleman of the Court sprang up in great delight.
 
 1 86 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " Not a word more, my dear sir," says he. " Trust me 
 with the papers I'll defend them with my life. Let me 
 read them over to my Lord Treasurer, whom I am ap- 
 pointed to see in half-an-hour. I venture to promise, 
 the verses shall lose nothing by my reading, and then, 
 sir, we shall see whether Lord Halifax has a right to 
 complain that his friend's pension is no longer paid." 
 And without more ado, the courtier in lace seized the 
 manuscript pages, placed them in his breast with his 
 ruffled hand over his heart, executed a most gracious 
 wave of the hat with the disengaged hand, and smiled 
 and bowed out of the room, leaving an odour of poman- 
 der behind him. 
 
 "Does not the chamber look quite dark?" says 
 Addison, surveying it, "after the glorious appearance 
 and disappearance of that gracious messenger? Why, 
 he illuminated the whole room. Your scarlet, Mr. 
 Esmond, will bear any light; but this threadbare old 
 coat of mine, how very worn it looked under the glare 
 of that splendour! I wonder whether they will do any- 
 thing for me? " he continued. "When I came out of 
 Oxford into the world, my patrons promised me great 
 things ; and you see where their promises have landed 
 me, in a lodging up two pair of stairs, with a sixpenny 
 dinner from the cook's shop. Well, I suppose this 
 promise will go after the others, and Fortune will jilt me, 
 as the jade has been doing any time these seven years. 
 'I puff the prostitute away,'" says he, smiling, and 
 blowing a cloud out of his pipe. " There is no hardship 
 in poverty, Esmond, that is not bearable; no hardship 
 even in honest dependence that an honest man may not 
 put up with. I came out of the lap of Alma Mater, 
 puffed up with her praises of me, and thinking to make 
 a figure in the world with the parts and learning which 
 had got me no small name in our college. The world is 
 the ocean, and Isis and Charwell are but little drops, of 
 which the sea takes no account. My reputation ended 
 a mile beyond Maudlin Tower; no one took note of me; 
 and I learned this at least, to bear up against evil for- 
 tune with a cheerful heart. Friend Dick hath made a
 
 ESMOND 187 
 
 figure in the world, and has passed me in the race long 
 ago. What matters a little name or a little fortune? 
 There is no fortune that a philosopher cannot endure. I 
 have been not unknown as a scholar, and yet forced to 
 live by turning bear-leader, and teaching a boy to spell. 
 What then? The life was not pleasant, but possible 
 the bear was bearable. Should this venture fail, I will 
 go back to Oxford; and some day, when you are a 
 general, you shall find me a curate in a cassock and 
 bands, and I shall welcome your honour to my cottage 
 in the country, and to a mug of penny ale. 'Tis not 
 poverty that 's the hardest to bear, or the least happy 
 lot in life," says Mr. Addison, shaking the ash out of 
 his pipe. " See, my pipe is smoked out. Shall we have 
 another bottle? I have still a couple in the cupboard, 
 and of the right sort. No more? let us go abroad and 
 take a turn on the Mall, or look in at the theatre and 
 see Dick's comedy. 'Tis not a masterpiece of wit ; but 
 Dick is a good fellow, though he doth not set the 
 Thames on fire." 
 
 Within a month after this day, Mr. Addison's ticket 
 had come up a prodigious prize in the lottery of life. All 
 the town was in an uproar of admiration of his poem, 
 the "Campaign," which Dick Steele was spouting at 
 every coffee-house in Whitehall and Covent Garden. 
 The wits on the other side of Temple Bar saluted him at 
 once as the greatest poet the world had seen for ages ; 
 the people huzzahed for Marlborough and for Addison, 
 and, more than this, the party in power provided for the 
 meritorious poet, and Mr. Addison got the appointment 
 of Commissioner of Excise, which the famous Mr. Locke 
 vacated, and rose from this place to other dignities and 
 honours; his prosperity from henceforth to the end of 
 his life being scarce ever interrupted. But I doubt 
 whether he was not happier in his garret in the Hay- 
 market, than ever he was in his splendid palace at 
 Kensington ; and I believe the fortune that came to him 
 in the shape of the countess his wife, was no better than 
 a shrew and a vixen.
 
 i88 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 THE FLIGHT OF THE PRINCE 
 (FROM BOOK III, CHAPTERS XII, XIII) 
 
 [While Lady Castlewood continues to feel for Henry an emotion 
 not only hopeless but in her own eyes almost guilty, he falls under 
 the fierce fascination of Lady Castlewood's daughter, Beatrix. 
 This girl, of startling beauty, strong and scornful temper and con- 
 siderable courage and ambition, finds one scheme after another 
 break in her hands. She had been on the eve of marriage with 
 the Duke of Hamilton, when the latter fell in a duel with the same 
 Mohun who had slain her father. Her last enterprise was to be- 
 come an active Jacobite and assist the secret landing of James the 
 Pretender. Into this Henry Esmond, as an ardent lover, throws 
 himself also ; but the pages that follow will show how much hope 
 there was in James and how much disinterestedness in Beatrix. 
 Esmond marries Lady Castlewood and retires to America. 
 
 It is worthy of remark that though Thackeray's Prince is a very 
 typical Stuart, he is not any Stuart that ever lived. The real 
 James III was not gay, Frenchified and amorous, but on the con- 
 trary dull, pious and rather sulky. But as Thackeray often said, 
 fiction is more important than history.] 
 
 AT noon, on the 3Oth of July, a message came to the 
 Prince's friends that the Committee of Council was sit- 
 ting at Kensington Palace, their Graces of Ormond and 
 Shrewsbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the 
 three Secretaries of State, being there assembled. In an 
 hour afterwards, hurried news was brought that the 
 two great Whig Dukes, Argyle and Somerset, had broke 
 into the Council Chamber without a summons, and 
 taken their seat at table. After holding a debate there, 
 the whole party proceeded to the chamber of the Queen, 
 who was lying in great weakness, but still sensible, and 
 the Lords recommended his Grace of Shrewsbury as the 
 fittest person to take the vacant place of Lord Treasurer ; 
 her Maj'esty gave him the staff, as all know. "And 
 now," writ my messenger from Court, " now or never is 
 the time" 
 
 Now or never was the time indeed. In spite of the 
 Whig Dukes, our side had still the majority in the
 
 ESMOND 189 
 
 Council, and Esmond, to whom the message had been 
 brought (the personage at Court not being aware that 
 the Prince had quitted his lodging in Kensington 
 Square), and Esmond's gallant young aide-de-camp, 
 Frank Castlewood, putting on sword and uniform, took 
 a brief leave of their dear lady, who embraced and 
 blessed them both, and went to her chamber to pray 
 for the issue of the great event which was then pending. 
 Castlewood sped to the barrack to give warning to 
 the captain of the Guard there ; and then went to the 
 "King's Arms" tavern at Kensington, where our 
 friends were assembled, having come by parties of twos 
 and threes, riding or in coaches, and were got together 
 in the upper chamber, fifty-three of them ; their servants, 
 who had been instructed to bring arms likewise, being 
 below in the garden of the tavern, where they were 
 served with drink. Out of this garden is a little door 
 that leads into the road of the Palace, and through this 
 it was arranged that masters and servants were to 
 march; when that signal was given, and that Personage 
 appeared, for whom all were waiting. There was in our 
 company the famous officer next in command to the 
 Captain-General of the Forces, his Grace the Duke of 
 Ormond, who was within at the Council. There were 
 with him two more lieutenant-generals, nine major- 
 generals and brigadiers, seven colonels, eleven peers of 
 Parliament, and twenty-one members of the House of 
 Commons. The Guard was with us within and without 
 the Palace: the Queen was with us; the Council (save 
 the two Whig Dukes, that must have succumbed) ; the 
 day was our own, and with a beating heart Esmond 
 walked rapidly to the Mall of Kensington, where he had 
 parted with the Prince on the night before. For three 
 nights the Colonel had not been to bed: the last had 
 been passed, summoning the Prince's friends together, 
 of whom the great majority had no sort of inkling of the 
 transaction pending until they were told that he was ac- 
 tually on the spot, and were summoned to strike the 
 blow. The night before and after the altercation with 
 the Prince, my gentleman, having suspicions of his
 
 igo WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Royal Highness, and fearing lest he should be minded to 
 give us the slip, and fly off after his fugitive beauty, had 
 spent, if the truth must be told, at the "Greyhound" 
 tavern, over against my Lady Castlewood's house in 
 Kensington Square, with an eye on the door, lest the 
 Prince should escape from it. The night before that he 
 had passed in his boots at the " Crown" at Hounslow, 
 where he must watch forsooth all night, in order to get 
 one moment's glimpse of Beatrix in the morning. And 
 fate had decreed that he was to have a fourth night's 
 ride and wakefulness before his business was ended. 
 
 He ran to the curate's house in Kensington Mall, and 
 asked for Mr. Bates, the name the Prince went by. The 
 curate's wife said Mr. Bates had gone abroad very early 
 in the morning in his boots, saying he was going to the 
 Bishop of Rochester's house at Chelsey. But the Bishop 
 had been at Kensington himself two hours ago to seek 
 for Mr. Bates, and had returned in his coach to his own 
 house, when he heard that the gentleman was gone 
 thither to seek him. 
 
 This absence was most unpropitious, for an hour's 
 delay might cost a kingdom ; Esmond had nothing for 
 it but to hasten to the " King's Arms," and tell the gen- 
 tlemen there assembled that Mr. George (as we called 
 the Prince there) was not at home, but that Esmond 
 would go fetch him ; and taking a General's coach that 
 happened to be there, Esmond drove across the country 
 to Chelsey, to the Bishop's house there. 
 
 The porter said two gentlemen were with his lordship, 
 and Esmond ran past this sentry up to the locked door 
 of the Bishop's study, at which he rattled, and was ad- 
 mitted presently. Of the Bishop's guests one was a 
 brother prelate, and the other the Abbe" G . 
 
 "Where is Mr. George?" says Mr. Esmond; "now 
 is the time." The Bishop looked scared: " I went to his 
 lodging," he said, "and they told me he was come 
 hither. I returned as quick as coach would carry me ; 
 and he hath not been here." 
 
 The Colonel burst out with an oath ; that was all he 
 could say to their reverences ; ran down the stairs again,
 
 ESMOND 191 
 
 and bidding the coachman, an old friend and fellow- 
 campaigner, drive as if he was charging the French with 
 his master at Wynendael they were back at Kensington 
 in half-an-hour. 
 
 Again Esmond went to the curate's house. Mr. Bates 
 had not returned. The Colonel had to go with this blank 
 errand to the gentlemen at the " King's Arms," that 
 were grown very impatient by this time. 
 
 Out of the window of the tavern, and looking over 
 the garden wall, you can see the green before Kensing- 
 ton Palace, the Palace gate (round which the Ministers' 
 coaches were standing), and the barrack building. As 
 we were looking out from this window in gloomy dis- 
 course, we heard presently trumpets blowing, and some 
 of us ran to the window of the front-room, looking into 
 the High Street of Kensington, and saw a regiment of 
 Horse coming. 
 
 " It's Ormond's Guards," says one. 
 
 " No, by God, it 's Argyle's old regiment! " says my 
 General, clapping down his crutch. 
 
 It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought 
 from Westminster, and that took the place of the regi- 
 ment at Kensington on which we could rely. 
 
 " Oh, Harry! " says one of the Generals there present, 
 "you were born under an unlucky star; I begin to 
 think that there 's no Mr. George, nor Mr. Dragon 
 either. Tis not the peerage I care for, for our name is 
 so ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord 
 Lydiard would do me no good ; but 'tis the chance you 
 promised me of fighting Marlborough." 
 
 As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room 
 with a disturbed air. 
 
 "What news, Frank?" says the Colonel. "Is Mr. 
 George coming at last? " 
 
 "Damn him, look here!" says Castlewood, holding 
 out a paper. " I found it in the book the what you 
 call it, " Eikum Basilicum,' that villain Martin put it 
 there he said his young mistress bade him. It was 
 directed to me, but it was meant for him, I know, and I 
 broke the seal and read it."
 
 192 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away 
 before Esmond's eyes as he read the paper ; all that was 
 written on it was: "Beatrix Esmond is sent away to 
 prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier 
 days." 
 
 " Can you guess where he is? " says Castlewood. 
 
 "Yes," says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well, 
 Frank knew full well: our instinct told whither that 
 traitor had fled. 
 
 He had courage to turn to the company and say, 
 " Gentlemen, I fear very much that Mr. George will not 
 be here to-day ; something hath happened and and 
 I very much fear some accident may befall him, which 
 must keep him out of the way. Having had your noon's 
 draught, you had best pay the reckoning and go home ; 
 there can be no game where there is no one to play it." 
 
 Some of the gentlemen went away without a word, 
 others called to pay their duty to her Majesty and ask 
 for her health. The little army disappeared into the 
 darkness out of which it had been called; there had 
 been no writings, no paper to implicate any man. Some 
 few officers and Members of Parliament had been invited 
 over-night to breakfast at the " King's Arms," at Kens- 
 ington; and they had called for their bill and gone 
 home. 
 
 "Does my mistress know of this?" Esmond asked 
 of Frank, as they walked along. 
 
 "My mother found the letter in the book, on the 
 toilet-table. She had writ it ere she had left home," 
 Frank said. " Mother met her on the stairs, with her 
 hand upon the door, trying to enter, and never left her 
 after that till she went away. He did not think of look- 
 ing at it there, nor had Martin the chance of telling 
 him. I believe the poor devil meant no harm, though 
 I half killed him ; he thought 'twas to Beatrix's brother 
 he was bringing the letter. " 
 
 Frank never said a word of reproach to me for having 
 brought the villain amongst us. As we knocked at the
 
 ESMOND 193 
 
 door I said, "When will the horses be ready?" Frank 
 pointed with his cane, they were turning the street that 
 moment. 
 
 We went up and bade adieu to our mistress ; she was 
 in a dreadful state of agitation by this time, and that 
 Bishop was with her whose company she was so fond of. 
 
 " Did you tell him, my lord," says Esmond, "that 
 Beatrix was at Castlewood?" The Bishop blushed and 
 stammered: " Well," says he, " I . . ." 
 
 " You served the villain right," broke out Mr. Esmond, 
 " and he has lost a crown by what you told him." 
 
 My mistress turned quite white: "Henry, Henry," 
 says she, " do not kill him." 
 
 "It may not be too late," says Esmond; "he may 
 not have gone to Castlevood ; pray God, it is not too 
 late." The Bishop was breaking out with some banale 
 phrases about loyalty, and the sacredness of the Sove- 
 reign's person; but Esmond sternly bade him hold his 
 tongue, burn all papers, and take care of Lady Castle- 
 wood; and in five minutes he and Frank were in the 
 saddle, John Lockwood behind them, riding towards 
 Castlewood at a rapid pace. 
 
 We were just got to Alton, when who should meet 
 us but old Lockwood, the porter from Castlewood, 
 John's father, walking by the side of the Hexton flying- 
 coach, who slept the night at Alton. Lockwood said 
 his young mistress had arrived at home on Wednesday 
 night, and this morning, Friday, had despatched him 
 with a packet for my lady at Kensington, saying the 
 letter was of great importance. 
 
 We took the freedom to break it, while Lockwood 
 stared with wonder, and cried out his " Lord bless me's," 
 and " Who'd a thought it's," at the sight of his young 
 lord, whom he had not seen these seven years. 
 
 The packet from Beatrix contained no news of im- 
 portance at all. It was written in a jocular strain, 
 affecting to make light of her captivity. She asked 
 whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or 
 to walk beyond the court and the garden wall. She gave 
 news of the peacocks, and a fawn she had there, She 
 O
 
 i 9 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 bade her mother send her certain gowns and smocks by 
 old Lockwood; she sent her duty to a certain Person, 
 if certain other persons permitted her to take such a 
 freedom ; how that, as she was not able to play cards 
 with him, she hoped he would read good books, such 
 as Dr. Atterbury's sermons and Eikon Basilikd'. she was 
 going to read good books; she thought her pretty 
 mamma would like to know she was not crying her 
 eyes out. 
 
 " Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood? " says 
 the Colonel. 
 
 "There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, 
 Madam Beatrix's maid, the man from London, and that 
 be all ; and he sleepeth in my lodge away from the 
 maids," says old Lockwood. 
 
 Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, 
 giving it to the old man, and bidding him go on to his 
 lady. We knew why Beatrix had been so dutiful on a 
 sudden, and why she spoke of Eikon Basilikd. She writ 
 this letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter 
 out of the way. 
 
 " We have a fine moonlight night for riding on," says 
 Esmond; "Frank, we may reach Castlewood in time 
 yet." All the way along they made inquiries at the 
 post-houses, when a tall young gentleman in a gray 
 suit, with a light brown periwig, just the colour of my 
 lord's, had been seen to pass. He had set off at six that 
 morning, and we at three in the afternoon. He rode 
 almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours 
 ahead of us still when we reached the last stage. 
 
 We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking 
 of dawn. We passed the very spot where the car was 
 upset fourteen years since, and Mohun lay. The village 
 was not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through 
 it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were still roost- 
 ing, and by the church, and over the bridge. We got 
 off our horses at the bridge and walked up to the gate. 
 
 " If she is safe," says Frank, trembling, and his honest 
 eyes filling with tears, "a silver statue to Our Lady! " 
 He was going to rattle at the great iron knocker on the
 
 ESMOND 195 
 
 oak gate ; but Esmond stopped his kinsman's hand. He 
 had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and 
 griefs, too; but he spoke not a word of these to his 
 companion, or showed any signs of emotion. 
 
 He went and tapped at the little window at the por- 
 ter's lodge, gently, but repeatedly, until the man came 
 to the bars. 
 
 "Who's there?" says he, looking out; it was the 
 servant from Kensington. 
 
 "My Lord Castlewood and Colonel Esmond," we 
 said, from below. "Open the gate and let us in with- 
 out any noise." 
 
 " My Lord Castlewood? " says the other; " my lord 's 
 here, and in bed." 
 
 " Open, d n you! " says Castlewood, with a curse. 
 
 " I shall open to no one," says the man, shutting the 
 glass window, as Frank drew a pistol. He would have 
 fired at the porter, but Esmond again held his hand. 
 
 "There are more ways than one," says he, " of enter- 
 ing such a great house as this." Frank grumbled that 
 the west gate was half a mile round. " But I know of 
 a way that 's not a hundred yards off," says Mr. Esmond ; 
 and leading his kinsman close along the wall, and by 
 the shrubs, which had now grown thick on what had 
 been an old moat about the house, they came to the 
 buttress, at the side of which the little window was, 
 which was Father Holt's private door. Esmond climbed 
 up to this easily, broke a pane that had been mended, 
 and touched the spring inside, and the two gentlemen 
 passed in that way, treading as lightly as they could : 
 and so going through the passage into the court, over 
 which the dawn was now reddening, and where the 
 fountain plashed in the silence. 
 
 They sped instantly to the porter's lodge, where the 
 fellow had not fastened his door that led into the court ; 
 and pistol in hand came upon the terrified wretch, and 
 bade him be silent. Then they asked him (Esmond's 
 head reeled, and he almost fell as ht spoke) when Lord 
 Castlewood had arrived? He said on the previous even- 
 ing, about eight of the clock. "And what then?'
 
 196 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 His lordship supped with his sister. " Did the man 
 wait?" Yes, he and my lady's maid both waited: the 
 other servants made the supper; and there was no wine, 
 and they could give his lordship but milk, at which he 
 grumbled ; and and Madam Beatrix kept Miss Lucy 
 always in the room with her. And there being a bed 
 across the court in the Chaplain's room, she had ar- 
 ranged my lord was to sleep there. Madam Beatrix had 
 come downstairs laughing with the maids, and had 
 locked herself in, and my lord had stood for a while 
 talking to her through the door, and she laughing at 
 him. And then he paced the court a while, and she 
 came again to the upper window ; and my lord implored 
 her to come down and walk in the room ; but she would 
 not, and laughed at him again, and shut the window; 
 and so my lord, uttering what seemed curses, but in 
 a foreign language, went to the Chaplain's room to 
 bed. 
 
 "Was this all?" "All," the man swore upon his 
 honour; all as he hoped to be saved. " Stop, there 
 was one thing more. My lord, on arriving, and once or 
 twice during supper, did kiss his sister, as was natural, 
 and she kissed him." At this Esmond ground his teeth 
 with rage, and well nigh throttled the amazed miscreant 
 who was speaking, whereas Castlewood, seizing hold of 
 his cousin's hand, burst into a great fit of laughter. 
 
 "If it amuses thee," says Esmond in French, "that 
 your sister should be exchanging of kisses with a stranger, 
 I fear poor Beatrix will give thee plenty of sport." 
 Esmond darkly thought, how Hamilton, Ashburnham, 
 had before been masters of those roses that the young 
 Prince's lips were now feeding on. He sickened at that 
 notion. Her cheek was desecrated, her beauty tarnished ; 
 shame and honour stood between it and him. The love 
 was dead within him; had she a crown to bring him 
 with her love, he felt that both would degrade him. 
 
 But this wrath against Beatrix did not lessen the 
 angry feelings of the Colonel against the man who had 
 been the occasion if not the cause of the evil. Frank 
 sat down on a stone bench in the courtyard, and fairly
 
 ESMOND 197 
 
 fell asleep, while Esmond paced up and down the court, 
 debating what should ensue. What mattered how much 
 or how little had passed between the Prince and the poor 
 faithless girl? They were arrived in time perhaps to 
 rescue her person, but not her mind ; had she not in- 
 stigated the young Prince to come to her, suborned 
 servants, dismissed others, so that she might communi- 
 cate with him? The treacherous heart within her had 
 surrendered, though the place was safe; and it was to 
 win this that he had given a life's struggle and devo- 
 tion ; this, that she was ready to give away for the bribe 
 of a coronet or a wink of the Prince's eye. 
 
 When he had thought his thoughts out he shook up 
 poor Frank from his sleep, who rose yawning, and said 
 he had been dreaming of Clotilda. "You must back 
 me," says Esmond, " in what I am going to do. I have 
 been thinking that yonder scoundrel may have been in- 
 structed to tell that story, and that the whole of it may 
 be a lie ; if it be, we shall find it out from the gentleman 
 who is asleep yonder. See if the door leading to my 
 lady's rooms " (so we called the rooms at the north- 
 west angle of the house), "see if the door is barred as 
 he saith." We tried; it was, indeed, as the lacquey had 
 said, closed within. 
 
 " It may have been opened and shut afterwards," says 
 poor Esmond ; " the foundress of our family let our an- 
 cestor in in that way." 
 
 " What will you do, Harry, if if what that fellow 
 saith should turn out untrue?" The young man looked 
 scared and frightened into his kinsman's face ; I daresay 
 it wore no very pleasant expression. 
 
 " Let us first go see whether the two stories agree," 
 says Esmond ; and went in at the passage and opened 
 the door into what had been his own chamber now for 
 well nigh five-and-twenty years. A candle was still burn- 
 ing, and the Prince asleep dressed on the bed Esmond 
 did not care for making a noise. The Prince started up 
 in his bed, seeing two men in his chamber: " Qui est 
 la?" says he, and took a pistol from under his pillow. 
 
 "It is the Marquis of Esmond," says the Colonel,
 
 198 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " come to welcome his Majesty to his house of Castle- 
 wood, and to report of what hath happened in London. 
 Pursuant to the King's orders, I passed the night before 
 last, after leaving his Majesty, in waiting upon the 
 friends of the King. It is a pity that his Majesty's desire 
 to see the country and to visit our poor house should 
 have caused the King to quit London without notice 
 yesterday, when the opportunity happened which in all 
 human probability may not occur again; and had the 
 King not chosen to ride to Castlewood, the Prince of 
 Wales might have slept at St. James's." 
 
 " 'Sdeath ! gentlemen," says the Prince, starting off 
 his bed, whereon he was lying in his clothes, "the 
 Doctor was with me yesterday morning, and after watch- 
 ing by my sister all night, told me I might not hope to 
 see the Queen." 
 
 "It would have been otherwise," says Esmond with 
 another bow ; "as, by this time, the Queen may be dead 
 in spite of the Doctor. The Council was met, a new 
 Treasurer was appointed, the troops were devoted to the 
 King's cause ; and fifty loyal gentlemen of the greatest 
 names of this kingdom were assembled to accompany the 
 Prince of Wales, who might have been the acknowledged 
 heir of the throne, or the possessor of it by this time, had 
 your Majesty not chosen to taken the air. We were 
 ready ; there was only one person that failed us, your 
 Majesty's gracious " 
 
 " Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty," 
 said the Prince, who had now risen up and seemed to be 
 looking to one of us to help him to his coat. But neither 
 stirred. 
 
 "We shall take care," says Esmond, "not much 
 oftener to offend in that particular." 
 
 "What mean you, my lord?" says the Prince, and 
 muttered something about a guet-cl-pens, which Esmond 
 caught up. 
 
 "The snare, sir," said he, "was not of our laying; 
 it is not we that invited you. We came to avenge, and 
 not to compass the dishonour of our family." 
 
 " Dishonour ! Morbleu, there has been no dishonour,"
 
 ESMOND 199 
 
 says the Prince, turning scarlet, " only a little harmless 
 playing." 
 
 ''That was meant to end seriously." 
 
 " I swear," the Prince broke out impetuously, " upon 
 the honour of a gentleman, my lords " 
 
 " That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, 
 Frank," says Colonel Esmond, turning round to young 
 Castlewood, who stood at the door as the talk was 
 going on. "See! here is a paper whereon his Majesty 
 hath deigned to commence some verses in honour, or 
 dishonour of Beatrix. Here is ' Madame' and 'Flamme,' 
 ' Cruelle ' and ' Rebelle,' and ' Amour ' and ' Jour,' in the 
 Royal writing and spelling. Had the Gracious lover 
 been happy, he had not passed his time in sighing." In 
 fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond cast his 
 eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper on which 
 my young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that 
 was to finish his charmer on the morrow. 
 
 "Sir," says the Prince, burning with rage (he had 
 assumed his Royal coat unassisted by this time), " did 
 I come here to receive insults?" 
 
 " To confer them, may it please your Majesty," says 
 the Colonel, with a very low bow, "and the gentlemen 
 of our family are come to thank you." 
 
 "Malediction!" says the young man, tears starting 
 into his eyes with helpless rage and mortification. 
 " What will you with me, gentlemen?" 
 
 " If your Majesty will please to enter the next apart- 
 ment," says Esmond, preserving his grave tone, " I have 
 some papers there which I would gladly submit to you, 
 and by your permission I will lead the way ; " and, taking 
 the taper up, and backing before the Prince with very 
 great ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little Chap- 
 lain's room, through which we had just entered into the 
 house: " Please to set a chair for his Majesty, Frank," 
 says the Colonel to his companion, who wondered almost 
 as much at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as 
 the other actor in it. Then going to the crypt over the 
 mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, and drew thence the 
 papers which so long had lain there.
 
 200 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " Here, may it please your Majesty," says he, " is the 
 Patent of Marquis sent over by your Royal Father at 
 St. Germains to Viscount Castlewood, my father: here 
 is the witnessed certificate of my father's marriage to my 
 mother, and of my birth and christening ; I was christened 
 of that religion of which your sainted sire gave all 
 through life so shining an example. These are my titles, 
 dear Frank, and this what I do with them: here go 
 Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate and the 
 August Sign Manual, with which your predecessor was 
 pleased to honour our race." And as Esmond spoke he 
 set the papers burning in the brazier. " You will please, 
 sir, to remember," he continued, " that our family hath 
 ruined itself by fidelity to yours: that my grandfather 
 spent his estate, and gave his blood and his son to die 
 for your service; that my dear lord's grandfather (for 
 lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too) died for 
 the same cause ; that my poor kinswoman, my father's 
 second wife, after giving away her honour to your wicked 
 perjured race, sent all her wealth to the King; and got 
 in return that precious title that lies in ashes, and this 
 inestimable yard of blue riband. I lay this at your feet 
 and stamp upon it : I draw this sword, and break it and 
 deny you; and, had you completed the wrong you de- 
 signed us, by heaven I would have driven it though your 
 heart, and no more pardoned you than your father par- 
 doned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won't you, 
 cousin?" 
 
 Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at 
 the papers, as they flamed in the old brazier, took out 
 his sword and broke it, holding his head down: " I go 
 with my cousin," says he, giving Esmond a grasp of the 
 
 hand. "Marquis or not, by , I stand by him any 
 
 day. I beg your Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is 
 that is I'm for the Elector of Hanover. It 's all your 
 Majesty's own fault. The Queen's dead most likely 
 by this time. And you might have been King if you 
 hadn't come dangling after Trix." 
 
 " Thus to lose a crown," says the young Prince, start- 
 ing up, and speaking French in his eager way; " to lose
 
 ESMOND 201 
 
 the loveliest woman in the world ; to lose the loyalty of 
 such hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough of 
 humiliation? Marquis, if I go on my knees, will you 
 pardon me? No, I can't do that, but I can offer you re- 
 paration, that of honour, that of gentlemen. Favour me 
 by crossing the sword with mine: yours is broke see, 
 yonder in the armoire are two;" and the Prince took 
 them out as eager as a boy, and held them towards 
 Esmond: "Ah! you will? Merci, monsieur, merci!" 
 
 Extremely touched by this immense mark of conde- 
 scension and repentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond 
 bowed down so low as almost to kiss the gracious young 
 hand that conferred on him such an honour, and took 
 his guard in silence. The swords were no sooner met, 
 than Castlewood knocked up Esmond's with the blade 
 of his own, which he had broke off short at the shell ; 
 and the Colonel failing back a step dropped his point 
 with another very low bow, and declared himself perfectly 
 satisfied. 
 
 "Eh bien, Vicomte!" says the young Prince, who 
 was a boy, and a French boy, " il ne nous reste qu'une 
 chose a faire : " he placed his sword upoi- the table, and 
 the fingers of his two hands upon his breast: "We 
 have one more thing to do," says he; "you do not 
 divine it?" He stretched out his arms: " Embrassons 
 nous! ' ' 
 
 The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the 
 room : What came she to seek there? She started and 
 turned pale at the sight of her brother and kinsman, 
 drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet 
 smouldering in the brazier. 
 
 " Charming Beatrix," says the Prince, with a blush 
 which became him very well, " these lords have come a- 
 horseback from London, where my sister lies in a de- 
 spaired state, and where her successor makes himself 
 desired. Pardon me for my escapade of last evening. I 
 had been so long a prisoner, that I seized the occasion 
 of a promenade on horseback, and my horse naturally 
 bore me towards you. I found you a queen in your 
 little court, where you deigned to entertain me. Present
 
 202 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 my homages to your maids of honour. I sighed as you 
 slept, under the window of your chamber, and then retired 
 to seek rest in my own. It was there that these gentle- 
 men agreeably roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a 
 happy day that makes a Prince acquainted, at whatever 
 cost to his vanity, with such a noble heart as that of the 
 Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle, may we take your 
 coach to town? I saw it in the hangar, and this poor 
 Marquis must be dropping with sleep." 
 
 " Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?" 
 was all Beatrix could say. The roses had shuddered out 
 of her cheeks ; her eyes were glaring ; she looked quite 
 old. She came up to Esmond and hissed out a word or 
 two: " If I did not love you before, cousin," says she, 
 "think how I love you now." If words could stab, no 
 doubt she would have killed Esmond ; she looked at him 
 as if she* could. 
 
 But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond ; 
 his heart was too hard. As he looked at her, he won- 
 dered that he could ever have loved her. His love of ten 
 years was over: it fell down dead on the spot, at the 
 Kensington Tavern, where Frank brought him the note 
 out of Eikon Basilike. The Prince blushed and bowed 
 low, as she gazed at him, and quitted the chamber. 
 I have never seen her from that day. 
 
 Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. 
 My lord rode outside, and as for Esmond he was so 
 tired that he was no sooner in the carriage than he fell 
 asleep, and never woke till night, as the coach came into 
 Alton. 
 
 As we drove to the " Bell " Inn comes a mitred coach 
 with our old friend Lockwood beside the coachman. My 
 Lady Castlewood and the Bishop were inside ; she gave 
 a little scream when she saw us. The two coaches 
 entered the inn almost together ; the landlord and people 
 coming out with lights to welcome the visitors. 
 
 We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we 
 saw the dear lady, and above all, the Doctor in his 
 cassock. What was the news? Was there yet time? 
 Was the Queen alive? These questions were put hur-
 
 ESMOND 203 
 
 riedly, as Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests 
 to bow them up the stair. 
 
 "Is she safe? " was what Lady Castle wood whispered 
 in a flutter to Esmond. 
 
 "All's well, thank God," says he, as the fond lady 
 took his hand and kissed it, and called him her preserver 
 and her dear. She wasn't thinking of Queens and 
 crowns. 
 
 The Bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was 
 not lost; the Queen yet breathed, or was alive when 
 they left London, six hours since. (" It was Lady 
 Castle wood who insisted on coming," the Doctor said.) 
 Argyle had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and 
 sent abroad for more ; the Whigs were on the alert, a 
 pest on them (I am not sure but the Bishop swore as he 
 spoke,) and so too were our people. And all might be 
 saved, if only the Prince could be at London in time. We 
 called for horses, instantly to return to London. We 
 never went up poor crestfallen Boniface's stairs, but into 
 our coaches again. The Prince and his Prime Minister 
 in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress 
 as a companion. 
 
 Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather 
 the Prince's friends and warn them of his coming. We 
 travelled through the night. Esmond discoursing to his 
 mistress of the events of the last twenty-four hours ; of 
 Castlewood's ride and his ; of the Prince's generous be- 
 haviour and their reconciliation. The night seemed short 
 enough ; and the starlit hours passed away serenely in 
 that fond company. 
 
 So we came along the road ; the Bishop's coach head- 
 ing ours ; and with some delays in procuring horses, we 
 got to Hammersmith about four o'clock on Sunday 
 morning, the first of August, and half an hour after, it 
 being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's 
 house, and so down the street of Kensington. 
 
 Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street, 
 and many people moving to and fro. Round the gate 
 leading to the Palace, where the guard is, there was es- 
 pecially a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us
 
 204 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 stopped, and the Bishop's man got down to know what 
 the concourse meant. 
 
 There presently came from out of the gate Horse 
 Guards with their trumpets, and a company of heralds 
 with their tabards. The trumpets blew, and the herald- 
 at-arms came forward and proclaimed GEORGE, by the 
 Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, 
 King, Defender of the Faith. And the people shouted 
 God save the King! 
 
 Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I 
 caught sight of one sad face, which I had known all my 
 life, and seen under many disguises. It was no other 
 than poor Mr. Holt's, who had slipped over to England 
 to witness the triumph of the good cause ; and now be- 
 held its enemies victorious, amidst the acclamations of 
 the English people. The poor fellow had forgot to 
 huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbours in the 
 crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for 
 a Jesuit in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and 
 began to cheer. Sure he was the most unlucky of men : 
 he never played a game but he lost it; or engaged in a 
 conspiracy but 'twas certain to end in defeat. I saw him 
 in Flanders after this, whence he went to Rome to the 
 head-quarters of his Order; and actually reappeared 
 among us in America, very old, and busy, and hopeful. 
 I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and 
 mocassins there ; and, attired in a blanket and war- 
 paint, skulk about a missionary amongst the Indians. 
 He lies buried in our neighbouring province of Maryland 
 now, with a cross over him, and a mound of earth above 
 him ; under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at 
 peace. 
 
 With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the 
 vain hopes of the weak and foolish young Pretender 
 were blown away ; and with that music, too, I may say, 
 the drama of my own life was ended. That happiness, 
 which hath subsequently crowned it, cannot be written 
 in words ; 'tis of its nature sacred and secret, and not to 
 be spoken of, though the heart be ever so full of thank-
 
 ESMOND 205 
 
 fulness, save to Heaven and the One Ear alone to one 
 fond being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife 
 ever man was blessed with. As I think of the immense 
 happiness which was in store for me, and of the depth 
 and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath 
 blessed me, I own to a transport of wonder and grati- 
 tude for such a boon nay, am thankful to have been 
 endowed with a heart capable of feeling and knowing 
 the immense beauty and value of the gift which God 
 hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love vtncit omnia; is 
 immeasurably above all ambition, more precious than 
 wealth, more noble than name. He knows not life who 
 knows not that: he hath not felt the highest faculty of 
 the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of my 
 wife I write the completion of hope, and the summit of 
 happiness. To have such a love is the one blessing, in 
 comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value ; and 
 to think of her, is to praise God.
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 
 
 [The Virginians is the last novel of Thackeray from which it 
 is imperative or indeed even possible to make extracts. While the 
 general flow of his writing never failed to be interesting it became 
 more and more diffuse and allusive, and sharp, heroic scenes like 
 those of Beatrix and Becky Sharp almost entirely disappear. The 
 Virginians however, contains a rich supply of a certain genial 
 and touching domestic comedy in which Thackeray greatly ex- 
 celled, of which I have selected this scene of a family at the 
 theatre as the best individual example. 
 
 The tale is concerned with two brothers, Esmond Warringtons, 
 the American grandchildren of Henry Esmond, who visit England 
 and the English branch of the Esmonds, descendants of Beatrix's 
 brother. The two Virginian lads find the English Esmonds suf- 
 ficiently frigid and repellent, but make good friends in the house 
 of Colonel Lambert, a sanctuary of that sound scholarly manhood 
 and domesticity that was the best of the eighteenth century. Lam- 
 bert has two daughters ; one, Hester, falls in love with the sports- 
 man, Harry Warrington, while a happier attachment springs up 
 between Theo and the scholar, George.] 
 
 THE TRAGEDY OF "DOUGLAS" 
 (FROM CHAPTERS LIX, LX) 
 
 WITH all the passion of his heart Mr. Warring-ton loved 
 a play. He had never enjoyed this amusement in Vir- 
 ginia, and only once or twice at Quebec, when he visited 
 Canada; and when he came to London, where the tv/o 
 houses were in their full glory, I believe he thought he 
 never could have enough of the delightful entertainment. 
 Anything he liked himself, he naturally wished to share 
 amongst his companions. No wonder that he was eager 
 to take his friends to the theatre, and we may be sure 
 our young country folks were not unwilling. Shall it be 
 206
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 207 
 
 " Drury Lane " or " Covent Garden," ladies? There was 
 Garrick and Shakespeare at " Drury Lane." Well, will 
 it be believed, the ladies wanted to hear the famous 
 new author whose piece was being played at "Covent 
 Garden? " 
 
 At this time a star of genius had arisen, and was 
 blazing with quite a dazzling brilliancy. The great Mr. 
 John Home, of Scotland, had produced a tragedy, than 
 which since the days of the ancients, there had been 
 nothing more classic and elegant. What had Mr. Gar- 
 rick meant by refusing such a masterpiece for his 
 theatre? Say what you will about Shakspeare; in the 
 works of that undoubted great poet (who had begun to 
 grow vastly more popular in England since Monsieur 
 Voltaire attacked him), there were many barbarisms that 
 could not but shock a polite auditory ; whereas, Mr. 
 Home, the modern author, knew how to be refined in 
 the very midst of grief and passion ; to represent death, 
 not merely as awful, but graceful and pathetic; and 
 never condescended to degrade the majesty of the Tragic 
 Muse by the ludicrous apposition of buffoonery and 
 familiar punning, such as the elder playwright certainly 
 had resort to. Besides, Mr. Home's performance had 
 been admired in quarters so high, and by personages 
 whose taste was known to be as elevated as their rank, 
 that all Britons could not but join in the plaudits for 
 which august hands had given the signal. Such, it was 
 said, was the opinion of the very best company, in the 
 coffee-houses, and amongst the wits about town. Why, 
 the famous Mr. Gray, of Cambridge, said there had not 
 been for a hundred years any dramatic dialogue of such 
 a true style ; and as for the poet's native capital of Edin- 
 burgh, where the piece was first brought out, it was 
 even said that the triumphant Scots called out from the 
 pit (in their dialect), "Where's Wully Shakspeare noo?" 
 
 " I should like to see the man who could beat Willy 
 Shakspeare ! " says the General, laughing. 
 
 " Mere national prejudice," says Mr. Warrington. 
 
 " Beat Shakspeare, indeed! " cries Mrs. Lambert. 
 
 "Pooh, pooh! you have cried more over Mr. Sam
 
 208 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Richardson than ever you did over Mr. Shakspeare, 
 Molly!" remarks the General. "I think few women 
 love to read ' Shakspeare : ' they say they love it, but 
 they don't." 
 
 "Oh, papa!" cry three ladies, throwing up three 
 pair of hands. 
 
 " Well, then, why do you all three prefer ' Douglas? ' 
 And you, boys, who are such Tories, will you go see a 
 play which is wrote by a Whig Scotchman, who was 
 actually made prisoner at Falkirk? " 
 
 " Relictd non bene parmuld," says Mr. Jack the 
 scholar. 
 
 "Nay it was relictd bene parmulaV ' cried the General. 
 " It was the Highlanders who flung their targes down, 
 and made fierce work among us red-coats. If they had 
 fought all their fields as well as that, and young Perkin 
 had not turned back from Derby ' 
 
 " I know which side would be rebels, and who would 
 be called the Young Pretender," interposed George. 
 
 " Hush ! you must please to remember my cloth, Mr. 
 Warrington," said the General, with some gravity; 
 "and that the cocade I wear is a black, not a white 
 one ! Well, if you will not love Mr. Home for his politics, 
 there is, I think, another reason, George, why you 
 should like him." 
 
 " I may have Tory fancies, Mr. Lambert, but I think 
 I know how to love and honour a good Whig," said 
 George, with a bow to the General : " and why should I 
 like this Mr. Home, sir?" 
 
 "Because, being a Presbyterian clergyman, he has 
 committed the heinous crime of writing a play, and his 
 brother parsons have barked out an excommunication 
 at him. They took the poor fellow's means of livelihood 
 away from him for his performance ; and he would have 
 starved, but that the young Pretender on our side of the 
 water has given him a pension." 
 
 "If he has been persecuted by the parsons, there is 
 hope for him," says George, smiling. "And henceforth 
 I declare myself ready to hear his sermons." 
 
 " Mrs. Woffington is divine in it, though not generally
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 209 
 
 famous in tragedy. Barry is drawing tears from all eyes; 
 and Garrick is wild at having refused the piece. Girls, 
 you must bring each half-a-dozen handkerchiefs ! As for 
 marrma, I cannot trust her; and she positively must be 
 left at home." 
 
 But mamma persisted she would go; and, if need 
 were to weep, she would sit and cry her eyes out in a 
 corner. They all went to Covent Garden then ; the most 
 of the party duly prepared to see one of the masterpieces 
 of the age and drama. Could they not all speak long 
 pages of Congreve ; had they not wept and kindled over 
 Otway and Rowe? O ye past literary glories, that were 
 to be eternal, how long have you been dead ? Who 
 knows much more now than where your graves are? 
 Poor neglected Muse of the bygone theatre ! She pipes 
 for us, and we will not dance; she tears her hair, and we 
 will not weep. And the Immortals of our time, how soon 
 shall they be dead and buried, think you? How many 
 will survive? How long shall it be ere Nox et Domus 
 Plutonia shall overtake them ? 
 
 So away went the pleased party to Covent Garden to 
 see the tragedy of the immortal John Home. The ladies 
 and the General were conveyed in a glass coach, and 
 found the young men in waiting to receive them at the 
 theatre door. Hence they elbowed their way through a 
 crowd of torch-boys, and a whole regiment of footmen. 
 Little Hetty fell to Harry's arm in this expedition, and 
 the blushing Miss Theo was handed to the box by 
 Mr. George. Gumbo had kept the places until his 
 masters arrived, when he retired, with many bows, to 
 take his own seat in the footman's gallery. They had 
 good places in a front box, and there was luckily a pillar 
 behind which mamma could weep in comfort. And op- 
 posite them they had the honour to see the august hope 
 of the empire, his Royal Highness George Prince of 
 Wales, with the Princess Dowager his mother, whom 
 the people greeted with loyal, but not very enthusiastic 
 plaudits. That handsome man standing behind his 
 Royal Highness was my Lord Bute, the Prince's Groom 
 of the Stole, the patron of the poet whose performance
 
 2io WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 they had come to see, and over whose work the Royal 
 party had already wept more than once. 
 
 How can we help it, if during the course of the per- 
 formance Mr. Lambert would make his jokes and mar 
 the solemnity of the scene? At first, as the reader of the 
 tragedy well knows, the characters are occupied in making 
 a number of explanations. Lady Randolph explains how 
 it is that she is so melancholy. Married to Lord Ran- 
 dolph somewhat late in life, she owns, and his lordship 
 perceives, that a dead lover yet occupies all her heart, 
 and her husband is fain to put up with this dismal, 
 second-hand regard, which is all that my lady can be- 
 stow. Hence, an invasion of Scotland by the Danes is 
 rather a cause of excitement than disgust to my lord, 
 who rushes to meet the foe, and forget the dreariness of 
 his domestic circumstances. Welcome, Vikings and 
 Norsemen ! Blow, northern blasts, the invaders' keels 
 to Scotland's shore ! Randolph and other heroes will be 
 on the beach to give the foemen a welcome! His lord- 
 ship has no sooner disappeared behind the trees of the 
 forest, but Lady Randolph begins to explain to her con- 
 fidante the circumstances of her early life. The fact was, 
 she had made a private marriage, and what would the 
 confidante say, if, in early youth, she, Lady Randolph, 
 had lost a husband? In the cold bosom of the earth was 
 lodged the husband of her youth, and in some cavern of 
 the ocean lies her child and his ! 
 
 Up to this the General behaved with as great gravity 
 as any of his young companions to the play ; but when 
 Lady Randolph proceeded to say, "Alas! Hereditary 
 evil was the cause of my misfortunes," he nudged George 
 Warrington, and looked so droll, that the young man 
 burst out laughing. 
 
 The magic of the scene was destroyed after that. 
 These two gentlemen went on cracking jokes during the 
 whole of the subsequent performance, to their own 
 amusement, but the indignation of their company, and 
 perhaps of the people in the adjacent boxes. Young 
 Douglas in those days, used to wear a white satin 
 "shape" slashed at the legs and body, and when Mr.
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 211 
 
 Barry appeared in his droll costume, the General vowed 
 it was the exact dress of the Highlanders in the late war. 
 The Chevalier's Guard, he declared, had all white satin 
 slashed breeches, and red boots " only they left them 
 at home, my dear," adds this wag. Not one pennyworth 
 of sublimity would he or George allow henceforth to Mr. 
 Home's performance. As for Harry, he sat in very deep 
 meditation over the scene; and when Mrs. Lambert 
 offered him a penny for his thoughts, he said, " That he 
 thought Young Norval, Douglas, What-d'ye-call-'im, 
 the fellow in white satin who looked as old as his 
 mother was very lucky to be able to distinguish him- 
 self so soon. I wish I could get a chance, Aunt Lam- 
 bert," says he, drumming on his hat; on which mamma 
 sighed, and Theo, smiling, said, "we must wait, and 
 perhaps the Danes will land." 
 
 " How do you mean? " asked simple Harry. 
 
 " Oh, the Danes always land, pour qui scait attendre ! " 
 says kind Theo, who had hold of her sister's little hand, 
 and, I daresay, felt its pressure. 
 
 She did not behave unkindly that was not in Miss 
 Theo's nature but somewhat coldly to Mr. George, on 
 whom she turned her back, addressing remarks, from 
 time to time, to Harry. In spite of the gentlemen's 
 scorn, the women chose to be affected. A mother and 
 son, meeting in love and parting in tears, will always 
 awaken emotion in female hearts. 
 
 " Look, Papa! there is an answer to all your jokes! " 
 says Theo, pointing towards the stage. 
 
 At a part of the dialogue between Lady Randolph and 
 her son, one of the grenadiers on guard on each side of 
 the stage, as the custom of those days was, could not 
 restrain his tears, and was visibly weeping before the 
 side-box. 
 
 "You are right, my dear," says papa. 
 
 " Didn't I tell you she always is? " interposes Hetty. 
 
 "Yonder sentry is a better critic than we are, and a 
 touch of nature masters us all." 
 
 "Tamen usque recurrit!" cries the young student 
 from college.
 
 212 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 George felt abashed somehow, and interested too. 
 He had been sneering", and Theo sympathizing. Her 
 kindness was better nay, wiser than his scepticism, 
 perhaps. Nevertheless, when, at the beginning of the 
 fifth act of the play, young Douglas, drawing his sword 
 and looking up at the gallery, bawled out 
 
 "Ye glorious stars! high heaven's resplendent host! 
 
 To whom I oft have of my lot complained, 
 
 Hear and record my soul's unaltered wish : 
 
 Living- or dead, let me but be renowned ! 
 
 May Heaven inspire some fierce gigantic Dane 
 
 To give a bold defiance to our host ! 
 
 Before he speaks it out, I will accept, 
 
 Like Douglas conquer, or like Douglas die! " 
 
 The gods, to whom Mr. Barry appealed, saluted this 
 heroic wish with immense applause, and the General 
 clapped his hands prodigiously. His daughter was rather 
 disconcerted. 
 
 "This Douglas is not only brave, but he is modest! " 
 says papa. 
 
 " I own I think he need not have asked for a gigantic 
 Dane," says Theo, smiling, as Lady Randolph entered 
 in the midst of the gallery thunder. 
 
 When the applause had subsided, Lady Randolph is 
 made to say 
 
 " My son, I heard a voice! " 
 
 " I think she did hear a voice! " cries papa. " Why, 
 the fellow was bellowing like a bull of Bashan." And 
 the General would scarcely behave himself from thence- 
 forth to the end of the performance. He said he was 
 heartily glad that the young gentleman was put to death 
 behind the scenes. When Lady Randolph's friend de- 
 scribed how her mistress had " flown like lightning up 
 the hill, and plunged herself into the empty air," Mr. 
 Lambert said he was delighted to be rid of her. " And 
 as for that story of her early marriage," says he, "I 
 have my very strongest doubts about it." 
 
 "Nonsense, Martin! Look, children! their Royal 
 Highnesses are moving."
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 213 
 
 The tragedy over, the Princess Dowager and the 
 Prince were, in fact, retiring; though, I daresay, the 
 latter, who was always fond of a farce, would have been 
 far better pleased with that which followed, than he had 
 been with Mr. Home's dreary tragic masterpiece. 
 
 When the performances were concluded, our friends took 
 coach for Mr. Warrington's lodging, where the Virgin- 
 ians had provided an elegant supper. Mr. Warrington 
 was eager to treat them in the handsomest manner, and 
 the General and his wife accepted the invitation of the 
 two bachelors, pleased to think that they could give 
 their young friends pleasure. General and Mrs. Lambert, 
 their son from college, their two blooming daughters, 
 and Mr. Spencer of the Temple, a new friend whom 
 George had met at the coffee-house, formed the party, 
 and partook with cheerfulness of the landlady's fare. 
 The order of their sitting I have not been able exactly 
 to ascertain ; but, somehow, Miss Theo had a place next 
 to the chickens and Mr. George Warrington, whilst 
 Miss Hetty and a ham divided the attentions of Mr. 
 Harry. Mrs. Lambert must have been on George's right 
 hand, so that we have but to settle the three places of 
 the General, his son, and the Templar. 
 
 Mr. Spencer had been at the other theatre, where, on 
 a former day, he had actually introduced George to the 
 green-room. The conversation about the play was re- 
 sumed, and some of the party persisted in being delighted 
 with it. 
 
 "As for what our gentlemen say, sir," cries Mrs. 
 Lambert to Mr. Spencer, "you must not believe a word 
 of it. 'Tis a delightful piece, and my husband and Mr. 
 George behaved as ill as possible." 
 
 " We laughed in the wrong place, and when we ought 
 to have cried," the General owned, " that 's the truth." 
 
 " You caused all the people in the boxes about us to 
 look round and cry, 'Hush!' You made the pit-folks 
 say, 'Silence in the boxes, yonder!' Such behaviour I 
 never knew, and quite blushed for you, Mr. Lambert!"
 
 214 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 " Mamma thought it was a tragedy, and we thought 
 it was a piece of fun," says the General. " George and 
 I behaved perfectly well, didn't we, Theo ? " 
 
 "Not when I was looking your way, Papa!" Theo 
 replies. At which the General asks, "was there ever 
 such a saucy baggage seen? " 
 
 "You know, sir, I didn't speak till I was bid," Theo 
 continues, modestly. "I own I was very much moved 
 by the play, and the beauty and acting of Mrs. Woffing- 
 ton. I was sorry that the poor mother should find her 
 child, and lose him. I am sorry, too, Papa, if I oughtn't 
 to have been sorry ! " adds the young lady, with a smile. 
 
 " Women are not so clever as men, you know, Theo," 
 cries Hetty from her end of the table, with a sly look at 
 Harry. "The next time we go to the play, please, 
 brother Jack, pinch us when we ought to cry, or give us 
 a nudge when it is right to laugh." 
 
 " I wish we could have had the fight," said General 
 Lambert "the fight between little Norval and the 
 gigantic Norwegian that would have been rare sport : 
 and you should write, Jack, and suggest it to Mr. Rich, 
 the manager." 
 
 " I have not seen that: but I saw Slack and Brough- 
 ton at Marybone Gardens!" says Harry, gravely; and 
 wondered if he had said something witty, as all the com- 
 pany laughed so? "It would require no giant," he 
 added, "to knock over yonder little fellow in the red 
 boots. I, for one, could throw him over my shoulder." 
 
 " Mr. Garrick is a little man. But there are times 
 when he looks a giant," says Mr. Spencer. " How grand 
 he was in Macbeth, Mr. Warrington ! How awful that 
 dagger-scene was ! You should have seen our host, 
 ladies! I presented Mr. Warrington, in the green-room, 
 to Mr. Garrick and Mrs. Pritchard, and Lady Macbeth 
 did him the honour to take a pinch out of his box." 
 
 ' ' Did the wife of the Thane of Cawdor sneeze ? " asked 
 the General, in an awful voice. 
 
 "She thanked Mr. Warrington, in tones so hollow 
 and tragic, that he started back, and must have upset 
 some of his rappee, for Macbeth sneezed thrice."
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 215 
 
 " Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth!" cries the General. 
 
 "And the great philosopher who was standing by, 
 Mr. Johnson, says, ' You must mind, Davy, lest thy 
 sneeze should awaken Duncan! " who, by the way, was 
 talking with the three witches as they sat against the 
 wall." 
 
 "What! Have you been behind the scenes at the 
 play? Oh, I would give worlds to go behind the scenes ! " 
 cries Theo. 
 
 ' ' And see the ropes pulled, and smell the tallow-candles, 
 and look at the pasteboard gold, and the tinsel jewels, 
 and the painted old women, Theo? No. Do not look 
 too close," says the sceptical young host, demurely 
 drinking a glass of hock. "You were angry with your 
 papa and me." 
 
 " Nay, George! " cries the girl. 
 
 "Nay? I say, yes! You were angry with us because 
 we laughed when you were disposed to be crying. If 
 I may speak for you, sir, as well as myself," says 
 George (with a bow to his guest, General Lambert), " I 
 think we were not inclined to weep, like the ladies, be- 
 cause we stood behind the author's scenes of the play, 
 as it were. Looking close up to the young hero, we 
 saw how much of him was rant and tinsel ; and as for 
 the pale, tragical mother, that her pallor was white 
 chalk, and her grief her pocket-handkerchief. Own now, 
 Theo, you thought me very unfeeling? " 
 
 " If you find it out, sir, without my owning it, what 
 is the good of my confessing? " says Theo. 
 
 " Suppose I were to die," goes on George, " and you 
 saw Harry in grief, you would be seeing a genuine 
 affliction, a real tragedy; you would grieve too. But 
 you wouldn't be affected if you saw the undertaker in 
 weepers and a black cloak! " 
 
 "Indeed, but I should, sir!" says Mrs. Lambert; 
 " and so, I promise you, would any daughter of 
 mine." 
 
 "Perhaps we might find weepers of our own, Mr. 
 Warrington," says Theo, " in such a case." 
 
 "Would you?" cries George, and his cheeks and
 
 216 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Theo's simultaneously flush up with red ; I suppose be- 
 cause they both saw Hetty's bright young eyes watching 
 them. 
 
 "The elder writers understood but little of the pa- 
 thetic," remarked Mr. Spencer, the Temple wit. 
 
 "What do you think of Sophocles and Antigone?" 
 calls out Mr. John Lambert. 
 
 " Faith, our wits trouble themselves little about him, 
 unless an Oxford gentleman comes to remind us of him ! 
 I did not mean to go back further than Mr. Shakspeare, 
 who, as you will all agree, does not understand the 
 elegant and pathetic as well as the moderns. Has he 
 ever approached Belvidera, or Monimia, or Jane Shore ; 
 or can you find in his comic female characters the eleg- 
 ance of Congreve?" and the Templar offered snuff to 
 the right and left. 
 
 "I think Mr. Spencer himself must have tried his 
 hand? " asks some one. 
 
 " Many gentlemen of leisure have. Mr. Garrick, I 
 own, has had a piece of mine and returned it." 
 
 " And I confess that I have four acts of a play in one 
 of my boxes," says George. 
 
 " I'll be bound to say it's as good as any of 'em," 
 whispers Harry to his neighbour. 
 
 "Is it a tragedy or a comedy?" asks Mrs. Lambert. 
 
 "Oh, a tragedy, and two or three dreadful murders 
 at least! " George replies. 
 
 " Let us play it, and let the audience look to their 
 eyes! Yet my chief humour is for a tyrant," says the 
 General. 
 
 " The tragedy, the tragedy! Go and fetch the tragedy 
 this moment, Gumbo! " calls Mrs. Lambert to the black. 
 Gumbo makes a low bow and says "Tragedy? yes, 
 madam." 
 
 " In the great cowskin trunk, Gumbo," George says, 
 gravely. 
 
 Gumbo bows and says, "Yes, sir," with still superior 
 gravity. 
 
 "But my tragedy is at the bottom of I don't know 
 how much linen, packages, books, and boots, Hetty."
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 217 
 
 " Never mind, let us have it, and fling the linen out of 
 window ! " cries Miss Hetty. 
 
 "And the great cowskin trunk is at our agent's at 
 Bristol: so Gumbo must get post-horses, and we can 
 keep it up till he returns the day after to-morrow," says 
 George. 
 
 The ladies groaned a comical " Oh! " and papa, per- 
 haps, more seriously said: " Let us be thankful for the 
 escape. Let us be thinking of going home too. Our 
 young gentlemen have treated us nobly, and we will all 
 drink a parting bumper to Madam Esmond Warring- 
 ton of Castlewood, in Virginia. Suppose, boys, you 
 were to find a tall, handsome stepfather when you got 
 home? Ladies as old as she have been known to marry 
 before now." 
 
 "To Madam Esmond Warrington, my old school- 
 fellow!" cries Mrs. Lambert. "I shall write and tell 
 her what a pretty supper her sons have given us : and, 
 Mr. George, I won't say how ill you behaved at the 
 play!" And, with this last toast, the company took 
 leave; the General's coach and servant, with a flambeau, 
 being in waiting to carry his family home. 
 
 THE DEATH OF BEATRIX ESMOND. 
 (FROM CHAPTER LXXXIII) 
 
 [There is in The Virginians only one touch of that dramatic 
 quality which really permits of separate scenes ; that touch is the 
 presence in the tale of the terrible old age of Beatrix Esmond. 
 She has been famous and infamous and yet a failure; the wife of 
 a dubious foreign baron and a discarded mistress at Court. She 
 has nothing- left but her cards and her deadly tongue ; yet she 
 shows a kind of bitter tenderness to the young Virginians, the 
 grandchildren of the man who once loved her so long. In her last 
 moments she softens a little more to Henry Esmond than he ever 
 saw her soften in life.] 
 
 THE reigning Countess of Castlewood was just as easy 
 and affable with her old aunt, as with other folks great
 
 218 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and small. " What air you all about, scraping" and bow- 
 ing- to that old woman, I can't tell, noways! " her lady- 
 ship would say. " She a fine lady ! Nonsense! She ain't 
 no more fine than any other lady: and I guess I'm as 
 good as any of 'em with their high heels and their grand 
 airs ! She a beauty once ! Take away her wig, and her 
 rouge, and her teeth ; and what becomes of your beauty, 
 I'd like to know? Guess you'd put it all in a band-box, 
 and there would be nothing left but a shrivelled old 
 woman ! " And indeed the little homilist only spoke too 
 truly. All beauty must at last come to this complexion ; 
 and decay, either under ground or on the tree. Here 
 was old age, I fear, without reverence. Here were grey 
 hairs, that were hidden, or painted. The world was 
 still here, and she tottering on it, and clinging to it with 
 her crutch. For fourscore years she had moved on it, 
 and eaten of the tree, forbidden and permitted. She had 
 had beauty, pleasure, flattery : but what secret rages, 
 disappointments, defeats, humiliations! what thorns 
 under the roses! what stinging bees in the fruit! "You 
 are not a beauty, my dear," she would say to my wife: 
 "and may thank your stars that you are not." (If she 
 contradicted herself in her talk, I suppose the rest of us 
 occasionally do the like.) " Don't tell me that your hus- 
 band is pleased with your face, and you want no one 
 else's admiration ! We all do. Every woman would 
 rather be beautiful than be anything else in the world 
 ever so rich, or ever so good, or have all the gifts of the 
 fairies ! Look at that picture, though I know 'tis but a 
 bad one, and that stupid vapouring Kneller could net 
 paint my eyes, nor my air, nor my complexion. What 
 a shape I had then and look at me now, and this 
 wrinkled old neck ! Why have we such a short time of 
 our beauty? I remember Mademoiselle de 1'Enclos at a 
 much greater age than mine, quite fresh and well con- 
 served. We can't hide our ages. They are wrote in 
 Mr. Collins's books for us. I was born in the last year 
 of King James's reign. I am not old yet. I am but 
 seventy-six. But what a wreck, my dear : and isn't it 
 cruel that our time should be so short?"
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 219 
 
 Here my wife has to state the incontrovertible pro- 
 position, that the time of all of us is short here below." 
 
 " Ha ! " cries the Baroness. " Did not Adam live near 
 a thousand years, and was not Eve beautiful all the 
 time? I used to perplex Mr. Tusher with that poor 
 creature ! What have we done since, that our lives are 
 so much lessened, I say?" 
 
 " Has your life been so happy that you would prolong 
 it ever so much more? " asks the Baroness's auditor. 
 " Have you, who love wit, never read Dean Swift's 
 famous description of deathless people in Gulliver? 
 My papa and my husband say 'tis one of the finest and 
 most awful sermons ever wrote. It were better not to 
 live at all, than to live without love; and I'm sure," 
 says my wife, putting her handkerchief to her eyes, 
 " should anything happen to my dearest George, I would 
 wish to go to heaven that moment." 
 
 " Who loves me in heaven? I am quite alone, child 
 that is why I had rather stay here," says the Baroness, 
 in a frightened and rather piteous tone. "You are 
 kind to me, God bless your sweet face! Though I 
 scold, and have a frightful temper, my servants will do 
 anything to make me comfortable, and get up at any 
 hour of the night, and never say a cross word in answer. 
 I like my cards still. Indeed, life would be a blank 
 without 'em. Almost everything is gone except that. 
 I can't eat my dinner now, since I lost those last two 
 teeth. Everything goes away from us in old age. But 
 I still have my cards thank heaven, I still have my 
 cards! " And here she would begin to doze: waking up, 
 however,* if my wife stirred or rose, and imagining that 
 Theo was about to leave her. " Don't go away, I can't 
 bear to be alone. I don't want you to talk. But I like 
 to see your face, my dear ! It is much pleasanter than 
 that horrid old Brett's, that I have had scowling about 
 my bed-room these ever so long years." 
 
 " Well, Baroness! still at your cribbage? " (We may 
 fancy a noble Countess interrupting a game at cards 
 between Theo and Aunt Bernstein.) " Me and my Lord 
 Esmond have come to see you! Go and shake hands
 
 220 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 with grand-aunt, Esmond! and tell her ladyship that 
 your lordship's a good boy ! " 
 
 " My lordship's a good boy," says the child. (Madam 
 Theo used to act these scenes for me in a very lively 
 way.) 
 
 " And if he is, I guess he don't take after his father," 
 shrieks out Lady Castlewood. She chose to fancy that 
 Aunt Bernstein was deaf, and always bawled at the old 
 lady. 
 
 " Your ladyship chose my nephew for better or for 
 worse," says Aunt Bernstein, who was now always 
 very much flurried in the presence of the young Countess. 
 
 " But he is a precious deal worse than ever I thought 
 he was. I am speaking of your pa, Ezzy. If it wasn't 
 for your mother, my son, Lord knows what would be- 
 come of you ! We are a-going to see his little Royal 
 Highness. Sorry to see your ladyship not looking quite 
 so well to-day. We can't always remain young : and 
 la ! how we do change as we grow old ! Go up and kiss 
 that lady, Ezzy. She has got a little boy, too. Why, 
 bless us! have you got the child downstairs?" Indeed, 
 Master Miles was down below, for special reasons ac- 
 companying his mother on her visits to Aunt Bernstein 
 sometimes ; and our aunt desired the mother's com- 
 pany so much, that she was actually fain to put up with 
 the child. " So you have got the child here? Oh, 
 you slyboots !" says the Countess. ''Guess you come 
 after the old lady's money! La bless you ! Don't look so 
 frightened. She can't hear a single word I say. Come, 
 Ezzy. Good-by, Aunt!" And my lady Countess rustles 
 out of the room. 
 
 Did Aunt Bernstein hear her or not? Where was the 
 wit for which the old lady had been long famous? and 
 was that fire put out, as well as the brilliancy of her 
 eyes? With other people she was still ready enough, 
 and unsparing of her sarcasms. When the Dowager of 
 Castlewood and Lady Fanny visited her (these exalted 
 ladies treated my wife with perfect indifference and 
 charming good breeding) the Baroness, in their society, 
 was stately, easy, and even commanding. She would
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 221 
 
 mischievously caress Mrs. Warring-ton before them ; in 
 her absence, vaunt my wife's good breeding; say that 
 her nephew had made a foolish match, perhaps, but 
 that I certainly had taken a charming wife. " In a word, 
 I praise you so to them, my dear," says she, "that I 
 think they would like to tear your eyes out." But, 
 before the little American, 'tis certain that she was 
 uneasy and trembled. She was so afraid, that she actu- 
 ally did not dare to deny her the door ; and, the Countess's 
 back turned, did not even abuse her. However much 
 they might dislike her, my ladies did not tear out Theo's 
 eyes. Once they drove to our cottage at Lambeth, 
 where my wife happened to be sitting at the open win- 
 dow, holding her child on her knee, and in full view of 
 her visitors. A gigantic footman strutted through our 
 little garden, and delivered their ladyships' visiting 
 tickets at our door. Their hatred hurt us no more than 
 their visit pleased us. When next we had the loan of 
 our friend the Brewer's carriage Mrs. Warrington drove 
 to Kensington, and Gumbo handed over to the giant 
 our cards in return for those which his noble mistresses 
 had bestowed on us. 
 
 The Baroness had a coach, but seldom thought of 
 giving it to us : and would let Theo and her maid and 
 baby start from Clarges Street in the rain, with a faint 
 excuse that she was afraid to ask her coachman to take 
 his horses out. But, twice on her return home, my wife 
 was frightened by rude fellows on the other side of 
 Westminster Bridge ; and I fairly told my aunt that I 
 should forbid Mrs. Warrington to go to her, unless she 
 could be brought home in safety; so grumbling Jehu 
 had to drive his horses through the darkness. He grum- 
 bled at my shillings : he did not know how few I had. 
 Our poverty wore a pretty decent face. My relatives 
 never thought of relieving it, nor I of complaining before 
 them. I don't know how Sampson got a windfall of 
 guineas ; but, I remember, he brought me six once ; and 
 they were more welcome than any money I ever had 
 in my life. He had been looking into Mr. Miles's crib, 
 as the child lay asleep; and, when the parson went
 
 222 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 away, I found the money in the baby's little rosy hand. 
 Yes, Love is best of all I have many such benefactions 
 registered in my heart precious welcome fountains 
 springing" up in desert places, kind, friendly lights cheer- 
 ing our despondency and gloom. 
 
 This worthy divine was willing enough to give as 
 much of his company as she chose to Madame de Bern- 
 stein, whether for cards or theology. Having known 
 her ladyship for many years now, Sampson could see, 
 and averred to us, that she was breaking fast; and as 
 he spoke of her evidently increasing infirmities, and of 
 the probability of their fatal termination, Mr. S. would 
 discourse to us in a very feeling manner of the necessity 
 for preparing for a future world ; of the vanities of this, 
 and of the hope that in another there might be happiness 
 for all repentant sinners. 
 
 "I have been a sinner for one," says the Chaplain, 
 bowing his head, " God knoweth, and I pray Him to 
 pardon me. I fear, sir, your aunt, the lady Baroness, is 
 not in such a state of mind as will fit her very well for 
 the change which is imminent. I am but a poor weak 
 wretch, and no prisoner in Newgate could confess that 
 more humbly and heartily. Once or twice of late, I have 
 sought to speak on this matter with her ladyship, but 
 she has received me very roughly. 'Parson,' says she, 
 ' if you come for cards, 'tis mighty well, but I will thank 
 you to spare me your sermons.' What can I do, sir? 
 I have called more than once of late, and Mr. Case hath 
 told me his lady was unable to see me." In fact Madame 
 Bernstein told my wife whom she never refused, as I 
 said, that the poor Chaplain's ton was unendurable, and 
 as for his theology, " Haven't I been a Bishop's wife? " 
 says she, " and do I want this creature to teach me? " 
 
 The old lady was as impatient of doctors as of divines ; 
 pretending that my wife was ailing, and that it was 
 more convenient for our good Doctor Heberden to 
 visit her in Clarges Street than to travel all the way 
 to our Lambeth lodgings, we got Dr. H. to see Theo 
 at our aunt's house, and prayed him if possible to 
 offer his advice to the Baroness: we made Mrs. Brett,
 
 THE VIRGINIANS ^23 
 
 her woman, describe her ailments, and the doctor con- 
 firmed our opinion that they were most serious, and 
 might speedily end. She would rally briskly enough of 
 some evenings, and entertain a little company; but of 
 late she scarcely went abroad at all. A somnolence, 
 which we had remarked in her, was attributable in 
 part to opiates which she was in the habit of taking; 
 and she used these narcotics to smother habitual pain. 
 One night, as we two sat with her (Mr. Miles was 
 weaned by this time, and his mother could leave him 
 to the charge of our faithful Molly), she fell asleep over 
 her cards. We hushed the servants who came to lay 
 out the supper-table (she would always have this 
 luxurious, nor could any injunction of ours or the 
 Doctor's teach her abstinence), and we sat a while as 
 we had often done before, waiting in silence till she 
 should arouse from her doze. 
 
 When she awoke, she looked fixedly at me for a while, 
 fumbled with the cards, and dropped them again in her 
 lap, and said, "Henry, have I been long asleep?" I 
 thought at first that it was for my brother she mistook 
 me; but she went on quickly, and with eyes fixed as 
 upon some very far distant object, and said, " My dear, 
 'tis of no use, I am not good enough for you. I love 
 cards, and play, and court; and oh, Harry, you don't 
 know all ! " Here her voice changed, and she flung her 
 head up. " His father married Anne Hyde, and sure the 
 Esmond blood is as good as any that's not royal. 
 Mamma, you must please to treat me with more re- 
 spect. Vos sermons me fatiguent; entendez-vous? 
 faites place a mon Altesse Royale : mesdames, me con- 
 
 naissez-vous? je suis la " Here she broke out into 
 
 frightful hysterical shrieks and laughter, and as we ran 
 up to her, alarmed, " Oui, Henri," she says, " il a jure" 
 de m'e"pouser, et les princes tiennent parole n'est-ce 
 pas? O ouil ils tiennent parole; si non, tu le tueras, 
 cousin ; tu le ah ! que je suis folle ! " And the pitiful 
 shrieks and laughter recommenced. Ere her frightened 
 people had come up to her summons, the poor thing 
 had passed out of this mood into another; but always
 
 224 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 labouring under the same delusion that I was the 
 Henry of past times, who had loved her and had been 
 forsaken by her, whose bones were lying far away by 
 the banks of the Potomac. 
 
 My wife and the women put the poor lady to bed as I 
 ran myself for medical aid. She rambled, still talking 
 wildly, through the night, with her nurses and the 
 surgeon sitting by her. Then she fell into a sleep, 
 brought on by more opiate. When she awoke, her mind 
 did not actually wander ; but her speech was changed, 
 and one arm and side were paralysed. 
 
 'Tis needless to relate the progress and termination of 
 her malady, or watch that expiring flame of life as it 
 gasps and flickers. Her senses would remain with her 
 for a while (and then she was never satisfied unless Theo 
 was by her bedside), or again her mind would wander, 
 and the poor decrepit creature, lying upon her bed, 
 would imagine herself young again, and speak incohe- 
 rently of the scenes and incidents of her early days. 
 Then she would address me as Henry again, and call 
 upon me to revenge some insult or slight, of which 
 (whatever my suspicions might be) the only record lay 
 in her insane memory. "They have always been so," 
 she would murmur: "they never loved man or woman 
 but they forsook them. Je me vengerai, O oui, je me 
 vengerai ! I know them all : I know them all : and I will 
 go to my Lord Stair with the list. Don't tell me! His 
 religion can't be the right one. I will go back to my 
 mother's, though she does not love me. She never did. 
 Why don't you, mother? Is it because I am too wicked? 
 Ah ! piti, piti. O mon pere ! I will make my confession " 
 and here the unhappy paralysed lady made as if she 
 would move in her bed. 
 
 Let us draw the curtain round it. I think with awe 
 still of those rapid words, uttered in the shadow of the 
 canopy, as my pallid wife sits by, her Prayer-book on 
 her knee ; as the attendants move to and fro noiselessly ; 
 as the clock ticks without, and strikes the fleeting hours ; 
 as the sun falls upon the Kneller picture of Beatrix in 
 her beauty, with the blushing cheeks, the smiling lips,
 
 THE VIRGINIANS 225 
 
 the waving auburn tresses, and the eyes which seem to 
 look towards the dim figure moaning in the bed. I could 
 not for a while understand why our aunt's attendants 
 were so anxious that we should quit it. But towards 
 evening, a servant stole in, and whispered her woman ; 
 and then Brett, looking rather disturbed, begged us to 
 go downstairs, as the as the Doctor was come to visit 
 the Baroness. I did not tell my wife, at the time, who 
 " the Doctor" was; but as the gentleman slid by us, and 
 passed up stairs, I saw at once that he was a Catholic 
 ecclesiastic. When Theo next saw our poor lady, she 
 was speechless; she never recognized any one about 
 her, and so passed unconsciously out of life. During her 
 illness her relatives had called assiduously enough, 
 though she would see none of them save us. But when 
 she was gone, and we descended to the lower rooms 
 after all was over, we found Castlewood with his white 
 face, and my lady from Kensington, and Mr. Will, 
 already assembled in the parlour. They looked greedily 
 at us as we appeared. They were hungry for the prey. 
 
 When our aunt's will was opened, we found it was 
 dated five years back, and everything she had was left 
 to her dear nephew, Henry Esmond Warrington, of 
 Castlewood in Virginia, "in affectionate love and re- 
 membrance of the name which he bore."
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER 
 
 [The essay on Thunder and Small Beer was put as preface 
 to the second edition of The Kickleburys on the Rhine and is an 
 answer to the Times criticism on that book. The Kickleburys 
 on the Rhine is a better book than the Times made out; but 
 is not nearly good enough to have such a preface. The essay 
 is inserted here as the only example which it is convenient to 
 give of a certain easy energy which belonged to Thackeray in 
 his rare moments of controversy. The more he is really angry, the 
 more he becomes explanatory and ironical. This aspect of him is 
 so rarely remembered that the essay in question has been thought 
 worthy of inclusion merely to remind the present generation that 
 he possessed this power in dealing with his own.] 
 
 ANY reader who may have a fancy to purchase a copy of 
 this present edition of the History of the Kickleburys 
 Abroad, had best be warned in time, that the Times 
 newspaper does not approve of the work, and has but a 
 bad opinion both of the author and his readers. Nothing- 
 can be fairer than this statement : if you happen to take 
 up the poor little volume at a railroad station, and read 
 this sentence, lay the book down, and buy something- 
 else. You are warned. What more can the author say? 
 If after this you will buy, amen! pay your money, take 
 your book, and fall to. Between ourselves, honest reader, 
 it is no very strong potation which the present purveyor 
 offers to you. It will not trouble your head much in the 
 drinking. It was intended for that sort of negus which 
 is offered at Christmas parties ; and of which ladies and 
 children may partake with refreshment and cheerfulness. 
 Last year I tried a brew which was old, bitter, and 
 strong; and scarce any one would drink it. This year 
 we send round a milder tap, and it is liked by customers : 
 though the critics (who like strong ale, the rogues!) 
 226
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER 227 
 
 turn up their noses. In heaven's name, Mr. Smith, serve 
 round the liquor to the gentlefolks. Pray, dear madam, 
 another glass; it is Christmas time, it will do you no 
 harm. It is not intended to keep long-, this sort of drink. 
 (Come, froth up, Mr. Publisher, and pass quickly round!) 
 And as for the professional gentlemen, we must get a 
 stronger sort for them some day. 
 
 The Times' gentleman (a very difficult gent to please) 
 is the loudest and noisiest of all, and has made more 
 hideous faces over the refreshment offered to him than 
 any other critic. There is no use shirking this statement ! 
 when a man has been abused in the Times, he can't hide 
 it, any more than he could hide the knowledge of his 
 having been committed to prison by Mr. Henry, or pub- 
 licly caned in Pall Mall. You see it in your friends' eyes 
 when they meet you. They know it. They have chuckled 
 over it to a man. They whisper about it at the club, and 
 look over the paper at you. My next-door neighbour 
 came to see me this morning, and I saw by his face that 
 he had the whole story pat. " Hem ! " says he, " well, I 
 have heard of it ; and the fact is, they were talking about 
 you at dinner last night, and mentioning that the Times 
 had ahem! ' walked into you.' " 
 
 "My good M " I say and M will corroborate, 
 
 if need be, the statement I make here "here is the 
 Times' article, dated January 4th, which states so and 
 so, and here is a letter from the publisher, likewise dated 
 January 4th, and which says: 
 
 " ' MY DEAR SIR, Havine this day sold the last copy of the 
 first edition (of x thousand) of the Kickleburys Abroad, and 
 having orders for more, had we not better proceed to a 
 second edition? and will you permit me to enclose an order 
 on, '"etc. etc.? 
 
 Singular coincidence! And if every author who was so 
 abused by a critic had a similar note from a publisher, 
 good Lord ! how easily would we take the critic's 
 censure! 
 
 " Yes, yes," you say; "it is all very well for a writer 
 to affect to be indifferent to a critique from the Times.
 
 228 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 You bear it as a boy bears a flogging" at school, without 
 crying out ; but don't swagger and brag as if you liked 
 it." 
 
 Let us have truth before all. I would rather have a 
 good word than a bad one from any person ; but if a 
 critic abuses me from a high place, and it is worth my 
 while, I will appeal. If I can show that the judge who is 
 delivering sentence against me, and laying down the law 
 and making a pretence of learning, has no learning and 
 no law, and is neither more nor less than a pompous 
 noodle, who ought not to be heard in any respectable 
 court, I will do so ; and then, dear friends, perhaps you 
 will have something to laugh at in this book. 
 
 "THE KICKLEBURYS ABROAD. 
 
 " It has been customary, of late years, for the purveyors of 
 amusing literature the popular authors of the day to put 
 forth certain opuscules, denominated ' Christmas Books,' with 
 the ostensible intention of swelling the tide of exhilaration, or 
 other expansive emotions, incident upon the exodus of the old 
 and the inauguration of the new year. We have said that 
 their ostensible intention was such, because there is another 
 motive for these productions, locked up (as the popular author 
 deems) in his own breast, but which betrays itself, in the 
 quality of the work, as his principal incentive. Oh ! that any 
 muse should be set upon a high stool to cast up accounts and 
 balance a ledger ! Yet so it is ; and the popular author finds it 
 convenient to fill up the declared deficit, and place himself in 
 a position the more effectually to encounter those liabilities 
 which sternly assert themselves contemporaneously and in 
 contrast with the careless and free-handed tendencies of the 
 season by the emission of Christmas books a kind of literary 
 assignats, representing to the emitter expunged debts, to the 
 receiver an investment of enigmatical value. For the most 
 part bearing the stamp of their origin in the vacuity of the 
 writer's exchequer rather than in the fulness of his genius, 
 they suggest by their feeble flavour the rinsings of a void brain 
 after the more important concoctions of the expired year. 
 Indeed, we should as little think of taking these compositions 
 as examples of the merits of their authors as we should think 
 of measuring the valuable services of Mr. Walker, the post- 
 man, or Mr. Bell, the dust-collector, by the copy of verses they 
 leave at our doors as a provocative of the expected annual
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER 229 
 
 gratuity effusions with which they may fairly be classed for 
 their intrinsic worth no less than their ultimate purport. 
 
 " In the Christmas book presently under notice, the author 
 appears (under the thin disguise of Mr. Michael Angelo Tit- 
 marsh) in ' proprid persona ' as the popular author, the con- 
 tributor to Punch, the remorseless pursuer of unconscious 
 vulgarity and feeble-mindedness, launched upon a tour of 
 relaxation to the Rhine. But though exercising, as is the 
 wont of popular authors in their moments of leisure, a plentiful 
 reserve of those higher qualities to which they are indebted 
 for their fame, his professional instincts are not altogether in 
 abeyance. From the moment his eye lights upon a luckless 
 family group embarked on the same steamer with himself, 
 the sight of his accustomed quarry vulgarity, imbecility, and 
 affectation reanimates his relaxed sinews, and, playfully 
 fastening his satiric fangs upon the familiar prey, he dallies 
 with it in mimic ferocity like a satiated mouser. 
 
 "Though faintly and carelessly indicated, the characters 
 are those with which the author loves to surround himself. 
 A tuft-hunting county baronet's widow, an inane captain of 
 dragoons, a graceless young baronet, a lady with groundless 
 pretensions to feeble health and poesy, an obsequious nonentity 
 her husband, and a flimsy and artificial young lady, are the 
 personages in whom we are expected to find amusement. 
 Two individuals alone form an exception to the above cate- 
 gory, and are offered to the respectful admiration of the 
 reader, the one, a shadowy serjeant-at-law, Mr. Titmarsh's 
 travelling companion, who escapes with a few side puffs of 
 flattery, which the author struggles not to render ironical, 
 and a mysterious countess, spoken of in a tone of religious 
 reverence, and apparently introduced that we may learn by 
 what delicate discriminations our adoration of rank should 
 be regulated. 
 
 "To those who love to hug themselves in a sense of 
 superiority by admeasurement with the most worthless of 
 their species, in their most worthless aspects, the Kickleburys 
 on the Rhine will afford an agreeable treat, especially as the 
 purveyor of the feast offers his own moments of human weak- 
 ness as a modest entree in this banquet of erring mortality. 
 To our own, perhaps unphilosophical, taste the aspirations 
 towards sentimental perfection of another popular author are 
 infinitely preferable to these sardonic divings after the pearl of 
 truth, -whose lustre is eclipsed in the display of the diseased 
 oyster. Much, in the present instance, perhaps all, the dis- 
 agreeable effect of his subject is no doubt attnbutable to the 
 absence of Mr. Thackeray's usual brilliancy of style. A few
 
 230 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 flashes, however, occur, such as the description of M. Lenoir's 
 gaming establishment, with the momentous crisis to which it 
 was subjected, and the quaint and imaginative sallies evoked 
 by the whole town of Rougetnoirbourg and its lawful prince. 
 These, with the illustrations, which are spirited enough, 
 redeem the book from an absolute ban. Mr. Thackeray's 
 pencil is more congenial than his pen. He cannot draw his 
 men and women with their skins off, and, therefore, the 
 effigies of his characters are pleasanter to contemplate than 
 the flayed anatomies of the letter-press." 
 
 There is the whole article. And the reader will see (in 
 the paragraph preceding that memorable one which winds 
 up with the diseased oyster) that he must be a worthless 
 creature for daring to like the book, as he could only do 
 so from a desire to hug himself in a sense of superiority 
 by admeasurement with the most worthless of his fellow- 
 creatures ! 
 
 The reader is worthless for liking a book of which all 
 the characters are worthless, except two, which are 
 offered to his respectful admiration; and of these two 
 the author does not respect one, but struggles not to 
 laugh in his face ; whilst he apparently speaks of another 
 in a tone of religious reverence, because the lady is a 
 countess, and because he (the author) is a sneak. So 
 reader, author, characters, are rogues all. Be there any 
 honest men left, Hal? About Printing-house Square, 
 mayhap you may light on an honest man, a squeamish 
 man, a proper moral man, a man that shall talk you 
 Latin by the half-column if you will but hear him. 
 
 And what a style it is, that great man's ! What hoighth 
 of foine language entoirely! How he can discourse you 
 in English for all the world as if it was Latin ! For in- 
 stance, suppose you and I had to announce the important 
 news that some writers published what are called Christ- 
 mas books ; that Christmas books are so called because 
 they are published at Christmas ; and that the purpose of 
 the authors is to try and amuse people. Suppose, I say, 
 we had, by the sheer force of intellect, or by other means 
 of observation or information, discovered these great 
 truths, we should have announced them in so many
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER 231 
 
 words. And there it is that the difference lies between a 
 great writer and a poor one ; and we may see how an 
 inferior man may fling a chance away. How does my 
 friend of the Times put these propositions? " It has been 
 customary," says he, " of late years for the purveyors of 
 amusing literature to put forth certain opuscules, de- 
 nominated Christmas books, with the ostensible inten- 
 tion of swelling the tide of exhilaration, or other expansive 
 emotions, incident upon the exodus of the old or the in- 
 auguration of the new year." That is something" like a 
 sentence; not a word scarcely but's in Latin, and the 
 longest and handsomest out of the whole dictionary. 
 That is proper economy as you see a buck from Holy- 
 well Street put every pinchbeck pin, ring, and chain 
 which he possesses about his shirt, hands, and waistcoat, 
 and then go and cut a dash in the Park, or swagger with 
 his order to the theatre. It costs him no more to wear 
 all his ornaments about his distinguished person than to 
 leave them at home. If you can be a swell at a cheap 
 rate, why not? And I protest, for my part, I had no idea 
 what I was really about in writing and submitting my 
 little book for sale, until my friend the critic, looking at 
 the article, and examining it with the eyes of a connois- 
 seur, pronounced that what I had fancied simply to be a 
 book was in fact "an opuscule denominated so-and-so, 
 and ostensibly intended to swell the tide of expansive 
 emotion incident upon the inauguration of the new year." 
 I can hardly believe as much even now so little do we 
 know what we really are after, until men of genius come 
 and interpret. 
 
 And besides the ostensible intention, the reader will 
 perceive that my judge has discovered another latent 
 motive, which I had "locked up in my own breast." 
 The sly rogue! (if we may so speak of the court.) There 
 is no keeping anything from him; and this truth, like the 
 rest, has come out, and is all over England by this time. 
 Oh, that all England, which has bought the judge's 
 charge, would purchase the prisoner's plea in mitiga- 
 tion ! "Oh, that any muse should be set on a high 
 stool," says the bench, " to cast up accounts and balance
 
 232 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 a ledger! Yet so it is; and the popular author finds it 
 convenient to fill up the declared deficit by the emission 
 of Christmas books a kind of assignats that bear the 
 stamp of their origin in the vacuity of the writer's ex- 
 chequer." There is a trope for you! You rascal, you 
 wrote because you wanted money ! His lordship has 
 found out what you were at, and that there is a deficit 
 in your till. But he goes on to say that we poor devils 
 are to be pitied in our necessity ; and that these com- 
 positions are no more to be taken as examples of our 
 merits than the verses which the dustman leaves at his 
 lordship's door, " as a provocative of the expected annual 
 gratuity," are to be considered as measuring his, the 
 scavenger's, valuable services nevertheless the author's 
 and the scavenger's "effusions may fairly be classed, 
 for their intrinsic worth, no less than their ultimate 
 purport." 
 
 Heaven bless his lordship on the bench What a 
 gentleman-like badinage he has, and what a charming 
 and playful wit always at hand ! What a sense he has for 
 a simile, or what Mrs. Malaprop calls an odorous com- 
 parison, and how gracefully he conducts it to " its ultim- 
 ate purport." A gentleman writing a poor little book is 
 a scavenger asking for a Christmas-box ! 
 
 As I try this small beer which has called down such a 
 deal of thunder, I can't help thinking that it is not Jove 
 who has interfered (the case was scarce worthy of his 
 divine vindictiveness) ; but the Thunderer's man, Jupiter 
 Jeames, taking his master's place, adopting his manner, 
 and trying to dazzle and roar like his awful employer. 
 That figure of the dustman has hardly been flung from 
 heaven: that " ultimate purport " is a subject which the 
 Immortal would hardly handle. Well, well; let us allow 
 that the book is not worthy of such a polite critic that 
 the beer is not strong enough for a gentleman who has 
 taste and experience in beer. 
 
 That opinion no man can ask his honour to alter; but 
 (the beer being the question), why make unpleasant 
 allusions to the Gazette, and hint at the probable bank-
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER 233 
 
 ruptcy of the brewer? Why twit me with my poverty; 
 and what can the Times' critic know about the vacuity 
 of my exchequer? Did he ever lend me any money? 
 Does he not himself write for money? (and who would 
 grudge it to such a polite and generous and learned 
 author?) If he finds no disgrace in being paid, why 
 should I? If he has ever been poor, why should he joke 
 at my empty exchequer? Of course such a genius is paid 
 for his work: with such neat logic, such a pure style, 
 such a charming poetical turn of phrase, of course a 
 critic gets money. Why, a man who can say of a Christ- 
 mas book that "it is an opuscule denominated so-and- 
 so, and ostensibly intended to swell the tide of expansive 
 emotion incident upon the exodus of the old year, "must 
 evidently have had immense sums and care expended on 
 his early education, and deserves a splendid return. You 
 can't go into the market, and get a scholarship like that, 
 without paying for it: even the flogging that such a 
 writer must have had in early youth (if he was at a public 
 school where the rods weie paid for), must have cost 
 his parents a good sum. Where would you find any but 
 an accomplished classical scholar to compare the books 
 of the present (or indeed any other) writer to " sardonic 
 divings after the pearl of truth, whose lustre is eclipsed 
 in the display of the diseased oyster;" mere Billingsgate 
 doesn't turn out oysters like these; they are of the 
 Lucrine lake : this satirist has pickled his rods in Latin 
 brine. Fancy, not merely a diver, but a sardonic diver: 
 and the expression of his confounded countenance on 
 discovering not only a pearl, but an eclipsed pearl, which 
 was in a diseased oyster ! I say it is only by an uncom- 
 mon and happy combination of taste, genius, and in- 
 dustry, that a man can arrive at uttering such senti- 
 ments in such fine language, that such a man ought to 
 be well paid, as I have no doubt he is, and that he is 
 worthily employed to write literary articles, in large 
 type, in the leading journal of Europe. Don't we want 
 men of eminence and polite learning to sit on the literary 
 bench, and to direct the public opinion? 
 
 But when this profound scholar compares me to a
 
 234 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 scavenger who leaves a copy of verses at his door and 
 begs for a Christmas-box, I must again cry out and say, 
 " My dear sir, it is true your simile is offensive, but can 
 you make it out? Are you not hasty in your figures and 
 allusions?" If I might give a hint to so consummate a 
 rhetorician, you should be more careful in making your 
 figures figures, and your similes like : for instance, when 
 you talk of a book " swelling the tide of exhilaration in- 
 cident to the inauguration of the new year," or of a book 
 " bearing the stamp of its origin in vacuity," etc., or 
 of a man diving sardonically ; or of a pearl eclipsed in 
 the display of a diseased oyster there are some people 
 who will not apprehend your meaning : some will doubt 
 whether you had a meaning : some even will question 
 your great powers, and say, " Is this man to be a critic 
 in a newspaper, which knows what English, and Latin 
 too, and what sense and scholarship, are?" I don't 
 quarrel with you I take for granted your wit and 
 learning, your modesty and benevolence but why sca- 
 venger Jupiter Jeames why scavenger? A gentleman, 
 whose biography the Examiner was fond of quoting be- 
 fore it took its present serious and orthodox turn, was 
 pursued by an outraged wife to the very last stage of his 
 existence with an appeal almost as pathetic Ah, sir, 
 why scavenger? 
 
 How can I be like a dustman that rings for a Christ- 
 mas-box at your hall-door? I never was there in my 
 life. I never left at your door a copy of verses provocat- 
 ive of an annual gratuity, as your noble honour styles it. 
 Who are you? If you are the man I take you to be, it 
 must have been you who asked the publisher for my 
 book, and not I who sent it in, and begged a gratuity of 
 your worship. You abused me out of the Times' win- 
 dow ; but if ever your noble honour sent me a gratuity 
 out of your own door, may I never drive another dust- 
 cart. " Provocative of a gratuity !" O splendid swell! 
 How much was it your worship sent out to me by the 
 footman? Every farthing you have paid I will restore to 
 your lordship, and I swear I shall not be a halfpenny the 
 poorer.
 
 ON THUNDER AND SMALL BEER 235 
 
 As before, and on similar seasons and occasions, I 
 have compared myself to a person following- a not dis- 
 similar calling : let me suppose now, for a minute, that 
 I am a writer of a Christmas farce, who sits in the pit, 
 and sees the performance of his own piece. There comes 
 applause, hissing, yawning, laughter, as may be: but 
 the loudest critic of all is our friend the cheap buck, who 
 sits yonder and makes his remarks, that all the audience 
 may hear. c ' This a farce !" says Beau Tibbs : " demmy! 
 it 's the work of a poor devil who writes for money 
 confound his vulgarity ! This a farce ! Why isn't it a 
 tragedy, or a comedy, or an epic poem, stap my vitals? 
 This a farce indeed! It's a feller as sends round his 
 'at, and appeals to charity. Let 's 'ave our money back 
 again, I say." And he swaggers off; and you find the 
 fellow came with an author's order. 
 
 But if, in spite of Tibbs, our " kyind friends," etc., 
 etc., etc. if the little farce, which was meant to amuse 
 Christmas (or what my classical friend calls Exodus), is 
 asked for, even up to Twelfth Night, shall the publisher 
 stop because Tibbs is dissatisfied? Whenever that 
 capitalist calls to get his money back, he may see the 
 letter from the respected publisher, informing the author 
 that all the copies are sold, and that there are demands 
 for a new edition. Up with the curtain, then! Vivat 
 Regina! and no money returned, except the Times' 
 " gratuity!"
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 
 
 [The Book of Snobs has two aspects of importance in Thackeray's 
 career. It is the logical completion of his early criticisms; 
 and it is the illogical beginning of his mature fiction. It is the 
 satire of Titmarsh and Yellowplush in its most scientific and sys- 
 tematic form. It is also the romance of Pendennis and Newcome 
 in its most dim and embryonic form. The present compiler has 
 selected two passages to represent this double quality in The 
 Book of Snobs. He has taken one scene from Mr. Snob's visit to 
 Major Ponto as an instance of a passage sufficiently realistic to 
 have occurred in any of the novels afterwards.] 
 
 ON SOME COUNTRY SNOBS 
 (FROM CHAPTERS XXIV-XXVI) 
 
 CLANG ! At the end of the thirty minutes, dinner-bell num- 
 ber two pealed from the adjacent turret. I hastened down- 
 stairs, expecting to find a score of healthy country folks 
 in the drawing-room. There was only one person there; 
 a tall and Roman-nosed lady, glistening- 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!" 
 
 236
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 237 
 
 "Oh!" said I; not knowing what the deuce Mrs. 
 Major Ponto meant. 
 
 " Major Ponto told me that you were of the Leicester- 
 shire 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 cloofi, by which 
 well-known sound I was aware that somebody was open- 
 ing 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 Ruba- 
 dub. 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, ab- 
 surd, disgusting "Peerage" open on the table, inter- 
 leaved with annotations, and open at the article " Snob- 
 bington." 
 
 " Dinner is served," says Stripes, flinging open the 
 door; and I gave Mrs. Major Ponto my arm. 
 
 Of the dinner to which we now sat down, I am not 
 going to be a severe critic. The mahogany I hold to be 
 inviolable ; but this I will say, that I prefer sherry to 
 marsala when I can get it, and the latter was the wine 
 of which I have no doubt I heard the " cloop" just be- 
 fore dinner. Nor was it particularly good of its kind ; 
 however, Mrs. Major Ponto did not evidently know the 
 difference, for she called the liquor Amontillado during
 
 238 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 the whole of the repast, and drank but half a glass of it, 
 leaving" the rest for the Major and his guest. 
 
 Stripes was in the livery of the Ponto family a thought 
 shabby, but gorgeous in the extreme lots of magnificent 
 worsted lace, and livery buttons of a very notable size. 
 The honest fellow's hands, I remarked, were very 
 large and black; and a fine odour of the stable was 
 wafted about the room as he moved to and fro in his 
 ministration. I should have preferred a clean maid- 
 servant, but the sensations of Londoners are too acute 
 perhaps on these subjects; and a faithful John, after all, 
 is more genteel. 
 
 From the circumstance of the dinner being composed 
 of pig's-head mock-turtle soup, of pig's-fry and roast 
 ribs of pork, I am led to imagine that one of Ponto's 
 black Hampshires had been sacrificed a short time previ- 
 ous to my visit. It was an excellent and comfortable re- 
 past ; only there was rather a sameness in it, certainly. 
 I made a similar remark the next day. 
 
 During the dinner Mrs. Ponto asked me many ques- 
 tions regarding the nobility, my relatives. "When 
 Lady Angelina Skeggs would come out; and if the 
 countess her mamma" (this was said with much arch- 
 ness and he-he-ing) " still wore that extraordinary purple 
 hair-dye?" " Whether my Lord Guttlebury kept, besides 
 his French chef, and an English cordon-bleu for the 
 roasts, an Italian for the confectionery?" "Who attended 
 at Lady Clapperclaw's conversazioni?" and " whether 
 Sir John Champignon's ' Thursday mornings ' were 
 pleasant?" " Was it true that Lady Carabas, wanting to 
 pawn her diamonds, found that they. were paste, and 
 that the Marquis had disposed of them before-hand?" 
 " How was it that Snuffin, the great tobacco-merchant, 
 broke off the marriage which was on the tapis between 
 him and their second daughter; and was it true that a 
 mulatto lady came over from the Havanna and forbade 
 the match?" 
 
 " Upon my word, Madam," I had begun, and was 
 going on to say that I didn't know one word about all 
 these matters which seemed so to interest Mrs. Major
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 239 
 
 Ponto, when the Major, giving me a tread or stamp 
 with his large foot under the table, said 
 
 "Come, come, Snob my boy, we are all tiled, you 
 know. We know you're one of the fashionable people 
 about town : -we saw your name at Lady Clapperclaw's 
 soirees, and the Champignon breakfasts ; and as for the 
 Rubadubs, of course, as relations " 
 
 " Oh, of course, I dine there twice a week," I said; 
 and then I remembered that my cousin, Humphry 
 Snob, of the Middle Temple, is a great frequenter of 
 genteel societies, and to have seen his name in the 
 Morning Post at the tag-end of several party lists. So, 
 taking the hint, I am ashamed to say I indulged Mrs. 
 Major Ponto with a deal of information about the first 
 families in England, such as would astonish those great 
 personages if they knew it. I described to her most 
 accurately the three reigning beauties of last season at 
 Almack's: told her in confidence that his Grace the 
 
 D of W was going to be married the day after 
 
 his Statue was put up; that his Grace the D of 
 
 D was also about to lead the fourth daughter of the 
 
 Archduke Stephen to the hymeneal altar: and talked to 
 her, in a word, just in the style of Mrs. Gore's last 
 fashionable novel. 
 
 Mrs. Major was quite fascinated by this brilliant con- 
 versation. She began to trot out scraps of French, just 
 for all the world as they do in the novels ; and kissed 
 her hand to me quite graciously, telling me to come 
 soon to caffy, ung pu de Mustek o salong with which 
 she tripped off like an elderly fairy. 
 
 " Shall I open a bottle of port, or do you ever drink 
 such a thing as Hollands and water? " says Ponto, look- 
 ing ruefully at me. This was a very different style of 
 thing to what I had been led to expect from him at our 
 smoking-room at the Club: where he swaggers about 
 his horses and his cellar: and slapping me on the 
 shoulder used to say, "Come down to Mangelwurzel- 
 shire, Snob my boy, and I'll give you as good a day's 
 shooting and as good a glass of claret as any in the 
 county." "Well," I said, "I liked Hollands much
 
 2 4 o WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 better than port, and gin even better than Hollands." 
 This was lucky : it was gin ; and Stripes brought in hot 
 water on a splendid plated tray. 
 
 The jingling of a harp and piano soon announced that 
 Mrs. Ponto's ung pu de Mustek had commenced, and the 
 smell of the stable again entering the dining-room, in 
 the person of Stripes, summoned us to caffy and the 
 little concert. She beckoned me with a winning smile 
 to the sofa, on which she made room for me, and where 
 we could command a fine view of the backs of the young 
 ladies who were performing the musical entertainment. 
 Very broad backs they were too, strictly according to 
 the present mode, for crinoline or its substitutes is not 
 an expensive luxury, and young people in the country 
 can afford to be in the fashion at very trifling charges. 
 Miss Emily Ponto at the piano, and her sister Maria at 
 that somewhat exploded instrument, the harp, were in 
 light blue dresses that looked all flounce, and spread out 
 like Mr. Green's balloon when inflated. 
 
 " Brilliant touch Emily has what a fine arm Maria's 
 is," Mrs. Ponto remarked good-naturedly, pointing out 
 the merits of her daughters, and waving her own arm 
 in such a way as to show that she was not a little satis- 
 fied with the beauty of that member. I observed she 
 had about nine bracelets and bangles, consisting of 
 chains and padlocks, the Major's miniature, and a 
 variety of brass serpents, with fiery ruby or tender tur- 
 quoise eyes, writhing up to her elbow almost, in the 
 most profuse contortions. 
 
 "You recognize those polkas? They were played at 
 Devonshire House on the 23rd of July, the day of the 
 grand fete." So I said yes I knew 'em quite inti- 
 mately; and began wagging my head as if in acknow- 
 ledgment of those old friends. 
 
 When the performance was concluded, I had the 
 felicity of a presentation and conversation with the two 
 tall and scraggy Miss Pontos; and Miss Wirt, the 
 governess, sat down to entertain us with variations on 
 " Sich a gettin' up Stairs." They were determined to be 
 in the fashion.
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 241 
 
 For the performance of the "Gettin' up Stairs," I 
 have no other name but that it was a stunner. First 
 Miss Wirt, with great deliberation, played the original 
 and beautiful melody, cutting it, as it were, out of the 
 instrument, and firing off each note so loud, clear, and 
 sharp, that I am sure Stripes must have heard it in the 
 stable. 
 
 "What a finger!" says Mrs. Ponto; and indeed it 
 was a finger, as knotted as a turkey's drumstick, and 
 splaying all over the piano. When she had banged out 
 the tune slowly, she began a different manner of " Gettin' 
 uy Stairs," and did so with a fury and swiftness quite 
 incredible. She spun upstairs; she whirled up stairs; 
 she galloped up stairs; she rattled up stairs; and then 
 having got the tune to the top landing, as it were, she 
 hurled it down again shrieking to the bottom floor, 
 where it sank in a crash as if exhausted by the breath- 
 less rapidity of the descent. Then Miss Wirt played the 
 " Gettin' up Stairs " with the most pathetic and ravish- 
 ing solemnity: plaintive moans and sobs issued from 
 the keys you wept and trembled as you were gettin' up 
 stairs. Miss Wirt's hands seemed to faint and wail and 
 die in variations : again, and she went up with a savage 
 clang and rush of trumpets, as if Miss Wirt was storm- 
 ing a breach; and although I knew nothing of music, as 
 I sat and listened with my mouth open to this wonderful 
 display, my caffy grew cold, and I wondered the windows 
 did not crack and the chandelier start out of the beam 
 at the sound of this earthquake of a piece of music. 
 
 "Glorious creature! Isn't she?" said Mrs. Ponto. 
 " Squirtz's favourite pupil inestimable to have such a 
 creature. Lady Carabas would give her eyes for her! 
 A prodigy of accomplishments ! Thank you, Miss Wirt ! " 
 and the young ladies gave a heave and a gasp of 
 admiration a deep-breathing gushing sound, such as 
 you hear at church when the sermon comes to a full 
 stop. 
 
 Miss Wirt put her two great double-knuckled hands 
 round a waist of her two pupils, and said, " My dear 
 children, I hope you will be able to play it soon as well 
 
 R
 
 242 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 as your poor little governess. When I lived with the 
 Dunsinanes, it was the dear Duchess's favourite, and 
 Lady Barbara and Lady Jane Macbeth learned it. It was 
 while hearing" Jane play that, I remember, that dear 
 Lord Castletoddy first fell in love with her? and though 
 he is but an Irish Peer, with not more than fifteen thou- 
 sand a year, I persuaded Jane to have him. Do you 
 know Castletoddy, Mr. Snob? round towers sweet 
 place County Mayo. Old Lord Castletoddy (the pre- 
 sent Lord was then Lord Inishowan) was a most eccen- 
 tric old man they say he was mad. I heard his Royal 
 Highness the poor dear Duke of Sussex (such a man, 
 my dears, but alas! addicted to smoking!) I heard his 
 Royal Highness say to the Marquis of Anglesea, ' I am 
 sure Castletoddy is mad!' but Inishowan wasn't in 
 marrying my sweet Jane, though the dear child had but 
 her ten thousand pounds pour tout potage\ " 
 
 ''Most invaluable person," whispered Mrs. Major 
 Ponto to me. " Has lived in the very highest society; " 
 and I, who have been accustomed to see governesses 
 bullied in the world, was delighted to find this one 
 ruling the roast, and to think that even the majestic 
 Mrs. Ponto bent before her. 
 
 As for my pipe, so to speak, it went out at once. I 
 hadn't a word to say against a woman who was intimate 
 with every Duchess in the Red Book. She wasn't the 
 rosebud, but she had been near it. She had rubbed 
 shoulders with the great, and about these we talked all 
 the evening incessantly, and about the fashions, and 
 about the Court, until bed-time came. 
 
 " And are there Snobs in this Elysium? " I exclaimed, 
 jumping into the lavender-perfumed bed. Ponto's 
 snoring boomed from the neighbouring bed-room in 
 reply. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Something like a Journal of the proceedings at the 
 Evergreens may be interesting to those foreign readers 
 of Punch who want to know the customs of an English 
 gentleman's family and household. There 's plenty of
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 243 
 
 time to keep the Journal. Piano-strumming begins at 
 six o'clock in the morning; it lasts till breakfast, with 
 but a minute's intermission, when the instrument changes 
 hands, and Miss Emily practises in place of her sister 
 Miss Maria. 
 
 In fact, the confounded instrument never stops: when 
 the young ladies are at their lessons, Miss Wirt ham- 
 mers away at those stunning variations, and keeps her 
 magnificent finger in exercise. 
 
 I asked this great creature in what other branches of 
 education she instructed her pupils? "The modern lan- 
 guages," says she modestly : " French, German, Spanish, 
 and Italian, Latin and the rudiments of Greek if de- 
 sired. English of course; the practice of Elocution, 
 Geography, and Astronomy, and the Use of the Globes, 
 Algebra (but only as far as quadratic equations) ; for a 
 poor ignorant female, you know, Mr. Snob, cannot be 
 expected to know everything. Ancient and Modern 
 History no young woman can be without; and of these 
 I make my beloved pupils perfect mistresses. Botany, 
 Geology, and Mineralogy, I consider as amusements. 
 And with these I assure you we manage to pass the 
 days at the Evergreens not unpleasantly." 
 
 Only these, thought I what an education! But I 
 looked in one of Miss Ponto's manuscript song-books 
 and found five faults of French in four words : and in a 
 waggish mood asking Miss Wirt whether Dante Algiery 
 was so called because he was born at Algiers, received 
 a smiling answer in the affirmative, which made me 
 rather doubt about the accuracy of Miss Wirt's know- 
 ledge. 
 
 When the above little morning occupations are con- 
 cluded, these unfortunate young women perform what 
 they call Calisthenic Exercises in the garden. I saw 
 them to-day, without any crinoline, pulling the garden- 
 roller. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Ponto was in the garden too, and as limp 
 as her daughters; in a faded bandeau of hair, in a
 
 244 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 battered bonnet, in a Holland pinafore, in pattens, on a 
 broken chair, snipping leaves off a vine. Mrs. Ponto 
 measures many yards about in an evening. Ye heavens ! 
 what a guy she is in that skeleton morning-costume ! 
 
 Besides Stripes, they keep a boy called Thomas or 
 Tummus. Tummus works in the garden or about the 
 pigsty and stable ; Thomas wears a page's costume of 
 eruptive buttons. 
 
 When anybody calls, and Stripes is out of the way, 
 Tummus flings himself like mad into Thomas's clothes, 
 and comes out metamorphosed like Harlequin in the 
 pantomime. To-day, as Mrs. P. was cutting the grape- 
 vine, as the young ladies were at the roller, down comes 
 Tummus like a roaring whirlwind, with "Missus, Missus, 
 there's company coomin'!" Away skurry the young 
 ladies from the roller, down comes Mrs. P. from the 
 old chair, off flies Tummus to change his clothes, and 
 in an incredibly short space of time Sir John Hawbuck, 
 my Lady Hawbuck, and Master Hugh Hawbuck are 
 introduced into the garden with brazen effrontery by 
 Thomas, who says, " Please Sir Jan and my Lady to 
 walk this year way: / know Missus is in the rose- 
 garden." 
 
 And there, sure enough, she was ! 
 
 In a pretty little garden bonnet, with beautiful curling 
 ringlets, with the smartest of aprons and the freshest of 
 pearl-coloured gloves, this amazing woman was in the 
 arms of her dearest Lady Hawbuck. " Dearest Lady 
 Hawbuck, how good of you ! Always among my flowers ! 
 can't live away from them ! " 
 
 " Sweets to the sweet! hum a-ha haw!" says Sir 
 John Hawbuck, who piques himself on his gallantry, 
 and says nothing without " a-hum a-ha a-haw! " 
 
 ' ' Whereth yaw pinnafaw ! " cries Master Hugh. ' ' We 
 thaw you in it, over the wall, didn't we, Pa?" 
 
 "Hum a-ha a-haw!" burst out Sir John, dread- 
 fully alarmed. "Where's Ponto? Why wasn't he at 
 Quarter Sessions? How are his birds this year, Mrs. 
 Ponto have those Carabas pheasants done any harm 
 to your wheat? a-hum a-ha a-haw!" and all this
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 245 
 
 while he was making- the most ferocious and desperate 
 signals to his youthful heir. 
 
 "Well, she -wath in her pinnafaw, wathn't she, Ma?" 
 says Hugh, quite unabashed ; which question Lady 
 Hawbuck turned away with a sudden query regarding 
 her dear darling daughters, and the enfant terrible was 
 removed by his father. 
 
 " I hope you weren't disturbed by the music? " Ponto 
 says. " My girls, you know, practise four hours a day, 
 you know must do it, you know absolutely necessary. 
 As for me, you know I'm an early man, and in my farm 
 every morning at five no, no laziness for me." 
 
 The facts are these. Ponto goes to sleep directly after 
 dinner on entering the drawing-room, and wakes up 
 when the ladies leave off practice at ten. From seven 
 till ten, and from ten till five, is a very fair allowance of 
 slumber for a man who says he 's not a lazy man. It is 
 my private opinion that when Ponto retires to what is 
 called his " Study," he sleeps too. He locks himself up 
 there daily two hours with the newspaper. 
 
 I saw the Hawbuck scene out of the Study, which 
 commands the garden. It 's a curious object, that Study. 
 Ponto's library mostly consists of boots. He and Stripes 
 have important interviews here of mornings, when the 
 potatoes are discussed, or the fate of the calf ordained, 
 or sentence passed on the pig, etc. All the Major's bills 
 are docketed on the Study table and displayed like a 
 lawyer's briefs. Here, too, lie displayed his hooks, 
 knives, and other gardening irons, his whistles, and 
 strings of spare buttons. He has a drawer of endless 
 brown paper for parcels, and another containing a pro- 
 digious and never-failing supply of string. What a man 
 can want with so many gig-whips I can never conceive. 
 These, and fishing-rods, and landing-nets, and spurs, 
 and boot-trees, and balls for horses, and surgical imple- 
 ments for the same, and favourite pots of shiny black- 
 ing, with which he paints his own shoes in the most 
 elegant manner, and buck-skin gloves stretched out on
 
 246 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 their trees, and his gorget, sash, and sabre of the Horse 
 Marines, with his boot-hooks underneath in a trophy ; 
 and the family medicine-chest, and in a corner the very 
 rod with which he used to whip his son, Wellesley 
 Ponto, when a boy (Wellesley never entered the "Study" 
 but for that awful purpose) all these with " Mogg's 
 Road Book," the Gardeners' Chronicle, and a back- 
 gammon board, form the Major's library. Under the 
 trophy there 's a picture of Mrs. Ponto, in a light blue 
 dress and train, and no waist, when she was first 
 married ; a fox's brush lies over the frame, and serves 
 to keep the dust off that work of art. 
 
 "My library's small," says Ponto, with the most 
 amazing impudence, "but well selected, my boy well 
 selected. I have been reading the ' History of England ' 
 all the morning." 
 
 SNOBBIUM GATHERUM 
 (CHAPTER XXXII) 
 
 [The other aspect of The Book of Snobs is its general vein of 
 riotous and rambling irony. This quality, since it pervades the 
 whole book, is much more difficult to exemplify. Upon the whole 
 the essay in answer to the lady inquirers would seem to possess 
 the fullest flavour of this cynical champagne, the very effervescence 
 of incredulity.] 
 
 WHEN I see the great effect which these papers are pro- 
 ducing on an intelligent public, I have a strong hope 
 that before long we shall have a regular Snob-depart- 
 ment in the newspapers, just as we have the Police 
 Courts and the Court News at present. When a flagrant 
 case of bone-crushing or Poor-law abuse occurs in the 
 world, who so eloquent as the Times to point it out? 
 When a gross instance of Snobbishness happens, why 
 should not the indignant journalist call the public atten- 
 tion to that delinquency too? 
 
 How, for instance, could that wonderful case of the
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 247 
 
 Earl of Mangelwurzel and his brother be examined in 
 the Snobbish point of view? Let alone the hectoring 1 , 
 the bullying-, the vapouring, the bad grammar, the mutual 
 recriminations, lie-givings, challenges, retractions, which 
 abound in the fraternal dispute put out of the question 
 these points as concerning the individual nobleman and 
 his relative, with whose personal affairs we have nothing 
 to do and consider how intimately corrupt, how habit- 
 ually grovelling and mean, how entirely Snobbish, in a 
 word, a whole county must be which can find no better 
 chiefs or leaders than these two gentlemen. " We don't 
 want," the great county of Mangelwurzelshire seems to 
 say, "that a man should be able to write good gram- 
 mar ; or that he should keep a Christian tongue in his 
 head; or that he should have the commonest decency 
 of temper, or even a fair share of good sense, in order 
 to represent us in Parliament. All we require is, that a 
 man should be recommended to us by the Earl of 
 Mangelwurzelshire. And all that we require of the Earl 
 of Mangelwurzelshire is that he should have fifty thou- 
 sand a year and hunt the country." O you pride of all 
 Snobland! O you crawling, truckling, self-confessed 
 lacqueys and parasites ! 
 
 But this is growing too savage: don't let us forget 
 our usual amenity, and that tone of playfulness and 
 sentiment with which the beloved reader and writer 
 have pursued their mutual reflections hitherto. Well, 
 Snobbishness pervades the little Social Farce as well as 
 the great State Comedy; and the self-same moral is 
 tacked to either. 
 
 There was, for instance, an account in the papers of 
 a young lady who, misled by a fortune-teller, actually 
 went part of the way to India (as far as Bagnigge Wells, 
 I think), in search of a husband who was promised her 
 there. Do you suppose this poor deluded little soul 
 would have left her shop for a man below her in rank, 
 or for anything but a darling of a Captain in epaulets 
 and a red coat? It was her Snobbish sentiment that 
 misled her, and made her vanities a prey to the swind- 
 ling fortune-teller.
 
 248 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Case 2 was that of Mademoiselle de Saugrenue, "the 
 interesting young Frenchwoman with a profusion of 
 jetty ringlets," who lived for nothing at a boarding- 
 house at Gosport, was then conveyed to Fareham gratis : 
 and being there, and lying on the bed of the good old 
 lady her entertainer, the dear girl took occasion to rip 
 open the mattress, and steal a cash-box, with which 
 she fled to London. How would you account for the 
 prodigious benevolence exercised towards the inter- 
 esting young French lady? Was it her jetty ringlets 
 or her charming face? Bah! Do ladies love others 
 for having pretty faces and black hair? she said she 
 -was a relation of Lord de Saugrenue: talked of her 
 ladyship her aunt, and of herself as a De Saugrenue. 
 The honest boarding-house people were at her feet at 
 once. Good, honest, simple, lord-loving children of 
 Snobland ! 
 
 Finally, there was the case of " the Right Honourable 
 Mr. Vernon," at York. The Right Honourable was the 
 son of a nobleman, and practised on an old lady. He 
 procured from her dinners, money, wearing-apparel, 
 spoons, implicit credence, and an entire refit of linen. 
 Then he casts his net over a family of father, mother, 
 and daughters, one of whom he proposed to marry. 
 The father lent him money, the mother made jams and 
 pickles for him, the daughters vied with each other in 
 cooking dinners for the Right Honourable and what 
 was the end? One day the traitor fled, with a teapot and 
 a basketful of cold victuals. It was the " Right Honour- 
 able " which baited the hook which gorged all these 
 greedy, simple Snobs. Would they have been taken in 
 by a commoner? What old lady is there, my dear sir, 
 who would take in you and me, were we ever so ill to 
 do, and comfort us, and clothe us, and give us her 
 money, and her silver forks? Alas and alas ! what mortal 
 man that speaks the truth can hope for such a land- 
 lady? And yet, all these instances of fond and credulous 
 Snobbishness have occurred in the same week's paper 
 with who knows how many score more. 
 
 Just as we had concluded the above remarks comes a
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 249 
 
 pretty little note sealed with a pretty little butterfly 
 bearing a northern postmark and to the following 
 effect : 
 
 " \f)th November. 
 
 "MR. PUNCH, Taking great interest in your Snob 
 Papers, we are very anxious to know under what class 
 of that respectable fraternity you would designate us. 
 
 " We are three sisters, from seventeen to twenty-two. 
 Our father is honestly and truly of a very good family 
 (you will say it is Snobbish to mention that, but I wish 
 to state the plain fact) ; our maternal grandfather was 
 an Earl. 1 
 
 ' ' We can afford to take in a stamped edition of you, 
 and all Dickens' works as fast as they come out, but we 
 do not keep such a thing as a Peerage or even a Baronet- 
 age in the house. 
 
 ' ' W T e live with every comfort, excellent cellar, etc. 
 etc.; but as we cannot well afford a butler, we have a 
 neat table-maid (though our father was a military man, 
 has travelled much, been in the best society, etc.). We 
 have a coachman and helper, but we don't put the latter 
 into buttons, nor make them wait at table, like Stripes 
 and Tummus. 8 
 
 "We are just the same to persons with a handle to 
 their name as to those without it. We wear a moderate 
 modicum of crinoline, 3 and are never limp*' in the morn- 
 ing. We have good and abundant dinners on china 
 (though we have plate 8 ), and just as good when alone 
 as with company. 
 
 1 ' Now, my dear Mr. Punch^ will you please give us a 
 short answer in your next number, and I will be so much 
 obliged to you. Nobody knows we are writing to you, 
 not even our father ; nor will we ever tease you 6 again 
 
 1 The introduction of Grandpapa is, I fear, Snobbish. 
 
 * That is as you like. I don't object to buttons in moderation. 
 
 3 Quite right. 4 Bless you ! 
 
 5 Snobbish; and I doubt whether you ought to dine as well 
 when alone as with company. You will be getting too good 
 dinners. 
 
 6 We like to be teased ; but tell Papa.
 
 250 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 if you will only give us an answer just for fun, now 
 do! 
 
 " If you get as far as this, which is doubtful, you will 
 probably fling it into the fire. If you do, I cannot help 
 it; but I am of a sanguine disposition, and entertain a 
 lingering hope. At all events, I shall be impatient for 
 next Sunday, for you reach us on that day, and I am 
 ashamed to confess, we cannot resist opening you in the 
 carriage driving home from church. 1 I remain, etc. 
 etc. , for myself and sisters. 
 
 " Excuse this scrawl, but I always write headlong" 2 
 
 " P.S. You were rather stupid last week, don't you 
 think? 3 We keep no gamekeeper, and yet have always 
 abundant game for friends to shoot, in spite of the 
 poachers. We never write on perfumed paper in short, 
 I can't help thinking that if you knew us you would not 
 think us Snobs." 
 
 To this I reply in the following manner: 
 
 " My dear young ladies, I know your post-town: and 
 shall be at church there the Sunday after next; when, 
 will you please to wear a tulip or some little trifle in 
 your bonnets, so that I may know you? You will re- 
 cognize me and my dress a quiet-looking young fellow, 
 in a white top-coat, a crimson satin neckcloth, light blue 
 trousers, with glossy tipped boots, and an emerald 
 breast-pin. I shall have a black crape round my white 
 hat : and my usual bamboo cane with the richly-gilt 
 knob. I am sorry there will be no time to get up mous- 
 taches between now and next week. 
 
 " From seventeen to two-and-twenty ! Ye Gods! what 
 ages! Dear young creatures, I can see you all three. 
 Seventeen suits me, as nearest my own time of life ; but 
 mind, I don't say two-and-twenty is too old. No, no. 
 
 1 O garters and stars ! what will Captain Gordon and Exeter 
 Hall say to this? 
 
 2 Dear little enthusiast ! 
 
 3 You were never more mistaken, Miss, in your life.
 
 THE BOOK OF SNOBS 251 
 
 And that pretty, roguish, demure middle one. Peace, 
 peace, thou silly little fluttering heart ! 
 
 " You Snobs, dear young ladies! I will pull any man's 
 nose who says so. There is no harm in being of a good 
 family. You can't help it, poor dears. What 's in a 
 name? What is in a handle to it? I confess openly that 
 I should not object to being a Duke myself; and between 
 ourselves you might see a worse leg for a garter. 
 
 "You Snobs, dear little good-natured things, no! 
 that is, I hope not I think not I won't be too con- 
 fident none of us should be that we are not Snobs. 
 That very confidence savours of arrogance, and to be 
 arrogant is to be a Snob. In all the social gradations 
 from sneak to tyrant, nature has placed a most wondrous 
 and various progeny of Snobs. But are there no kindly 
 natures, no tender hearts, no souls humble, simple, and 
 truth-loving? Ponder well on this question, sweet young 
 ladies. And if you can answer it, as no doubt you can 
 lucky are you and lucky the respected Herr Papa, and 
 lucky the three handsome young gentlemen who are 
 about to become each others' brothers-in-law."
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 
 
 [Thackeray, like every true novelist, probably regarded novels 
 as the most serious things in the world. Nevertheless it must not 
 be forgotten that what he wrote outside fiction was not all fan- 
 tastic essay or avowedly idle satire. If he did not exactly appear 
 as an historian, he appeared quite positively as a contributor to 
 history. He loved the eighteenth century atmosphere so much 
 that he was almost an eighteenth century writer; if he did not 
 write history, he wrote memoirs memoirs of the things he could 
 not remember. This book gives so much of Thackeray that is 
 light and fanciful that it would be unfair to leave out what was 
 elaborate. Probably the most elaborate and detailed of these, his 
 contributions to history is the celebrated essay on George IV, in 
 The Four Georges.} 
 
 IN Twiss's amusing Life of Eldon, we read how, on the 
 death of the Duke of York, the old Chancellor became 
 possessed of a lock of the defunct Prince's hair; and so 
 careful was he respecting" the authenticity of the relic, 
 that Bessy Eldon his wife sat in the room with the 
 young man from Hamlet's, who distributed the ringlet 
 into separate lockets, which each of the Eldon family 
 afterwards wore. You know how, when George IV 
 come to Edinburgh, a better man than he went on board 
 the royal yacht to welcome the King to his kingdom of 
 Scotland, seized a goblet from which his Majesty had 
 just drunk, vowed it should remain for ever as an heir- 
 loom in his family, clapped the precious glass in his 
 pocket, and sat down on it and broke it when he got 
 home. Suppose the good sheriffs prize unbroken now 
 at Abbotsford, should we not smile with something like 
 pity as we beheld it? Suppose one of those lockets of 
 the no-Popery Prince's hair offered for sale at Christie's, 
 quot libras e duce summo invenies? how many pounds 
 
 2 S 2
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 253 
 
 would you find for the illustrious Duke? Madame Tus- 
 saud has got King George's coronation robes ; is there 
 any man now alive who would kiss the hem of that 
 trumpery? He sleeps since thirty years; do not any of 
 you, who remember him, wonder that you once respected 
 and huzza'd and admired him? 
 
 To make a portrait of him at first seemed a matter of 
 small difficulty. There is his coat, his star, his wig, his 
 countenance simpering under it : with a slate and a 
 piece of chalk, I could at this very desk perform a recog- 
 nizable likeness of him. And yet after reading of him 
 in scores of volumes, hunting him through old maga- 
 zines and newspapers, having him here at a ball, there 
 at a public dinner, there at races and so forth, you find 
 you have nothing nothing but a coat and a wig and a 
 mask smiling below it nothing but a great simulacrum. 
 His sire and grandsires were men. One knows what 
 they were like: what they would do in given circum- 
 stances : that on occasion they fought and demeaned 
 themselves like tough good soldiers. They had friends 
 whom they liked according to their natures; enemies 
 whom they hated fiercely; passions, and actions, and 
 individualities of their own. The sailor King who came 
 after George was a man: the Duke of York was a man, 
 big, burly, loud, jolly, cursing, courageous. But this 
 George, what was he? I look through all his life, and 
 recognize but a bow and a grin. I try and take him to 
 pieces, and find silk stockings, padding, stays, a coat 
 with frogs and a fur collar, a star and blue ribbon, a 
 pocket-handkerchief prodigiously scented, one of True- 
 fitt's best nutty brown wigs reeking with oil, a set of 
 teeth and a huge black stock, under-waistcoats, more 
 under-waistcoats, and then nothing. I know of no senti- 
 ment that he ever distinctly uttered. Documents are 
 published under his name, but people wrote them 
 private letters, but people spelt them. He put a great 
 George P. or George R. at the bottom of the page and 
 fancied he had written the paper: some bookseller's 
 clerk, some poor author, some man did the work ; saw 
 to the spelling, cleaned up the slovenly sentences, and
 
 254 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 gave the lax maudlin slipslop a sort of consistency. He 
 must have had an individuality: the dancing-master 
 whom he emulated, nay, surpassed the wig-maker who 
 curled his toupee for him the tailor who cut his coats, 
 had that. But, about George, one can get at nothing 
 actual. That outside, I am certain, is pad and tailor's 
 work; there may be something behind, but what? We 
 cannot get at the character; no doubt never shall. Will 
 men of the future have nothing better to do than to un- 
 swathe and interpret that royal old mummy? I own I 
 once used to think it would be good sport to pursue 
 him, fasten on him, and pull him down. But now I am 
 ashamed to mount and lay good dogs on, to summon 
 a full field, and then to hunt the poor game. 
 
 On the 1 2th August, 1762, the forty-seventh anni- 
 versary of the accession of the House of Brunswick to 
 the English throne, all the bells in London pealed in 
 gratulation, and announced that an heir to George III 
 was born. Five days afterwards the King was pleased 
 to pass letters patent under the great seal, creating 
 H.R.H. the Prince of Great Britain, Electoral Prince of 
 Bruswick Liineburg, Duke of Cornwall and Rothsay, 
 Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles, 
 and Great Steward of Scotland, Prince of Wales and 
 Earl of Chester. 
 
 All the people at his birth thronged to see this lovely 
 child; and behind a gilt china-screen railing in St. 
 James's Palace, in a cradle surmounted by the three 
 princely ostrich feathers, the royal infant was laid to de- 
 light the eyes of the lieges. Among the earliest instances 
 of homage paid to him, I read that "a curious Indian 
 bow and arrows were sent to the Prince from his father's 
 faithful subjects in New York." He was fond of playing 
 with these toys: an old statesman, orator, and wit of 
 his grandfather's and great-grandfather's time, never 
 tired of his business, still eager in his old age to be well 
 at court, used to play with the little Prince, and pretend 
 to fall down dead when the Prince shot at him with his 
 toy bow and arrows and get up and fall down dead 
 over and over again to the increased delight of the
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 255 
 
 child. So that he was flattered from his cradle upwards ; 
 and before his little feet could walk, statesmen and 
 courtiers were busy kissing them. 
 
 There is a pretty picture of the royal infant a beau- 
 tiful buxom child asleep in his mother's lap ; who turns 
 round and holds a finger to her lip, as if she would bid 
 the courtiers around respect the baby's slumbers. From 
 that day until his decease, sixty-eight years after, I sup- 
 pose there were more pictures taken of that personage 
 than of any other human being who ever was born and 
 died in every kind of uniform and every possible court- 
 dress in long fair hair, with powder, with and without 
 a pig-tail in every conceivable cocked-hat in dragoon 
 uniform in Windsor uniform in a field-marshal's 
 clothes in a Scotch kilt and tartans, with dirk and 
 claymore (a stupendous figure) in a frogged frock-coat 
 with a fur collar and tight breeches and silk stockings 
 in wigs of every colour, fair, brown and black in his 
 famous coronation robes finally, with which performance 
 he was so much in love that he distributed copies of the 
 picture to all the courts and British embassies in 
 Europe, and to numberless clubs, town-halls, and private 
 friends. I remember as a young man how almost every 
 dining-room had his portrait. 
 
 There is plenty of biographical tattle about the Prince's 
 boyhood. It is told with what astonishing rapidity he 
 learned all languages, ancient and modern; how he 
 rode beautifully, sang charmingly, and played elegantly 
 on the violoncello. That he was beautiful was patent to 
 all eyes. He had a high spirit: and once, when he had 
 had a difference with his father, burst into the royal 
 closet and called out, " Wilkes and liberty for ever!" 
 He was so clever, that he confounded his very gov- 
 ernors in learning; and one of them, Lord Bruce, having 
 made a false quantity in quoting Greek, the admirable 
 young Prince instantly corrected him. Lord Bruce could 
 not remain a governor after this humiliation ; resigned 
 his office, and, to soothe his feelings, was actually pro- 
 moted to be an earl ! It is the most wonderful reason 
 for promoting a man that ever I heard. Lord Bruce
 
 256 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 was made an earl for a blunder in prosody ; and Nelson 
 was made a baron for the victory of the Nile. 
 
 Lovers of long" sums have added up the millions and 
 millions which in the course of his brilliant existence this 
 single Prince consumed. Besides his income of ^50,000, 
 ^"70,000, ;ioo,ooo, ;i 20,000 a year, we read of three 
 applications to Parliament: debts to the amount of 
 ;i6o,ooo, of ^"650,000; besides mysterious foreign 
 loans, whereof he pocketed the proceeds. What did he 
 do for all this money? Why was he to have it? If he 
 had been a manufacturing town, or a populous rural 
 district, or an army of five thousand men, he would not 
 have cost more. He, one solitary stout man, who did 
 not toil, nor spin, nor fight what had any mortal done 
 that he should be pampered so? 
 
 In 1784, when he was twenty-one years of age, 
 Carlton Palace was given to him, and furnished by 
 the nation with as much luxury as could be devised. 
 His pockets were filled with money: he said it was 
 not enough; he flung it out of window: he spent 
 ;io,ooo a year for the coats on his back. The nation 
 gave him more money, and more, and more. The sum 
 is past counting. He was a prince most lovely to look 
 on, and was christened Prince Florizel on his first 
 appearance in the world. That he was the handsomest 
 prince in the whole world was agreed by men, and alas! 
 by many women. 
 
 I suppose he must have been very graceful. There 
 are so many testimonies to the charm of his manner, 
 that we must allow him great elegance and powers of 
 fascination. He, and the King of France's brother, the 
 Count d'Artois, a charming young Prince who danced 
 deliciously on the tight-rope a poor old tottering 
 exiled King, who asked hospitality of King George's 
 successor, and lived awhile in the palace of Mary 
 Stuart divided in their youth the title of first gentleman 
 of Europe. We in England of course gave the prize to 
 our gentleman. Until George's death the propriety of 
 that award was scarce questioned, or the doubters voted 
 rebels and traitors. Only the other day I was reading in
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 257 
 
 the reprint of the delightful Noctes of Christopher North. 
 The health of THE KING is drunk in large capitals by 
 the loyal Scotsman. You would fancy him a hero, a 
 sage, a statesman, a pattern for kings and men. It was 
 Walter Scott who had that accident with the broken 
 glass I spoke of anon. He was the King's Scottish 
 champion, rallied all Scotland to him, made loyalty the 
 fashion, and laid about him fiercely with his claymore 
 upon all the Prince's enemies. The Brunswicks had no 
 such defenders as those two Jacobite commoners, old 
 Sam Johnson, the Lichfield chapman's son, and Walter 
 Scott, the Edinburgh lawyer's. 
 
 Nature and circumstance had done their utmost to 
 prepare the Prince for being spoiled : the dreadful dul- 
 ness of papa's court, its stupid amusements, its dreary 
 occupations, the maddening humdrum, the stifling 
 sobriety of its routine, would have made a scapegrace of 
 a much less lively prince. All the big princes bolted 
 from that castle of ennui where old King George sat, 
 posting up his books and droning over his Handel ; and 
 old Queen Charlotte over her snuff and her tambour- 
 frame. Most of the sturdy, gallant sons settled down 
 after sowing their wild oats, and became sober subjects 
 of their father and brother not ill liked by the nation, 
 which pardons youthful irregularities readily enough, 
 for the sake of pluck, and unaffectedness, and good- 
 humour. 
 
 The boy is father of the man. Our Prince signalized 
 his entrance into the world by a feat worthy of his 
 future life. He invented a new shoebuckle. It was an 
 inch long and five inches broad. " It covered almost 
 the whole instep, reaching down to the ground on either 
 side of the foot." A sweet invention! lovely and useful 
 as the Prince on whose foot it sparkled. At his frst 
 appearance at a court-ball, we read that "his coat was 
 pink silk, with white cuffs; his waistcoat white silk, 
 embroidered with various-coloured foil, and adorned 
 with a profusion of French paste. And his hat was 
 ornamented with two rows of steel beads, five thousand 
 in number, with a button and loop of the same metal, 
 s
 
 258 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and cocked in a new military style." What a Florizel! 
 Do these details seem trivial? They are the grave in- 
 cidents of his life. His biographers say that when he 
 commenced housekeeping in that splendid new palace of 
 his, the Prince of Wales had some windy projects of 
 encouraging literature, science, and the arts ; of having 
 assemblies of literary characters ; and societies for the 
 encouragement of geography, astronomy, and botany. 
 Astronomy, geography, and botany ! Fiddlesticks ! 
 French ballet-dancers, French cooks, horse-jockeys, 
 buffoons, procurers, tailors, boxers, fencing-masters, 
 china, jewel, and gimcrack merchants these were his 
 real companions. At first he made a pretence of having 
 Burke and Fox and Sheridan for his friends. But how 
 could such men be serious before such an empty scape- 
 grace as this lad? Fox might talk dice with him, and 
 Sheridan wine ; but what else had these men of genius 
 in common with their tawdry young host of Carlton 
 House? That fribble the leader of such men as Fox 
 and Burke ! That man's opinions about the constitution, 
 the India Bill, justice to the Catholics about any question 
 graver than the button for a waistcoat or the sauce for a 
 partridge worth anything ! The friendship between the 
 Prince and the Whig chiefs was impossible. They were 
 hypocrites in pretending to respect him, and if he broke 
 the hollow compact between them, who shall blame him? 
 His natural companions were dandies and parasites. He 
 could talk to a tailor or a cook; but, as the equal of 
 great statesmen, to set up a creature, lazy, weak, in- 
 dolent, besotted, of monstrous vanity, and levity in- 
 curable it is absurd. They thought to use him, and 
 did for awhile ; but they must have known how timid he 
 was ; how entirely heartless and treacherous, and have 
 expected his desertion. His next set of friends were 
 mere table companions, of whom he grew tired too ; 
 then we hear of him with a very few select toadies, 
 mere boys from school or the Guards, whose sprightliness 
 tickled the fancy of the worn-out voluptuary. What 
 matters what friends he had? He dropped all his 
 friends ; he never could have real friends. An heir to the
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 259 
 
 throne has flatterers, adventurers who hang 1 about him, 
 ambitious men who use him; but friendship is denied 
 him. 
 
 And women, I suppose, are as false and selfish in 
 their dealings with such a character as men. Shall we 
 take the Leporello part, flourish a catalogue of the con- 
 quests of this royal Don Juan, and tell the names of the 
 favourites to whom, one atter the other, George Prince 
 flung his pocket-handkerchief? What purpose would it 
 answer to say, how Perdita was pursued, won, deserted, 
 and by whom succeeded ? What good in knowing that 
 he did actually marry Mrs. Fitz-Herbert according to 
 the rites of the Roman Catholic Church ; that her mar- 
 riage settlements have been seen in London ; that the 
 names of the witnesses to her marriage are known? This 
 sort of vice that we are now come to presents no new 
 or fleeting trait of manners. Debauchees, dissolute, 
 heartless, fickle, cowardly, have been ever since the 
 world began. This one had more temptations than most, 
 and so much may be said in extenuation for him. 
 
 It was an unlucky thing for this doomed one, and 
 tending to lead him yet farther on the road to the deuce, 
 that, besides being lovely, so that women were fascin- 
 ated by him; and heir-apparent, so that all the world 
 flattered him; he should have a beautiful voice, which 
 led him directly in the way of drink: and thus all the 
 pleasant devils were coaxing on poor Florizel ; desire, 
 and idleness, and vanity, and drunkenness, all clashing 
 their merry cymbals and bidding him come on. 
 
 We first hear of his warbling sentimental ditties under 
 the walls of Kew Palace by the moonlight banks of 
 Thames, with Lord Viscount Leporello keeping watch 
 lest the music should be disturbed. 
 
 Singing after dinner and supper was the universal 
 fashion of the day. You may fancy all England sound- 
 ing with choruses, some ribald, some harmless, but all 
 occasioning the consumption of a prodigious deal of 
 fermented liquor. 
 
 The jolly Muse her wings to try no frolic flights need take, 
 
 But round the bowl would dip and fly, like swallows round a lake,
 
 260 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 sang Morris in one of his gallant Anacreontics, to which 
 the Prince many a time joined in chorus, and of which 
 the burden is, 
 
 And that I think 's a reason fair to drink and fill again. 
 
 This delightful boon companion of the Prince's found 
 " a reason fair " to forego filling and drinking, saw the 
 error of his ways, gave up the bowl and chorus, and 
 died retired and religious. The Prince's table no doubt 
 was a very tempting one. The wits came and did their 
 utmost to amuse him. It is wonderful how the spirits 
 rise, the wit brightens, the wine has an aroma, when a 
 great man is at the head of the table. Scott, the loyal 
 cavalier, the king's true liegeman, the very best raconteur 
 of his time, poured out with an endless generosity his 
 store of old-world learning, kindness, and humour. 
 Grattan contributed to it his wondrous eloquence, fancy, 
 feeling. Tom Moore perched upon it for awhile, and 
 piped his most exquisite little love-tunes on it, flying 
 away in a twitter of indignation afterwards, and attack- 
 ing the Prince with bill and claw. In such society, no 
 wonder the sitting was long, and the butler tired of 
 drawing corks. Remember what the usages of the time 
 were, and that William Pitt, coming to the House of 
 Commons after having drunk a bottle of port-wine at 
 his own house, would go into Bellamy's with Dundas, 
 and help finish a couple more. 
 
 You peruse volumes after volumes about our Prince, 
 and find some half-dozen stock stories indeed not 
 many more common to all the histories. He was good- 
 natured; an indolent, voluptuous prince, not unkindly. 
 One story, the most favourable to him of all, perhaps, is 
 that as Prince Regent he was eager to hear all that 
 could be said in behalf of prisoners condemned to death, 
 and anxious, if possible, to remit the capital sentence. 
 He was kind to his servants. There is a story common 
 to all the biographies, of Molly the housemaid, who, 
 when his household was to be broken up, owing to some 
 reforms which he tried absurdly to practise, was dis-
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 261 
 
 covered crying as she dusted the chairs because she was 
 to leave a master who had a kind word for all his ser- 
 vants. Another tale is that of a groom of the Prince's 
 being discovered in corn and oat peculations, and dis- 
 missed by the personage at the head of the stables; the 
 Prince had word of John's disgrace, remonstrated with 
 him very kindly, generously reinstated him, and bade 
 him promise to sin no more a promise which John kept. 
 Another story is very fondly told of the Prince as a 
 young man hearing of an officer's family in distress, and 
 how he straightway borrowed six or eight hundred 
 pounds, put his long fair hair under his hat, and so dis- 
 guised carried the money to the starving family. He 
 sent money, too, to Sheridan on his death-bed, and 
 would have sent more had not death ended the career of 
 that man of genius. Besides these, there are a few pretty 
 speeches, kind and graceful, to persons with whom he 
 was brought in contact. But he turned upon twenty 
 friends. He was fond and familiar with them one day, 
 and he passed them on the next without recognition. 
 He used them, liked them, loved them perhaps in his 
 way, and then separated from them. On Monday he 
 kissed and fondled poor Perdita, and on Tuesday he met 
 her and did not know her. On Wednesday he was very 
 affectionate with that wretched Brummell, and on 
 Thursday forgot him ; cheated him even out of a snuff- 
 box which he owed the poor dandy ; saw him years 
 afterwards in his downfall and poverty, when the bank- 
 rupt Beau sent him another snuff-box with some of the 
 snuff he used to love, as a piteous token of remembrance 
 and submission, and the King took the snuff, and ordered 
 his horses and drove on, and had not the grace to notice 
 his old companion, favourite, rival, enemy, superior. In 
 Wraxall there is some gossip about him. When the 
 charming, beautiful, generous Duchess of Devonshire 
 died the lovely lady whom he used to call his dearest 
 duchess once, and pretend to admire as all English 
 society admired her he said "Then we have lost the 
 best bred woman in England." " Then we have lost the 
 kindest heart in England," said noble Charles Fox. On
 
 262 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 another occasion, when three noblemen were to receive 
 the Garter, says Wraxall, "A great personage observed 
 that never did three men receive the order in so char- 
 acteristic a manner. The Duke of A. advanced to the 
 sovereign with a phlegmatic, cold, awkward air like a 
 clown ; Lord B. came forward fawning and smiling like 
 a courtier; Lord C. presented himself easy, unembar- 
 rassed, like a gentleman ! " These are the stories one 
 has to recall about the Prince and King kindness to a 
 housemaid, generosity to a groom, criticism on a bow. 
 There are no better stories about him : they are mean 
 and trivial, and they characterize him. The great war 
 of empires and giants goes on. Day by day victories are 
 won and lost by the brave. Torn, smoky flags and 
 battered eagles are wrenched from the heroic enemy and 
 laid at his feet; and he sits there on his throne and 
 smiles, and gives the guerdon of valour to the con- 
 queror. He ! Elliston the actor, when the Coronation 
 was performed, in which he took the principal part, used 
 to fancy himself the King, burst into tears, and hiccup a 
 blessing on the people. I believe it is certain about 
 George IV, that he had heard so much of the war, 
 knighted so many people, and worn such a prodigious 
 quantity of marshal's uniforms, cocked-hats, cock's 
 feathers, scarlet and bullion in general, that he actually 
 fancied he had been present in some campaigns, and, 
 under the name of General Brock, led a tremendous 
 charge of the German legion at Waterloo. 
 
 He is dead but thirty years, and one asks how a great 
 society could have tolerated him? Would we bear him 
 now? In this quarter of a century, what a silent revolu- 
 tion has been working ! how it has separated us from 
 old times and manners ! How it has changed men 
 themselves ! I can see old gentlemen now among us, of 
 perfect good breeding, of quiet lives, with venerable 
 grey heads, fondling their grandchildren ; and look at 
 them, and wonder what they were once. That gentle- 
 man of the grand old school, when he was in the loth 
 Hussars, and dined at the Prince's table, would fall 
 under it night after night. Night after night, that gen-
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 263 
 
 tleman sat at Brooks's or Raggett's over the dice. If, 
 in the petulance of play or drink, that gentleman spoke 
 a sharp word to his neighbour, he and the other would 
 infallibly go out and try to shoot each other the next 
 morning. That gentleman would drive his friend Rich- 
 mond the black boxer down to Moulsey, and hold his 
 coat, and shout and swear, and hurrah with delight, 
 whilst the black man was beating Dutch Sam the Jew. 
 That gentleman would take a manly pleasure in pulling 
 his own coat off and thrashing a bargeman in a street 
 row. That gentleman has been in a watch-house. That 
 gentleman, so exquisitely polite with ladies in a drawing- 
 room, so loftily courteous, if he talked now as he used 
 among men in his youth, would swear so as to make 
 your hair stand on end. I met lately a very old German 
 gentleman, who had served in our army at the begin- 
 ning of the century. Since then he has lived on his own 
 estate, but rarely meeting with an Englishman, whose 
 language the language of fifty years ago that is he 
 possesses perfectly. When this highly bred old man 
 began to speak English to me, almost every other word 
 he uttered was an oath : as they used (they swore dread- 
 fully in Flanders) with the Duke of York before Valen- 
 ciennes, or at Carlton House over the supper and cards. 
 Read Byron's letters. So accustomed is the young man 
 to oaths that he employs them even in writing to his 
 friends, and swears by the post. Read his account of the 
 doings of young men at Cambridge, of the ribald pro- 
 fessors, one of whom "could pour out Greek like a 
 drunken Helot," and whose excesses surpassed even 
 those of the young men. Read Matthews' description of 
 the boyish lordling's housekeeping at Newstead, the 
 skull-cup passed round, the monk's dresses from the 
 masquerade warehouse, in which the young scapegraces 
 used to sit until daylight, chanting appropriate songs 
 round their wine. "We come to breakfast at two or 
 three o'clock," Matthews says. "There are gloves and 
 foils for those who like to amuse themselves, or we fire 
 pistols at a mark in the hall, or we worry the wolf." A 
 jolly life truly ! The noble young owner of the mansion
 
 264 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 writes about such affairs himself in letters to his friend, 
 Mr. John Jackson, the pugilist, in London. 
 
 All the Prince's time tells a similar strange story of 
 manners and pleasure. In Wraxall we find the Prime 
 Minister himself, the redoubted William Pitt, engaged 
 in high jinks with personages of no less importance than 
 Lord Thurlow the Lord Chancellor, and Mr. Dundas the 
 Treasurer of the Navy. Wraxall relates how these 
 three statesmen, returning after dinner from Addiscombe, 
 found a turnpike open, and galloped through it without 
 paying the toll. The turnpikeman, fancying they were 
 highwaymen, fired a blunderbuss after them, but missed 
 them; and the poet sang: 
 
 How as Pitt wandered darkling o'er the plain, 
 His reason drown'd in Jenkinson's champagne, 
 A rustic's hand, but righteous fate withstood, 
 Had shed a Premier's for a robber's blood. 
 
 Here we have the Treasurer of the Navy, the Lord 
 High Chancellor, and the Prime Minister, all engaged 
 in a most undoubted lark. In Eldon's Memoirs, about 
 the very same time, I read that the bar loved wine, as 
 well as the woolsack. Not John Scott himself; he was 
 a good boy always ; and though he loved port-wine, 
 loved his business and his duty and his fees a great deal 
 better. 
 
 He has a Northern Circuit story of those days, about 
 a party at the house of a certain Lawyer Fawcett, who 
 gave a dinner every year to the counsel. 
 
 "On one occasion," related Lord Eldon, "I heard 
 Lee say, ' I cannot leave Fawcett's wine. Mind, Daven- 
 port, you will go home immediately after dinner, to read 
 the brief in that cause that we have to conduct to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 " ' Not I,' said Davenport. ' Leave my dinner and my 
 wine to read a brief! No, no, Lee; that won't do.' 
 
 " 'Then,' said Lee, 'what is to be done? who else is 
 employed? ' 
 
 "Davenport. 'Oh! young Scott.' 
 
 "Lee. 'Oh! he must go. Mr. Scott, you must go
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 265 
 
 home immediately, and make yourself acquainted with 
 that cause, before our consultation this evening.' 
 
 " This was very hard upon me ; but I did go, and there 
 was an attorney from Cumberland, and one from North- 
 umberland, and I do not know how many other persons. 
 Pretty late, in came Jack Lee, as drunk as he could be. 
 
 " 'I cannot consult to-night; I must go to bed,' he 
 exclaimed, and away he went. Then came Sir Thomas 
 Davenport. 
 
 " 'We cannot have a consultation to-night, Mr. Words- 
 worth ' (Wordsworth, I think, was the name; it was a 
 Cumberland name), shouted Davenport. ' Don't you see 
 how drunk Mr. Scott is? it is impossible to consult.' 
 Poor me ! who had scarce had any dinner, and lost all my 
 wine I was so drunk that I could not consult ! Well, a 
 verdict was given against us, and it was all owing to 
 Lawyer Fawcett's dinner. We moved for a new trial; 
 and I must say, for the honour of the bar, that those 
 two gentlemen, Jack Lee and Sir Thomas Davenport, 
 paid all the expenses between them of the first trial. It 
 is the only instance I ever knew ; but they did. We 
 moved for a new trial (on the ground, I suppose, of the 
 counsel not being in their senses), and it was granted. 
 When it came on, the following year, the judge rose and 
 said, 
 
 "' Gentlemen, did any of you dine with Lawyer 
 Fawcett yesterday? for, if you did, I will not hear this 
 cause till next year.' 
 
 "There was great laughter. We gained the cause 
 that time." 
 
 On another occasion, at Lancaster, where poor Bozzy 
 must needs be going the Northern Circuit, "we found 
 him," says Mr. Scott, "lying upon the pavement in- 
 ebriated. We subscribed a guinea at supper for him, 
 and a half-crown for his clerk " (no doubt there was a 
 large bar, so that Scott's joke did not cost him much), 
 "and sent him, when he waked next morning, a brief, 
 with instructions to move for what we denominated the 
 writ of quare adh&sit pavimento ; with observations duly 
 calculated to induce him to think that it required great
 
 266 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 learning to explain the necessity of granting it, to the 
 judge before whom he was to move." Boswell sent all 
 round the town to attorneys for books that might enable 
 him to distinguish himself but in vain. He moved, 
 however, for the writ, making the best use he could of 
 the observations in the brief. The judge was perfectly 
 astonished, and the audience amazed. The judge said, 
 " I never heard of such a writ what can it be that 
 adheres pavimento? Are any of you gentlemen at the bar 
 able to explain this? " 
 
 The bar laughed. At last one of them said, 
 
 " My lord, Mr. Boswell last night adhasit pavimento, 
 There was no moving him for some time. At last he was 
 carried to bed, and he has been dreaming about himself 
 and the pavement." 
 
 The canny old gentleman relishes these jokes. When 
 the Bishop of Lincoln was moving from the deanery of 
 St. Paul's, he says he asked a learned friend of his, by 
 name Will Hay, how he should move some especially 
 fine claret, about which he was anxious. 
 
 " Pray, my lord bishop," says Hay, "how much of 
 the wine have you? " 
 
 The bishop said six dozen. 
 
 " If that is all," Hay answered, " you have but to ask 
 me six times to dinner, and I will carry it all away 
 myself." 
 
 There were giants in those days ; but this joke about 
 wine is not so fearful as one perpetrated by Orator 
 Thelwall, in the heat of the French Revolution, ten years 
 later, over a frothing pot of porter. He blew the head off, 
 and said, "This is the way I would serve all kings." 
 
 Now we come to yet higher personages, and find 
 their doings recorded in the blushing pages of timid 
 little Miss Burney's Memoirs, She represents a prince 
 of the blood in quite a royal condition. The loudness, 
 the bigness, boisterousness, creaking boots and rattling 
 oaths of the young princes, appear to have frightened 
 the prim household of Windsor, and set all the teacups 
 twittering on the tray. On the night of a ball and birth- 
 day, when one of the pretty, kind princesses was to come
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 267 
 
 out, it was agreed that her brother, Prince William 
 Henry, should dance the opening minuet with her, and 
 he came to visit the household at their dinner. 
 
 "At dinner, Mrs. Schwellenberg presided, attired mag- 
 nificently; Miss Goldsworthy, Mrs. Stanforth, Messrs. 
 Du Luc and Stanhope, dined with us ; and while we were 
 still eating fruit, the Duke of Clarence entered. 
 
 " He was just risen from the King's table, and waiting 
 for his equipage to go home and prepare for the ball. To 
 give you an idea of the energy of his Royal Highness's 
 language, I ought to set apart an objection to writing, 
 or rather intimating, certain forcible words, and beg 
 leave to show you in genuine colours a royal sailor. 
 
 "We all rose, of course, upon his entrance, and the 
 two gentlemen placed themselves behind their chairs, 
 while the footmen left the room. But he ordered us all 
 to sit down, and called the men back to hand about some 
 wine. He was in exceeding high spirits, and in the utmost 
 good humour. He placed himself at the head of the 
 table, next Mrs. Schwellenberg, and looked remarkably 
 well, gay, and full of sport and mischief; yet clever 
 withal, as well as comical. 
 
 " ' Well, this is the first day I have ever dined with the 
 King at St. James's on his birthday. Pray, have you all 
 drunk his Majesty's health? ' 
 
 "'No, your Royal Highness; your Royal Highness 
 might make dem do dat,' said Mrs. Schwellenberg. 
 
 " 'Oh, by , I will! Here, you' (to the footman), 
 
 ' bring champagne; I'll drink the King's health again, if 
 I die for it. Yes, I have done it pretty well already; so 
 has the King, I promise you ! I believe his Majesty was 
 never taken such good care of before ; we have kept his 
 spirits up, I promise you ; we have enabled him to go 
 through his fatigues; and I should have done more still, 
 but for the ball and Mary; I have promised to dance 
 with Mary. I must keep sober for Mary.' " 
 
 Indefatigable Miss Burney continues for a dozen pages 
 reporting H.R.H.'s conversation, and indicating, with 
 a humour not unworthy of the clever little author of 
 Evelina, the increasing state of excitement of the
 
 268 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 young- sailor Prince, who drank more and more cham- 
 pagne, stopped old Mrs. Schwellenberg's remonstrances 
 by giving the old lady a kiss, and telling her to hold her 
 potato-trap, and who did not "keep sober for Mary." 
 Mary had to find another partner that night, for the 
 royal William Henry could not keep his legs. 
 
 Will you have a picture of the amusements of another 
 royal prince? It is the Duke of York, the blundering 
 general, the beloved commander-in-chief of the army, 
 the brother with whom George IV had had many a mid- 
 night carouse, and who continued his habits of pleasure 
 almost till death seized his stout body. 
 
 In Piickler Muskau's Letters, that German Prince 
 describes a bout with H.R.H., who in his best time 
 was such a powerful toper that "six bottles of claret 
 after dinner scarce made a perceptible change in his 
 countenance." 
 
 "I remember," says Piickler, "that one evening 
 indeed, it was past midnight, he took some of his 
 guests, among whom were the Austrian ambassador, 
 Count Meervelt, Count Beroldingen, and myself, into 
 his beautiful armoury. We tried to swing several 
 Turkish sabres, but none of us had a very firm grasp ; 
 whence it happened that the Duke and Meervelt both 
 scratched themselves with a sort of straight Indian 
 sword so as to draw blood. Meervelt then wished to try 
 if the sword cut as well as a Damascus, and attempted 
 to cut through one of the wax candles that stood on the 
 table. The experiment answered so ill, that both the 
 candles, candlesticks and all, fell to the ground and 
 were extinguished. While we were groping in the dark 
 and trying to find the door, the Duke's aide-de-camp 
 stammered out in great agitation, ' By G , sir, I re- 
 member the sword is poisoned! ' 
 
 "You may conceive the agreeable feelings of the 
 wounded at this intelligence! Happily, on further ex- 
 amination, it appeared that claret, and not poison, was 
 at the bottom of the colonel's exclamation." 
 
 And now I have one more story of the bacchanalian 
 sort, in which Clarence and York, and the very highest
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 269 
 
 personage of the realm, the great Prince Regent, all 
 play parts. The feast took place at the Pavilion at 
 Brighton, and was described to me by a gentleman who 
 was present at the scene. In Gilray's caricatures, and 
 amongst Fox's jolly associates, there figures a great 
 nobleman, the Duke of Norfolk, called Jockey of Norfolk 
 in his time, and celebrated for his table exploits. He had 
 quarrelled with the Prince, like the rest of the Whigs ; 
 but a sort of reconciliation had taken place ; and now, 
 being a very old man, the Prince invited him to dine and 
 sleep at the Pavilion, and the old Duke drove over from 
 his Castle of Arundel with his famous equipage of gray 
 horses, still remembered in Sussex. 
 
 The Prince of Wales had concocted with his royal 
 brothers a notable scheme for making the old man drunk. 
 Every person at table was enjoined to drink wine with 
 the Duke a challenge which the old toper did not refuse. 
 He soon began to see that there was a conspiracy against 
 him ; he drank glass for glass ; he overthrew many of the 
 brave. At last the First Gentleman of Europe proposed 
 bumpers of brandy. One of the royal brothers filled a 
 great glass for the Duke. He stood up and tossed off 
 the drink. " Now," says he, " I will have my carriage, 
 and go home." The Prince urged upon him his previous 
 promise to sleep under the roof where he had been so 
 generously entertained. "No," he said; he had had 
 enough of such hospitality. A trap had been set for 
 him ; he would leave the place at once and never enter 
 its doors more. 
 
 The carriage was called, and came; but, in the half- 
 hour's interval, the liquor had proved too potent for the 
 old man ; his host's generous purpose was answered, 
 and the Duke's old gray head lay stupefied on the table. 
 Nevertheless, when his post-chaise was announced, he 
 staggered to it as well as he could, and stumbling in, 
 bade the postillions drive to Arundel. They drove him 
 for half an hour round and round the Pavilion lawn ; the 
 poor old man fancied he was going home. When he 
 awoke that morning he was in bed at the Prince's 
 hideous house at Brighton. You may see the place now
 
 270 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 for sixpence: they have fiddlers there every day; and 
 sometimes buffoons and mountebanks hire the Riding 
 House and do their tricks and tumbling there. The trees 
 are still there, and the gravel walks round which the 
 poor old sinner was trotted. I can fancy the flushed 
 faces of the royal princes as they support themselves at 
 the portico pillars, and look on at old Norfolk's disgrace ; 
 but I can't fancy how the man who perpetrated it con- 
 tinued to be called a gentleman. 
 
 From drinking, the pleased Muse now turns to gam- 
 bling, of which in his youth our Prince was a great 
 practitioner. He was a famous pigeon for the play-men ; 
 they lived upon him. Egalite" Orleans, it was believed, 
 punished him severely. A noble lord, whom we shall 
 call the Marquis of Steyne, is said to have mulcted him 
 in immense sums. He frequented the clubs, where play 
 was then almost universal ; and, as it was known his 
 debts of honour were sacred, whilst he was gambling 
 Jews waited outside to purchase his notes of hand. His 
 transactions on the turf were unlucky as well as dis- 
 creditable : though I believe he, and his jockey, and his 
 horse, Escape, were all innocent in that affair which 
 created so much scandal. 
 
 Arthur's, Almack's, Bootle's, and White's were the 
 chief clubs of the young men of fashion. There was 
 play at all, and decayed noblemen and broken-down 
 senators fleeced the unwary there. In Selwyn's Letters 
 we find Carlisle, Devonshire, Coventry, Queensberry, all 
 undergoing the probation. Charles Fox, a dreadful 
 gambler, was cheated in very late times lost ^200,000 
 at play. Gibbon tells of his playing for twenty-two 
 hours at a sitting, and losing 500 an hour. That in- 
 domitable punter said that the greatest pleasure in life, 
 after winning, was losing. What hours, what nights, 
 what health did he waste over the devil's books ! I was 
 going to say what peace of mind ; but he took his losses 
 very philosophically. After an awful night's play, and 
 the enjoyment of the greatest pleasure but one in life, he 
 was found on a sofa tranquilly reading an Eclogue of 
 Virgil.
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 271 
 
 Play survived long after the wild Prince and Fox had 
 given up the dice-box. The dandies continued it. Byron, 
 Brummell how many names could I mention of men of 
 the world who have suffered by it! In 1837 occurred a 
 famous trial which pretty nigh put an end to gambling 
 in England. A peer of the realm was found cheating at 
 whist, and repeatedly seen to practise the trick called 
 sauter la coupe. His friends at the clubs saw him cheat, 
 and went or playing with him. One greenhorn, who had 
 discovered his foul play, asked an old hand what he 
 should do. " Do?" said the Mammon of Unrighteous- 
 ness. "Back hinty you fool!" The best efforts were made 
 to screen him. People wrote him anonymous letters and 
 warned him ; but he would cheat, and they were obliged 
 to find him out. Since that day, when my lord's shame 
 was made public, the gaming-table has lost all its 
 splendour. Shabby Jews and blacklegs prowl about 
 racecourses and tavern parlours, and now and then in- 
 veigle silly yokels with greasy packs of cards in railroad 
 cars: but Play is a deposed goddess, her worshippers 
 bankrupt and her table in rags. 
 
 So is another famous British institution gone to decay 
 the Ring ; the noble practice of British boxing, which 
 in my youth was still almost flourishing. 
 
 The Prince, in his early days, was a great patron of 
 this national sport, as his grand-uncle Culloden Cumber- 
 land had been before him ; but being present at a fight 
 at Brighton, where one of the combatants was killed, 
 the Prince pensioned the boxer's widow, and declared he 
 never would attend another battle. "But, nevertheless," 
 I read in the noble language of Pierce Egan (whose 
 smaller work on Pugilism I have the honour to possess), 
 "he thought it a manly and decided English feature, 
 which ought not to be destroyed. His Majesty had a 
 drawing of the sporting characters in the Fives Court 
 placed in his boudoir, to remind him of his former 
 attachment and support of true courage ; and when any 
 fight of note occurred after he was king, accounts of it 
 were read to him by his desire." That gives one a fine 
 image of a king taking his recreation ; at ease in a royal
 
 272 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 dressing-gown ; too majestic to read himself, ordering 
 the prime minister to read him accounts of battles : how 
 Cribb punched Molyneux's eye, or Jack Randall thrashed 
 the Game Chicken. 
 
 Where my Prince did actually distinguish himself was 
 in driving. He drove once in four hours and a half from 
 Brighton to Carlton House fifty-six miles. All the 
 young men of that day were fond of that sport. But the 
 fashion of rapid driving deserted England; and, I be- 
 lieve, trotted over to America. Where are the amuse- 
 ments of our youth? I hear of no gambling now but 
 amongst obscure ruffians ; of no boxing but amongst the 
 lowest rabble. One solitary four-in-hand still drove 
 round the parks in London last year ; but that charioteer 
 must soon disappear. He was very old ; he was attired 
 after the fashion of the year 1825. He must drive to the 
 banks of Styx ere long where the ferry-boat waits to 
 carry him over to the defunct revellers who boxed and 
 gambled and drank and drove with King George. 
 
 The bravery of the Brunswicks, that all the family 
 must have it, that George possessed it, are points which 
 all English writers have agreed to admit ; and yet I can- 
 not see how George IV should have been endowed with 
 this quality. Swaddled in feather-beds all his life, lazy, 
 obese, perpetually eating and drinking, his education 
 was quite unlike that of his tough old progenitors. His 
 grandsires had confronted hardship and war, and ridden 
 up and fired their pistols undaunted into the face of 
 death. His father had conquered luxury and overcome 
 indolence. Here was one who never resisted any temp- 
 tation; never had a desire but he coddled and pampered 
 it ; if ever he had any nerve, frittered it away among 
 cooks, and tailors, and barbers, and furniture-mongers, 
 and opera-dancers. What muscle would not grow flaccid 
 in such a life a life that was never strung up to any 
 action an endless Capua without any campaign all 
 fiddling, and flowers, and feasting, and flattery, and 
 folly? When George III was pressed by the Catholic 
 question and the India Bill, he said he would retire to 
 Hanover rather than yield upon either point; and he
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 273 
 
 would have done what he said. But, before yielding, he 
 was determined to fight his Ministers and Parliament; 
 and he did, and he beat them. The time came when 
 George IV was pressed too upon the Catholic claims; 
 the cautious Peel had slipped over to that side ; the grim 
 old Wellington had joined it; and Peel tells us, in his 
 Memoirs, what was the conduct of the King. He at 
 first refused to submit; whereupon Peel and the Duke 
 offered their resignations, which their gracious master 
 accepted. He did these two gentlemen the honour, Peel 
 says, to kiss them both when they went away. (Fancy 
 old Arthur's grim countenance and eagle beak as the 
 monarch kisses it!) When they were gone he sent after 
 them, surrendered, and wrote to them a letter begging 
 them to remain in office, and allowing them to have 
 their way. Then his Majesty had a meeting with Eldon, 
 which is related at curious length in the latter's Me- 
 moirs. He told Eldon what was not true about his in- 
 terview with the new Catholic converts ; utterly misled 
 the old ex-Chancellor; cried, whimpered, fell on his 
 neck, and kissed him too. We know old Eldon's own 
 tears were pumped very freely. Did these two fountains 
 gush together? I can't fancy a behaviour more unmanly, 
 imbecile, pitiable. This a defender of the faith ! This a 
 chief in the crisis of a great nation ! This an inheritor of 
 the courage of the Georges ! 
 
 Many of my hearers no doubt have journeyed to the 
 pretty old town of Brunswick, in company with that 
 most worthy, prudent, and polite gentleman, the Earl of 
 Malmesbury, and fetched away Princess Caroline for her 
 longing husband, the Prince of Wales. Old Queen Char- 
 lotte would have had her eldest son marry a niece of her 
 own, that famous Louisa of Strelitz, afterwards Queen 
 of Prussia, and who shares with Marie Antoinette in the 
 last age the sad pre-eminence of beauty and misfortune. 
 But George III had a niece at Brunswick: she was a 
 richer princess than her Serene Highness of Strelitz: 
 in fine, the Princess Caroline was selected to marry the 
 heir to the English throne. We follow my Lord Malmes- 
 bury in quest of her; we are introduced to her illustrious 
 T
 
 274 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 father and royal mother ; we witness the balls and fetes 
 of the old court ; we are presented to the Princess her- 
 self, with her fair hair, her blue eyes, and her impertinent 
 shoulders a lively, bouncing-, romping Princess, who 
 takes the advice of her courtly English mentor most 
 generously and kindly. We can be present at her very 
 toilette, if we like ; regarding which, and for very good 
 reasons, the British courtier implores her to be particular. 
 What a strange court ! What a queer privacy of morals 
 and manners do we look into! Shall we regard it as 
 preachers and moralists, and cry Woe, against the open 
 vice and selfishness and corruption ; or look at it as we 
 do at the king in the pantomime, with his pantomime 
 wife and pantomime courtiers, whose big heads he 
 knocks together, whom he pokes with his pantomime 
 sceptre, whom he orders to prison under the guard of 
 his pantomime beefeaters, as he sits down to dine on his 
 pantomime pudding? It is grave, it is sad; it is theme 
 most curious for moral and political speculation; it is 
 monstrous, grotesque, laughable, with its prodigious 
 littlenesses, etiquettes, ceremonials, sham moralities ; it 
 is as serious as a sermon, and as absurd and outrageous 
 as Punch's puppet-show. 
 
 Malmesbury tells us of the private life of the Duke, 
 Princess Caroline's father, who was to die, like his war- 
 like son, in arms against the French ; presents us to his 
 courtiers, his favourite; his Duchess, George Ill's 
 sister, a grim old Princess, who took the British envoy 
 aside, and told him wicked old stories of wicked old 
 dead people and times ; who came to England after- 
 wards when her nephew was regent, and lived in a 
 shabby furnished lodging, old, and dingy, and deserted, 
 and grotesque, but somehow royal. And we go with 
 him to the Duke to demand the Princess's hand in form, 
 and we hear the Brunswick guns fire their adieux of 
 salute, as H.R.H. the Princess of Wales departs in the 
 frost and snow ; and we visit the domains of the Prince 
 Bishop of Osnaburg the Duke of York of our early 
 time; and we dodge about from the French revolution- 
 ists, whose ragged legions are pouring over Holland
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 275 
 
 and Germany, and gaily trampling down the old world 
 to the tune of fa ira\ and we take shipping at Stade, 
 and we land at Greenwich, where the Princess's ladies 
 and the Prince's ladies are in waiting to receive her Royal 
 Highness. 
 
 What a history follows! Arrived in London, the 
 bridegroom hastened eagerly to receive his bride. When 
 she was first presented to him, Lord Malmesbury says 
 she very properly attempted to kneel. " He raised her 
 gracefully enough, embraced her, and turning round to 
 me, said, 
 
 "'Harris, I am not well; pray get me a glass of 
 brandy.' 
 
 "I said, 'Sir, had you not better have a glass of 
 water? ' 
 
 " Upon which, much out of humour, he said, with an 
 oath, ' No; I will go to the Queen.' " 
 
 What could be expected from a wedding which had 
 such a beginning from such a bridegroom and such a 
 bride? I am not going to carry you through the scandal 
 of that story, or follow the poor Princess through all 
 her vagaries ; her balls and her dances, her travels to 
 Jerusalem and Naples, her jigs, and her junketings, and 
 her tears. As I read her trial in history, I vote she is 
 not guilty. I don't say it is an impartial verdict ; but as 
 one reads her story the heart bleeds for the kindly, 
 generous, outraged creature. If wrong there be, let 
 it lie at his door who wickedly thrust her from it. 
 Spite of her follies, the great hearty people of England 
 loved, and protected, and pitied her. " God bless you! 
 we will bring your husband back to you," said a mechanic 
 one day, as she told Lady Charlotte Bury with tears 
 streaming down her cheeks. They could not bring that 
 husband back ; they could not cleanse that selfish heart. 
 Was hers the only one he had wounded? Steeped in 
 selfishness, impotent for faithful attachment and manly 
 enduring love, had it not survived remorse, was it not 
 accustomed to desertion? 
 
 Malmesbury gives us the beginning of the marriage 
 story how the Prince reeled into chapel to be married :
 
 276 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 how he hiccupped out his vows of fidelity you know 
 how he kept them ; how he pursued the woman whom 
 he had married ; to what a state he brought her ; with 
 what blows he struck her ; with what malignity he pur- 
 sued her ; what his treatment of his daughter was ; and 
 what his own life. He the first gentleman of Europe ! 
 There is no stronger satire on the proud English society 
 of that day, than that they admired George. 
 
 No, thank God, we can tell of better gentlemen ; and 
 whilst our eyes turn away, shocked, from this mon- 
 strous image of pride, vanity, weakness, they may see 
 in that England over which the last George pretended 
 to reign, some who merit indeed the title of gentlemen, 
 some who make our hearts beat when we hear their 
 names, and whose memory we fondly salute when that 
 of yonder imperial manikin is tumbled into oblivion. I 
 will take men of my own profession of letters. I will 
 take Walter Scott, who loved the King, and who was 
 his sword and buckler, and championed him like that 
 brave Highlander in his own story, who fights round 
 his craven chief. What a good gentleman ! What a 
 friendly soul, what a generous hand, what an amiable 
 life was that of the noble Sir Walter! I will take 
 another man of letters, whose life I admire even more, 
 an English worthy, doing his duty for fifty noble years 
 of labour, day by day storing up learning, day by day- 
 working for scant wages, most charitable out of his 
 small means, bravely faithful to the calling which he had 
 chosen, refusing to turn from his path for popular praise 
 or princes' favour; I mean Robert Southey. We have 
 left his old political landmarks miles and miles behind ; 
 we protest against his dogmatism; nay, we begin to 
 forget it and his politics : but I hope his life will not be 
 forgotten, for it is sublime in its simplicity, its energy, 
 its honour, its affection. In the combat between Time 
 and Thalaba, I suspect the former destroyer has con- 
 quered. Kehama's curse frightens very few reader's 
 now; but Southey's private letters are worth piles of 
 epics, and are sure to last among us, as long as kind 
 hearts like to sympathize with goodness and purity, and
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 277 
 
 Icve and upright life. " If your feelings are like mine," 
 he writes to his wife, " I will not go to Lisbon without 
 you, or I will stay at home, and not part from you. For 
 though not unhappy when away, still without you I am 
 not happy. For your sake, as well as my own and little 
 Edith's, I will not consent to any separation ; the growth 
 of a year's love between her and me, if it please God 
 she should live, is a thing too delightful in itself, and 
 too valuable in its consequences, to be given up for 
 any light inconvenience on your part or mine. . . . On 
 these things we will talk at leisure; only, dear, dear 
 Edith, we must not part! " 
 
 This was a poor literary gentleman. The First Gen- 
 tleman in Europe had a wife and daughter too. Did he 
 love them so? Was he faithful to them? Did he sacrifice 
 ease for them, or show them the sacred examples of 
 religion and honour? Heaven gave the Great English 
 Prodigal no such good fortune. Peel proposed to make 
 a baronet of Southey; and to this advancement the 
 King agreed. The poet nobly rejected the offered pro- 
 motion. 
 
 u I have," he wrote, " a pension of 200 a year, con- 
 ferred upon me by the good offices of my old friend 
 C. Wynn, and I have the laureateship. The salary of 
 the latter was immediately appropriated, as far as it 
 went, to a life-insurance for ^3,000, which, with an 
 earlier insurance, is the sole provision I have made for 
 my family. All beyond must be derived from my own 
 industry. Writing for a livelihood, a livelihood is all 
 that I have gained; for, having also something better 
 in view, and never, therefore, having courted popularity, 
 nor written for the mere sake of gain, it has not been 
 possible for me to lay by anything. Last year, for the 
 first time in my life, I was provided with a year's ex- 
 penditure beforehand. This exposition may show how 
 unbecoming and unwise it would be to accept the rank 
 which, so greatly to my honour, you have solicited for 
 me." 
 
 How noble his poverty is, compared to the wealth 
 of his master! His acceptance even of a pension was
 
 278 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 made the object of his opponents' satire ; but think of 
 the merit and modesty of this State pensioner; and that 
 other enormous drawer of public money, who receives 
 ;ioo,ooo a year, and comes to Parliament with a request 
 for ^650,000 more ! 
 
 Another true knight of those days was Cuthbert Col- 
 lingwood; and I think, since Heaven made gentlemen, 
 there is no record of a better one than that. Of brighter 
 deeds, I grant you, we may read performed by others ; 
 but where of a nobler, kinder, more beautiful life of 
 duty, of a gentler, truer art? Beyond dazzle of success 
 and blaze of genius, I fancy shining a hundred and a 
 hundred times higher, the sublime purity of Colling- 
 wood's gentle glory. His heroism stirs British hearts 
 when we recall it. His love, and goodness, and piety 
 make one thrill with happy emotion. As one reads of 
 him and his great comrade going into the victory with 
 which their names are immortally connected, how the 
 old^English word comes up, and that old English feeling 
 of what I should like to call Christian honour! What 
 gentlemen they were, what great hearts they had! " We 
 can, my dear Coll," writes Nelson to him, " have no 
 little jealousies ; we have only one great object in view 
 that of meeting the enemy, and getting a glorious peace 
 for our country." At Trafalgar, when the " Royal 
 Sovereign " was pressing alone into the midst of the com- 
 bined fleets, Lord Nelson said to Captain Blackwood: 
 " See how that noble fellow, Collingwood, takes his 
 ship into action! How I envy him!" The very same 
 throb and impulse of heroic generosity was beating in 
 Collingwood's honest bosom. As he led into the fight 
 he said : " What would Nelson give to be here ! " 
 
 After the action of the ist of June, he writes: "We 
 cruised for a few days, like disappointed people looking 
 for what they could not find, until the morning of little 
 Sarah's birthday, between eight and nine o'clock, when 
 the French fleet, of twenty-five sail of the line, was dis- 
 covered to windward. We chased them, and they bore 
 down within about five miles of us. The night was spent 
 in watching and preparation for the succeeding day ; and
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 279 
 
 many a blessing did I send forth to my Sarah, lest I 
 should never bless her more. At dawn, we made our 
 approach on the enemy, then drew up, dressed our 
 ranks, and it was about eight when the admiral made 
 the signal for each ship to engage her opponent, and 
 bring her to close action ; and then down we went under 
 a crowd of sail, and in a manner that would have ani- 
 mated the coldest heart, and struck terror into the most 
 intrepid enemy. The ship we were to engage was two 
 ahead of the French admiral, so we had to go through 
 his fire and that of two ships next to him, and received 
 all their broadsides two or three times, before we fired a 
 gun. It was then near ten o'clock. I observed to the 
 admiral, that about that time our wives were going to 
 church, but that I thought the peal we should ring 
 about the Frenchman's ear would outdo their parish 
 bells." 
 
 There are no words to tell what the heart feels in 
 reading the simple phrases of such a hero. Here is 
 victory and courage, but love sublimer and superior. 
 Here is a Christian soldier spending the night before 
 battle in watching and preparing for the succeeding day, 
 thinking of his dearest home, and sending many bless- 
 ings forth to his Sarah, "lest he should never bless her 
 more." Who would not say Amen to his supplication? 
 It was a benediction to his country the prayer of that 
 intrepid loving heart. 
 
 We have spoken of a good soldier and good men of 
 letters as specimens of English gentlemen of the age 
 just past: may we not also many of my elder hearers, 
 I am sure, have read, and fondly remember his 
 delightful story speak of a good divine, and mention 
 Reginald Heber as one of the best of English gentle- 
 men? The charming poet, the happy possessor of all 
 sorts of gifts and accomplishments, birth, wit, fame, 
 high character, competence he was the beloved parish- 
 priest in his own home of Hodnet, "counselling his 
 people in their troubles, advising them in their diffi- 
 culties, comtorting them in distress, kneeling often at 
 their sick beds at the hazard of his own life : exhorting,
 
 28o WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 encouraging where there was need; where there was 
 strife, the peace-maker; where there was want, the free 
 giver." 
 
 When the Indian bishopric was offered to him he 
 refused at first ; but after communing with himself (and 
 committing his case to the quarter whither such pious 
 men are wont to carry their doubts), he withdrew his 
 refusal, and prepared himself for his mission and to leave 
 his beloved parish. " Little children, love one another, 
 and forgive one another," were the last sacred words he 
 said to his weeping people. He parted with them, 
 knowing, perhaps, he should see them no more. Like 
 those other good men of whom we have just spoken, 
 love and duty were his life's aim. Happy he, happy 
 they who were so gloriously faithful to both! He writes 
 to his wife those charming lines on his journey : 
 
 If thou, my love, wert by my side, my babies at my knee, 
 How gladly would our pinnace glide o'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 
 
 I miss thee at the dawning gray, when, on our deck reclined, 
 In careless ease my limbs I lay and woo the cooler wind. 
 
 I miss thee when by Gunga's stream my twilight steps I guide ; 
 But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I miss thee by my side. 
 
 I spread my books, my pencil try, the lingering noon to cheer ; 
 But miss thy kind approving eye, thy meek attentive ear. 
 
 But when of morn and eve the star beholds me on my knee, 
 I feel, though thou art distant far, thy prayers ascend for me. 
 
 Then on ! then on ! where duty leads my course be onward still, 
 O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads, o'er bleak Almorah's hill. 
 
 That course nor Delhi's kingly gates, nor wild Malwah detain, 
 For sweet the bliss us both awaits by yonder western main. 
 
 Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, across the dark 
 
 blue sea : 
 But ne'er were hearts so blithe and gay as there shall meet in thee ! 
 
 Is it not Collingwood and Sarah, and Southey and 
 Edith? His affection is part of his life. What were life 
 without it? Without love, I can fancy no gentleman. 
 How touching is a remark Heber makes in his
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 281 
 
 Travels through India, that on inquiring of the natives 
 at a town, which of the governors of India stood 
 highest in the opinion of the people, he found that, 
 though Lord Wellesley and Warren Hastings were 
 honoured as the two greatest men who had ever ruled 
 this part of the world, the people spoke with chief 
 affection of Judge Cleveland, who had died, aged 
 twenty-nine, in 1784. The people have built a monu- 
 ment over him, and still hold a religious feast in his 
 memory. So does his own country still tend with a 
 heart's regard the memory of the gentle Heber. 
 
 And Cleveland died in 1784, and is still loved by the 
 heathen, is he? Why, that year 1784 was remarkable in 
 the life of our friend the First Gentleman of Europe. 
 Do you not know that he was twenty-one in that year, 
 and opened Carlton House with a grand ball to the 
 nobility and gentry, and doubtless wore that lovely pink 
 coat which we have described. I was eager to read 
 about the ball, and looked to the old magazines for 
 information. The entertainment took place on the 
 loth February. In the European Magazine of March, 
 1784, I came straightway upon it: 
 
 " The alterations at Carlton House being finished, we 
 lay before our readers a description of the state apart- 
 ments as they appeared on the loth instant, when 
 H.R.H. gave a grand ball to the principal nobility and 
 gentry. . . . The entrance to the state room fills the 
 mind with an inexpressible idea of greatness and 
 splendour. 
 
 " The state chair is of a gold frame, covered with 
 crimson damask; on each corner of the feet is a Icon's 
 head, expressive of fortitude and strength ; the feet of 
 the chair have serpents twining round them, to denote 
 wisdom. Facing the throne, appears the helmet of 
 Minerva; and over the windows, glory is represented by 
 St. George with a superb gloria. 
 
 " But the saloon may be styled the chef cFaeuvre, and 
 in every ornament discovers great invention. It is hung 
 with a figured lemon satin. The window-curtains, sofas, 
 and chairs are of the same colour. The ceiling is orna-
 
 282 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 merited with emblematical paintings, representing" the 
 Graces and Muses, together with Jupiter, Mercury, 
 Apollo, and Paris. Two ormolu chandeliers are placed 
 here. It is impossible by expression to do justice to the 
 extraordinary workmanship as well as design of the 
 ornaments. They each consist of a palm, branching out 
 in five directions for the reception of lights. A beautiful 
 figure of a rural nymph is represented entwining the 
 stems of the tree with wreaths of flowers. In the centre 
 of the room is a rich chandelier. To see this apartment 
 dans son plus beau jour ; it should be viewed in the glass 
 over the chimney-piece. The range of apartments from 
 the saloon to the ball-room, when the doors are open, 
 formed one of the grandest spectacles that ever was 
 beheld." 
 
 In the Gentleman's Magazine, for the very same month 
 and year March, 1784 is an account of another 
 festival, in which another great gentleman of English 
 extraction is represented as taking a principal share : 
 
 " According to order, H.E. the Commander-in-Chief 
 was admitted to a public audience of Congress; and> 
 being seated, the President, after a pause, informed 
 him that the United States assembled were ready to 
 receive his communications. Whereupon he arose, and 
 spoke as follows : 
 
 "'Mr. President The great events on which my 
 resignation depended having at length taken place, I 
 present myself before Congress to surrender into their 
 hands the trust committed to me, and to claim the in- 
 dulgence of retiring from the service of my country. 
 
 " Happy in the confirmation of our independence and 
 sovereignty, I resign the appointment I accepted with 
 diffidence; which, however, was superseded by a con- 
 fidence in the rectitude of our cause, the support of the 
 supreme power of the nation, and the patronage of 
 Heaven. I close this last act of my official life, by com- 
 mending the interests of our dearest country to the pro- 
 tection of Almighty God, and those who have the 
 superintendence of them to His holy keeping. Having 
 finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great
 
 GEORGE THE FOURTH 283 
 
 theatre of action; and, bidding an affectionate farewell 
 to this august body, under whose orders I have so long 
 acted, I here offer my commission and take my leave of 
 the employments of my public life.' 
 
 " To which the President replied: 
 
 " ' Sir, having defended the standard of liberty in the 
 New World, having taught a lesson useful to those who 
 inflict and those who feel oppression, you retire with the 
 blessings of your fellow-citizens; though the glory of 
 your virtues will not terminate with your military com- 
 mand, but will descend to remotest ages.' " 
 
 Which was the most splendid spectacle ever wit- 
 nessed the opening feast of Prince George in London, 
 or the resignation of Washington? Which is the noble 
 character for after ages to admire yon fribble dancing 
 in lace and spangles, or yonder hero who sheathes his 
 sword after a life of spotless honour, a purity unre- 
 proached, a courage indomitable, and a consummate 
 victory? Which of these is the true gentleman? What 
 is it to be a gentleman? Is it to have lofty aims, to lead 
 a pure life, to keep your honour virgin; to have the 
 esteem of your fellow-citizens, and the love of your 
 fireside ; to bear good fortune meekly ; to suffer evil with 
 constancy ; and through evil or good to maintain truth 
 always? Show me the happy man whose life exhibits 
 these qualities, and him we will salute as gentleman, 
 whatever his rank may be ; show me the prince who 
 possesses them, and he may be sure of our love and 
 loyalty. The heart of Britain still beats kindly for 
 George III not because he was wise and just, but 
 because he was pure in life, honest in intent, and be- 
 cause according to his lights he worshipped Heaven. I 
 think we acknowledge in the inheritrix of his sceptre, a 
 wiser rule, and a life as honourable and pure ; and I am 
 sure the future painter of our manners will pay a willing 
 allegiance to that good life, and be loyal to the memory 
 of that unsullied virtue.
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 
 
 [These slighter specimens of Thackeray as essayist or literary 
 entertainer do not need separate prefaces ; such a preface would 
 overload things naturally light. A word of explanation may be 
 offered, however, of the introduction of one of his forgotten figures, 
 George Savage Fitz-Boodle. Both the man and the absurd essay 
 for which he stands are really valid as building up the big bulk of 
 the Thackerayan personality. They represent that part of him that 
 was the epicure and connoisseur of wine, a part not so important 
 as those called philosopher and artist, but quite as characteristic, 
 and (as this extract will probably show), quite as amusing. Fitz- 
 Boodle, an amiable and objectless club-man like Major Pendennis, 
 has just described how a real gentleman would make an excellent 
 auctioneer. He proceeds to suggest another gentlemanly calling. ] 
 
 ONE OF FITZ-BOODLE'S PROFESSIONS 
 
 THIS profession, too, is a great, lofty, and exceptional 
 one, and discovered by me considering these things, 
 and deeply musing upon the necessities of society. Nor 
 let honourable gentlemen imagine that I am enabled to 
 offer them in this profession, more than any other, a 
 promise of what is called future glory, deathless fame, 
 and so forth. All that I say is, that I can put young 
 men in the way of making a comfortable livelihood, and 
 leaving behind them, not a name, but what is better, a 
 decent maintenance to their children. Fitz-Boodle is as 
 good a name as any in England. General Fitz-Boodle, 
 who in Marlborough's time, and in conjunction with 
 the famous Van Slaap, beat the French in the famous 
 action of Vischzouchee, near Mardyk, in Holland, on 
 the I4th of February, 1709, is promised an immortality 
 upon his tomb in Westminster Abbey; but he died of
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 285 
 
 apoplexy, deucedly in debt, two years afterwards : and 
 what after that is the use of a name? 
 
 No, no ; the age of chivalry is past. Take the twenty- 
 four first men who come into the club, and ask who 
 they are, and how they made their money? There's 
 Woolsey-Sackville : his father was Lord Chancellor, and 
 sat on the woolsack, whence he took his title; his 
 grandfather dealt in coal-sacks, and not in wool-sacks 
 small coal-sacks, dribbling out little supplies of black 
 diamonds to the poor. Yonder comes Frank Leveson, 
 in a huge broad-brimmed hat, his shirt-cuffs turned up 
 to his elbows. Leveson is as gentlemanly a fellow as 
 the world contains, and if he has a fault, is perhaps too 
 finikin. Well, you fancy him related to the Sutherland 
 family: nor, indeed, does honest Frank deny it; but 
 entre nous, my good sir, his father was an attorney, and 
 his grandfather a bailiff in Chancery Lane, bearing a 
 name still older than that of Leveson, namely, Levy. 
 So it is that this confounded equality grows and grows, 
 and has laid the good old nobility by the heels. Look at 
 that venerable Sir Charles Kitely, of Kitely Park: he 
 is interested about the Ashantees, and is just come from 
 Exeter Hall. Kitely discounted bills in the City in the 
 year 1787, and gained his baronetcy by a loan to the 
 French princes. All these points of history are perfectly 
 well known; and do you fancy the world cares? Psha! 
 Profession is no disgrace to a man : be what you like, 
 provided you succeed. If Mr. Fauntleroy could come to 
 life with a million of money, you and I would dine with 
 him : you know we would ; for why should we be better 
 than our neighbours? 
 
 Put, then, out of your head the idea that this or that 
 profession is unworthy of you : take any that may bring 
 you profit, and thank him that puts you in the way of 
 being rich. 
 
 The profession I would urge (upon a person duly 
 qualified to undertake it) has, I confess, at the first 
 glance, something ridiculous about it; and will not 
 appear to young ladies so romantic as the calling of a 
 gallant soldier, blazing with glory, gold lace, and ver-
 
 286 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 milion coats; or a dear, delightful clergyman, with a 
 sweet blue eye, and a pocket-handkerchief scented 
 charmingly with lavender-water. The profession I allude 
 to will, I own, be to young women disagreeable, to 
 sober men trivial, to great stupid moralists unworthy. 
 
 But mark my words for it, that in the religious world 
 (I have once or twice, by mistake no doubt, had the 
 honour of dining in " serious" houses, and can vouch 
 for the fact that the dinners there are of excellent 
 quality) in the serious world, in the great mercantile 
 world, among the legal community (notorious feeders), 
 in every house in town (except some half-dozen which 
 can afford to do without such aid), the man I propose 
 might speedily render himself indispensable. 
 
 Does the reader now begin to take? Have I hinted 
 enough for him that he may see with eagle glance the 
 immense beauty of the profession I am about to unfold 
 to him? We have all seen GunterandChevet ; Fregoso, 
 on the Puerta del Sol (a relation of the ex-Minister 
 Calomarde), is a good purveyor enough for the be- 
 nighted olla-eaters of Madrid ; nor have I any fault to 
 find with Guimard, a Frenchman, who has lately set up 
 in the Toledo at Naples, where he furnishes people with 
 decent food. It has given me pleasure, too, in walking 
 about London in the Strand, in Oxford Street, and 
 elsewhere, to see fournisseurs and comestible-mer- 
 chants newly set up. Messrs. Morell have excellent 
 articles in their warehouses; Fortnum and Mason are 
 known to most of my readers. 
 
 But what is not known, what is wanted, what is lan- 
 guished for in England is a dinner-master a gentleman 
 who is not a provider of meat or wine, like the parties 
 before named, who can have no earthly interest in the 
 price of truffled turkeys or dry champagne beyond that 
 legitimate interest which he may feel for his client, and 
 which leads him to see that the latter is not cheated by 
 his tradesmen. For the dinner-giver is almost naturally 
 an ignorant man. How in mercy's name can Mr. 
 Serjeant Snorter, who is all day at Westminster, or in 
 chambers, know possibly the mysteries, the delicacy, of
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 287 
 
 dinner-giving-? How can Alderman Pogson know any- 
 thing beyond the fact that venison is good with currant- 
 jelly, and that he likes lots of green fat with his turtle? 
 Snorter knows law, Pogson is acquainted with the state 
 of the tallow-market; but what should he know of 
 eating, like you and me, who have given up our time to 
 it? (I say me only familiarly, for I have only reached 
 so far in the science as to know that I know nothing.) 
 But men there are, gifted individuals, who have spent 
 years of deep thought not merely intervals of labour, 
 but hours of study every day over the gormandizing 
 science who, like alchemists, have let their fortunes 
 go, guinea by guinea, into the all-devouring pot who, 
 ruined as they sometimes are, never get a guinea by 
 chance but they will have a plate of pease in May with 
 it, or a little feast of ortolans, or a piece of Glo'ster 
 salmon, or one more flask from their favourite claret- 
 bin. 
 
 It is not the ruined gastronomist that I would advise 
 a person to select as his table-master: for the opportuni- 
 ties of peculation would be too great in a position of 
 such confidence such complete abandonment of one 
 man to another. A ruined man would be making bar- 
 gains with the tradesmen. They would offer to cash 
 bills for him, or send him opportune presents of wine, 
 which he could convert into money, or bribe him in one 
 way or another. Let this be done, and the profession of 
 table-master is ruined. Snorter and Pogson may almost 
 as well order their own dinners, as be at the mercy of a 
 "gastronomic agent" whose faith is not beyond all 
 question. 
 
 A vulgar mind, in reply to these remarks regarding 
 the gastronomic ignorance of Snorter and Pogson, might 
 say, "True, these gentlemen know nothing of household 
 economy, being occupied with other more important 
 business elsewhere. But what are their wives about? 
 Lady Pogson in Harley Street has nothing earthly to do 
 but to mind her poodle, and her mantua-maker's and 
 housekeeper's bills. Mrs. Snorter in Bedford Place, when 
 she has taken her drive in the Park with the young
 
 288 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 ladies, may surely have time to attend to her husband's 
 guests and preside over the preparations of his kitchen, 
 as she does worthily at his hospitable mahogany." To 
 this I answer, that a man who expects a woman to 
 understand the philosophy of dinner-giving, shows the 
 strongest evidence of a low mind. He is unjust towards 
 that lovely and delicate creature, woman, to suppose 
 that she heartily understands and cares for what she 
 eats and drinks. No : taken as a rule, women have no 
 real appetites. They are children in the gormandizing 
 way; loving sugar, sops, tarts, trifles, apricot creams, 
 and such gewgaws. They would take a sip of Malmsey, 
 and would drink currant wine just as happily, if that 
 accursed liquor were presented to them by the butler. 
 Did you ever know a woman who could lay her fair hand 
 upon her gentle heart and say on her conscience that she 
 preferred dry sillery to sparkling champagne? Such a 
 phenomenon does not exist. They are not made for eat- 
 ing and drinking ; or, if they make a pretence to it, be- 
 come downright odious. Nor can they, I am sure, witness 
 the preparations of a really great repast without a certain 
 jealousy. They grudge spending money (ask guards, 
 coachmen, inn-waiters, whether this be not the case). 
 They will give their all, heaven bless them! to serve a 
 son, a grandson, or a dear relative, but they have not 
 the heart to pay for small things magnificently. They are 
 jealous of good dinners, and no wonder. I have shown 
 in a former discourse how they are jealous of smoking, 
 and other personal enjoyments of the male. I say, then, 
 that Lady Pogson or Mrs. Snorter can never conduct 
 their husbands' table properly. Fancy either of them 
 consenting to allow a calf to be stewed down into gravy 
 for one dish, or a dozen hares to be sacrificed to a single 
 puree of game, or the best Madeira to be used for a 
 sauce, or half a dozen of champagne to boil a ham in. 
 They will be for bringing a bottle of Marsala in place of 
 the old particular, or for having the ham cooked in water. 
 But of these matters of kitchen philosophy I have no 
 practical or theoretic knowledge ; and must beg pardon 
 if, only understanding the goodness of a dish when
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 289 
 
 cooked, I may have unconsciously made some blunder 
 regarding the preparation. 
 
 Let it, then, be set down as an axiom, without further 
 trouble of demonstration, that a woman is a bad dinner- 
 caterer ; either too great and simple for it, or too mean 
 I don't know which it is; and gentlemen, according as 
 they admire or contemn the sex, may settle that matter 
 their own way. In brief, the mental constitution of lovely 
 woman is such that she cannot give a great dinner. It 
 must be done by a man. It can't be done by an ordinary 
 man, because he does not understand it. Vain fool! and 
 he sends off to the pastrycook in Great Russell Street or 
 Baker Street, he lays on a couple of extra waiters (green- 
 grocers in the neighbourhood), he makes a great pother 
 with his butler in the cellar, and fancies he has done the 
 business. 
 
 Bon Dieu ! Who has not been at those dinners? those 
 monstrous exhibitions of the pastrycook's art? Who does 
 not know those made dishes with the universal sauce to 
 each ; fricandeaux, sweetbreads, damp dumpy cutlets, 
 etc., seasoned with the compound of grease, onions, 
 bad port-wine, cayenne pepper, curry-powder (Warren's 
 blacking, for what I know, but the taste is always the 
 same) there they lie in the old corner dishes, the poor 
 wiry Moselle and sparkling Burgundy in the ice-coolers, 
 and the old story of white and brown soup, turbot, little 
 smelts, boiled turkey, saddle-of-mutton, and so forth? 
 "Try a little of that fricandeau," says Mrs. Snorter, 
 with a kind smile. "You'll find it, I think, very nice." 
 Be sure it has come in a green tray from Great Russell 
 Street. " Mr. Fitz-Boodle, you have been in Germany," 
 cries Snorter, knowingly; "taste the hock, and tell me 
 what you think of that." 
 
 How should he know better, poor benighted creature ; 
 or she, dear good soul that she is? If they would have a 
 leg of mutton and an apple-pudding, and a glass of 
 sherry and port (or simple brandy-and-water called by 
 its own name) after dinner, all would be very well ; but 
 they must shine, they must dine as their neighbours. 
 There is no difference in the style of dinners in London ; 
 U
 
 2 9 o WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 people with five hundred a year treat you exactly as 
 those of five thousand. They will have their Moselle or 
 hock, their fatal side-dishes brought in the green trays 
 from the pastry-cook's. 
 
 Well, there is no harm done ; not as regards the dinner- 
 givers at least, though the dinner-eaters may have to 
 suffer somewhat; it only shows that the former are 
 hospitably inclined, and wish to do the very best in their 
 power, good honest fellows! If they do wrong, how 
 can they help it? they know no better. 
 
 And now, is it not as clear as the sun at noon-day, 
 that A WANT exists in London for a superintendent of the 
 table a gastronomic agent a dinner-master, as I have 
 called him before? A man of such a profession would be 
 a metropolitan benefit ; hundreds of thousands of people 
 of the respectable sort, people in white waistcoats, would 
 thank him daily. Calculate how many dinners are given 
 in the City of London, and calculate the numbers of 
 benedictions that "the Agency" might win. 
 
 And as no doubt the observant man of the world has 
 remarked that the freeborn Englishmen of the respect- 
 able class is, of all others, the most slavish and truckling 
 to a lord ; that there is no fly-blown peer but he is pleased 
 to have him at his table, proud beyond measure to call 
 him by his surname (without the lordly prefix) ; and that 
 those lords whom he does not know, he yet (the freeborn 
 Englishman) takes care to have their pedigrees and ages 
 by heart from his world-bible, the " Peerage: " as this is 
 an indisputable fact, and as it is in this particular class of 
 Britons that our agent must look to find clients, I need not 
 say it is necessary that the agent should be as high-born 
 as possible, and that he should be able to tack, if pos- 
 sible, an honourable or some other handle to his respect- 
 able name. He must have it on his professional card 
 
 i!)onouval)lf <rorgr dormant) ofifolr ton, 
 
 Apician Chambers, Pall Mall.
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 291 
 
 Or, 
 
 OTatber orramleg OTramlep, 
 
 Amphitryonic Council Office, Swallow Street. 
 
 or, in some such neat way, Gothic letters on a large 
 handsome crockeryware card, with possibly a gilt coat- 
 of-arms and supporters, or the blood-red hand of baron- 
 etcy duly displayed. Depend on it plenty of guineas will 
 fall in it, and that Gobbleton's supporters will support 
 him comfortably enough. 
 
 For this profession is not like that of the auctioneer, 
 which I take to be a far more noble one, because more 
 varied and more truthful ; but in the Agency case, a little 
 humbug at least is necessary. A man cannot be a 
 successful agent by the mere force of his simple merit 
 or genius in eating and drinking. He must of necessity 
 impose upon the vulgar to a certain degree. He must be 
 of that rank which will lead them naturally to respect 
 him, otherwise they might be led to jeer at his profession; 
 but let a noble exercise it, and, bless your soul, all the 
 "Court Guide" is dumb! 
 
 He will then give out in a manly and somewhat 
 pompous address what has before been mentioned, 
 namely, that he has seen the fatal way in which the 
 hospitality of England has been perverted hitherto, 
 accapartfd. by a few cooks with green trays. (He must 
 use a good deal of French in his language, for that is 
 considered very gentleman-like by vulgar people.) He 
 will take a set of chambers in Carlton Gardens, which 
 will be richly though severely furnished, and the door of 
 which will be opened by a French valet (he must be a 
 Frenchman, remember), who will say, on letting iylr. 
 Snorter or Sir Benjamin Pogson in, that " Milor is at 
 home." Pogson will then be shown into a library fur- 
 nished with massive book-cases, containing all the works 
 on cookery and wines (the titles of them) in all the
 
 292 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 known languages in the world. Any books, of course, 
 will do, as you will have them handsomely bound, and 
 keep them under plate-glass. On a side-table will be 
 little sample-bottles of wines, a few truffles on a white 
 porcelain saucer, a prodigious strawberry or two, per- 
 haps, at the time when such fruit costs much money. 
 On the library will be busts marked Ude, Careme, 
 Be'chamel, in marble (never mind what heads, of 
 course) ; and, perhaps, on the clock should be a figure 
 of the Prince of Condi's cook killing himself because the 
 fish had not arrived in time : there may be a wreath of 
 immortelles on the figure to give it a more decidedly 
 Frenchified air. The walls will be of a dark rich paper, 
 hung round with neat gilt frames, containing plans of 
 menus of various great dinners, those of CambaceVes, 
 Napoleon, Louis XIV, Louis XVIII, Heliogabalus if 
 you like, each signed by the respective cook. 
 
 After the stranger has looked about him at these 
 things, which he does not understand in the least, 
 especially the truffles, which look like dirty potatoes, 
 you will make your appearance, dressed in a dark dress, 
 with one handsome enormous gold chain, and one large 
 diamond ring; a gold snuff-box, of course, which you 
 will thrust into the visitor's paw before saying a word. 
 You will be yourself a portly grave man, with your hair 
 a little bald and gray. In fact, in this, as in all other 
 professions, you had best try to look as like Canning as 
 you can. 
 
 When Pogson has done sneezing with the snuff, you 
 will say to him, "Take &fauteuil. I have the honour of 
 addressing Sir Benjamin Pogson, I believe?" And then 
 you will explain to him your system. 
 
 This, of course, must vary with every person you 
 address. But let us lay down a few of the heads of a 
 plan which may be useful, or may be modified infinitely, 
 or may be cast aside altogether, just as circumstances 
 dictate. After all / am not going to turn gastronomic 
 agent, and speak only for the benefit perhaps of the very 
 person who is reading this :
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 293 
 
 "SYNOPSIS OF THE GASTRONOMIC AGENCY OF THE 
 HONOURABLE GEORGE GOBBLETON. 
 
 " THE Gastronomic Agent having traversed Europe, and dined 
 with the best society of the world, has been led naturally, as 
 a patriot, to turn his thoughts homeward, and cannot but 
 deplore the lamentable ignorance regarding gastronomy dis- 
 played in a country for which Nature has done almost every- 
 thing. 
 
 " But it is ever singularly thus. Inherent ignorance belongs 
 to man; and The Agent, in his Continental travels, has 
 always remarked, that the countries most fertile in themselves 
 were invariably worse tilled than those more barren. The 
 Italians and the Spaniards leave their fields to Nature, as we 
 leave our vegetables, fish, and meat. And, heavens ! what 
 richness do we fling away, what dormant qualities in our 
 dishes do we disregard, what glorious gastronomic crops (if 
 The Agent may be permitted the expression) what glorious 
 gastronomic crops do we sacrifice, allowing our goodly meats 
 and fishes to lie fallow! 'Chance,' it is said by an ingenious 
 historian, who, having been long a secretary in the East India 
 House, must certainly have had access to the best informa- 
 tion upon Eastern matters ' Chance,' it is said by Mr. Charles 
 Lamb, ' which burnt down a Chinaman's house, with a litter 
 of sucking-pigs that were unable to escape from the interior, 
 discovered to the world the excellence of roast-pig.' Gun- 
 powder, we know, was invented by a similar fortuity." [The 
 reader will observe that my style in the supposed character of 
 a Gastronomic Agent is purposely pompous and loud.J " So, 
 'tis said, was printing, so glass. We should have drunk our 
 wine poisoned with the villanous odour of the borachio, had 
 not some Eastern merchants, lighting their fires in the Desert, 
 marked the strange composition which now glitters on our 
 sideboards, and holds the costly produce of our vines. 
 
 " We have spoken of the natural riches of a country. Let 
 the reader think but for one moment of the gastronomic 
 wealth of our country of England, and he will be lost in 
 thankful amazement as he watches the astonishing riches 
 poured out upon us from Nature's bounteous cornucopia ! 
 Look at our fisheries ! the trout and salmon tossing in our 
 brawling streams; the white and full-breasted turbot strug- 
 gling in the mariner's net ; the purple lobster lured by hopes 
 of greed into his basket-prison, which he quits only for the 
 red ordeal of the pot. Look at whitebait, great heavens ! 
 look at whitebait, and a thousand frisking, glittering, silvery
 
 294 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 things besides, which the nymphs of our native streams bear 
 kindly to the deities of our kitchens our kitchens such as 
 they are. 
 
 "And though it may be said that other countries produce 
 the freckle-backed salmon and the dark broad-shouldered 
 turbot ; though trout frequent many a stream besides those of 
 England, and lobsters sprawl on other sands than ours ; yet, 
 let it be remembered, that our native country possesses these 
 all together, while other lands only know them separately ; 
 that, above all, whitebait is peculiarly our country's our 
 city's own ! Blessings and eternal praises be on it, and, of 
 course, on brown bread and butter ! And the Briton should 
 further remember, with honest pride and thankfulness, the 
 situation of his capital, of London : the lordly turtle floats 
 from the sea into the stream, and from the stream to the 
 city ; the rapid fleets of all the world se donnent rendezvous 
 in the docks of our silvery Thames ; the produce of our coasts 
 and provincial cities, east and west, is borne to us on the 
 swift lines of lightning railroads. In a word and no man but 
 one who, like The Agent, has travelled Europe over, can ap- 
 preciate the gift there is no city on earth's surface so well 
 supplied with fish as London ! 
 
 "With respect to our meats, all praise is supererogatory. 
 Ask the wretched hunter of chevreuil, the poor devourer of 
 rchbraten, what they think of the noble English haunch, that, 
 after bounding in the Park of Knowle or Windsor, exposes 
 its magnificent flank upon some broad silver platter at our 
 tables? It is enough to say of foreign venison, that they are 
 obliged to lard it. Away ! ours is the palm of roast ; whether 
 of the crisp mutton that crops the thymy herbage of our 
 downs, or the noble ox who revels on lush Althorpian oil- 
 cakes. What game is like to ours? Mans excels us in poultry, 
 'tis true; but 'tis only in merry England that the partridge 
 has a flavour, that the turkey can almost se passer de truffes, 
 that the jolly juicy goose can be eaten as he deserves. 
 
 "Our vegetables, moreover, surpass all comment; Art (by 
 the means of glass) has wrung fruit out of the bosom of 
 Nature, such as she grants to no other clime. And if we have 
 no vineyards on our hills, we have gold to purchase their best 
 produce. Nature, and enterprise that masters Nature, have 
 done everything for our land. 
 
 " But, with all these prodigious riches in our power, is it 
 not painful to reflect how absurdly we employ them ? Can we 
 say that we are in the habit of dining well? Alas, no! and 
 The Agent, roaming o'er foreign lands, and seeing how, with 
 small means and great ingenuity and perseverance, great
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 295 
 
 ends were effected, comes back sadly to his own country, 
 whose wealth he sees absurdly wasted, whose energies are 
 misdirected, and whose vast capabilities are allowed to lie 
 idle. * * * " [Here should follow what I have only hinted at 
 previously, a vivid and terrible picture of the degradation of 
 our table.] "* * * Oh, for a masterspirit, to give an impetus 
 to the land, to see its great power directed in the right way, 
 and its wealth not squandered or hidden, but nobly put out to 
 interest and spent ! 
 
 ' ' The Agent dares not hope to win that proud station to 
 be the destroyer of a barbarous system wallowing in abusive 
 prodigality to become a dietetic reformer the Luther of the 
 table. 
 
 " But convinced of the wrongs which exist, he will do his 
 humble endeavour to set them right, and to those who know 
 that they are ignorant (and this is a vast step to knowledge) 
 he offers his counsels, his active co-operation, his frank and 
 kindly sympathy. The Agent's qualifications are these : 
 
 " i. He is of one of the best families in England ; and has 
 in himself, or through his ancestors, been accustomed to good 
 living for centuries. In the reign of Henry V, his maternal 
 great-great-grandfather, Roger de Gobylton " [the name may 
 be -varied, of course, or the king's reign, or the dish invented], 
 " was the first who discovered the method of roasting a pea- 
 cock whole, with his tail-feathers displayed ; and the dish was 
 served to the two kings at Rouen. Sir Walter Cramley, in 
 Elizabeth's reign, produced before her Majesty, when at 
 Killingworth Castle, mackerel with the famous gooseberry 
 sauce, etc. 
 
 ' ' 2. He has, through life, devoted himself to no other study 
 than that of the table : and has visited to that end the courts 
 of all the monarchs of Europe : taking the receipts of the 
 cooks, with whom he lives on terms of intimate friendship, 
 often at enormous expense to himself. 
 
 "3. He has the same acquaintance with all the vintages 
 of the Continent; having passed the autumn of 1811 (the 
 comet year) on the great Weinberg of Johannisberg ; being 
 employed similarly at Bordeaux, in 1834; at Oporto, in 1820; 
 and at Xeres de la Frontera, with his excellent friends, Duff, 
 Gordon and Co., the year after. He travelled to India and 
 back in company with fourteen pipes of madeira (on board of 
 the ' Samuel Snob ' East Indiaman, Captain Scuttler), and 
 spent the vintage season in the island, with unlimited powers 
 of observation granted to him by the great houses there. 
 
 " 4. He has attended Mr. Groves of Charing Cross, and 
 Mr. Giblett of Bond Street, in a course of purchases of fish
 
 296 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 and meat; and is able at a glance to recognize the age of 
 mutton, the primeness of beef, the firmness and freshness of 
 fish of all kinds. 
 
 "5. He has visited the parks, the grouse-manors, and the 
 principal gardens of England, in a similar professional point 
 of view." 
 
 The Agent then, through his subordinates, engages to pro- 
 vide gentlemen who are about to give dinner-parties 
 
 " i. With cooks to dress the dinners ; a list of which gentle- 
 men he has by him, and will recommend none who are not 
 worthy of the strictest confidence. 
 
 "2. With a menu for the table, according to the price which 
 the Amphitryon chooses to incur. 
 
 "3. He will, through correspondences with the various 
 fournisseurs of the metropolis, provide them with viands, 
 fruit, wine, etc., sending to Paris, if need be, where he has a 
 a regular correspondence with Messrs. Chevet. 
 
 "4. He has a list of dexterous table-waiters (all answering 
 to the name of John for fear of mistakes, the butler's name to 
 be settled according to pleasure), and would strongly recom- 
 mend that the servants of the house should be locked in the 
 back-kitchen or servants' hall during the time the dinner 
 takes place. 
 
 "5. He will receive and examine all the accounts of the 
 fournisseurs, of course pledging his honour as a gentleman 
 not to receive one shilling of paltry gratification from the 
 tradesmen he employs, but to see that the bills are more 
 moderate, and their goods of better quality, than they would 
 provide to any person of less experience than himself. 
 
 "6. His fee for superintending a dinner will be five guineas : 
 and The Agent entreats his clients to trust entirely to him 
 and his subordinates for the arrangement of the repast, not 
 to think of inserting dishes of their own invention, or produc- 
 ing wine from their own cellars, as he engages to have it 
 brought in the best order, and fit for immediate drinking. 
 Should the Amphitryon, however, desire some particular dish 
 or wine, he must consult The Agent, in the first case by 
 writing, in the second, by sending a sample to The Agent's 
 chambers. For it is manifest that the whole complexion of a 
 dinner may be altered by the insertion of a single dish ; and, 
 therefore, parties will do well to mention their wishes on the 
 first interview with The Agent. He cannot be called upon to 
 recompose his bill of fare, except at great risk to the ensemble 
 of the dinner and enormous inconvenience to himself. 
 
 "7. The Agent will be at home for consultation from ten
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 297 
 
 o'clock until two earlier, if gentlemen who are engaged at 
 early hours in the City desire to have an interview : and be it 
 remembered, that a. personal interview is always the best: for 
 it is greatly necessary to know not only the number but the 
 character of the guests whom the Amphitryon proposes to 
 entertain, whether they are fond of any particular wine or 
 dish, what is their state of health, rank, style, profession, etc. 
 "8. At two o'clock, he will commence his rounds; for as 
 the metropolis is wide, it is clear that he must be early in the 
 field in some districts. From 2 to 3 he will be in Russell 
 Square and the neighbourhood ; 3 to 3f , Harley Street, Port- 
 land Place, Cavendish Square, and the environs; 3! to 4$, 
 Portman Square, Gloucester Place, Baker Street, etc. ; 4^ to 5, 
 the new district about Hyde Park Terrace ; 5 to 5f , St. John's 
 Wood and the Regent's Park. He will be in Grosvenor 
 Square by 6, and in Belgrave Square, Pimlico, and its vicinity, 
 by 7. Parties there are requested not to dine until 8 o'clock ; 
 and The Agent, once for all, peremptorily announces that he 
 will NOT go to the Palace, where it is utterly impossible to 
 serve a good dinner." 
 
 " To TRADESMEN. 
 
 " EVERY Monday evening during the season the Gastronomic 
 Agent proposes to give a series of trial-dinners, to which the 
 principal gourmands of the metropolis, and a few of The 
 Agent's most respectable clients, will be invited. Covers will 
 be laid for ten at nine o'clock precisely. And as The Agent 
 does not propose to exact a single shilling of profit from their 
 bills, and as his recommendation will be of infinite value to 
 them, the tradesmen he employs will furnish the weekly 
 dinner gratis. Cooks will attend (who have acknowledged 
 characters) upon the same terms. To save trouble, a book 
 will be kept where butchers, poulterers, fishmongers, etc., may 
 inscribe their names in order, taking it by turns to supply the 
 trial-table. Wine-merchants will naturally compete every week 
 promiscuously, sending what they consider their best samples, 
 and leaving with the hall-porter tickets of the prices. Confec- 
 tionery to be done out of the house. Fruiterers, market-men, 
 as butcheis and poulterers. The Agent's maitre (fhotel will 
 give a receipt to each individual for the articles he produces; 
 and let all remember that the Agent is a very keen judge ', and 
 woe betide those who serve him or his clients ill ! 
 
 " GEORGE GORMAND GOBBLETON. 
 
 ti Carlton Gardens, June 10, 1842."
 
 298 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Here I have sketched out the heads of such an address 
 as I conceive a gastronomic agent might put forth ; and 
 appeal pretty confidently to the British public regarding 
 its merits and my own discovery. If this be not a pro- 
 fession a new one a feasible one a lucrative one I 
 don't know what is. Say that a man attends but fifteen 
 dinners daily, that is seventy-five guineas, or five hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds weekly, or fourteen thousand three 
 hundred pounds for a season of six months : and how 
 many of our younger sons have such a capital even? 
 Let, then, some unemployed gentleman with the requisite 
 qualifications come forward. It will not be necessary that 
 he should have done all that is stated in the prospectus ; 
 but, at any rate, let him say he has : there can't be much 
 harm in an innocent fib of that sort ; for the gastronomic 
 agent must be a sort of dinner-pope, whose opinions 
 cannot be supposed to err. 
 
 And as he really will be an excellent judge of eating 
 and drinking, and will bring his whole mind to bear 
 upon the question, and will speedily acquire an experi- 
 ence which no person out of the profession can possibly 
 have; and as, moreover, he will be an honourable man, 
 not practising upon his client in any way, or demanding 
 sixpence beyond his just fee, the world will gain vastly 
 by the coming forward of such a person gain in good 
 dinners, and absolutely save money: for what is five 
 guineas for a dinner of sixteen? The sum may begaspille 
 by a cook-wench, or by one of those abominable before- 
 named pastrycooks with their green trays. 
 
 If any man take up the business, he will invite me, of 
 course, to the Monday dinners. Or does ingratitude go 
 so far as that a man should forget the author of his good 
 fortune? I believe it does. Turn we away from the 
 sickening theme! 
 
 And now, having concluded my professions, how shall 
 I express my obligations to the discriminating press of 
 this country for the unanimous applause which hailed 
 my first appearance? It is the more wonderful, as I 
 pledge my sacred word, I never wrote a document be-
 
 THE FITZ-BOODLE PAPERS 299 
 
 fore much longer than a laundress's bill, or the accept- 
 ance of an invitation to dinner. But enough of this 
 egotism: thanks for praise conferred sound like vanity; 
 gratitude is hard to speak of, and at present it swells 
 the full heart of 
 
 GEORGE SAVAGE FITZ-BOODLE.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 
 
 [The three rambling essays which follow can be classed under 
 one head. They were all contributed to the Corn/till Magazine 
 during- Thackeray's editorship or that of his immediate successor, 
 under the title of Roundabout Papers. They are of some import- 
 ance to Thackeray's fame, because some critics when reading his 
 novels have said that the stories would be all very well without the 
 digressions. Here he makes a whole book out of the digressions 
 alone; and it is one of his best.] 
 
 ON A CHALK-MARK ON THE DOOR 
 
 ON the doorpost of the house of a friend of mine, a few 
 inches above the lock, is a little chalk-mark, which some 
 sportive boy in passing" has probably scratched on the 
 pillar. The door-steps, the lock, handle, and so forth, 
 are kept decently enough; but this chalk-mark, I sup- 
 pose some three inches out of the housemaid's beat, has 
 already been on the door for more than a fortnight, and 
 I wonder whether it will be there whilst this paper is 
 being written, whilst it is at the printer's, and, in fine, 
 until the month passes over? I wonder whether the 
 servants in that house will read these remarks about the 
 chalk-mark? That the Cornhill Magazine is taken in in 
 that house I know. In fact I have seen it there. In fact 
 I have read it there. In fact I have written it there. In 
 a word, the house to which I allude is mine the 
 " editor's private residence," to which, in spite of 
 prayers, entreaties, commands, and threats, authors, 
 and ladies especially, 'will send their communications, 
 although they won't understand that they injure their 
 own interests by so doing ; for how is a man who has 
 his own work to do, his own exquisite inventions to 
 300
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 301 
 
 form and perfect Maria to rescue from the unprincipled 
 Earl the atrocious General to confound in his own 
 machinations the angelic Dean to promote to a bishopric, 
 and so forth how is a man to do all this, under a hun- 
 dred interruptions, and keep his nerves and temper in 
 that just and equable state in which they ought to be 
 when he comes to assume the critical office? As you 
 will send here, ladies, I must tell you you have a much 
 worse chance than if you forward your valuable articles 
 to Cornhill. Here your papers arrive, at dinner-time, 
 we will say. Do you suppose that is a pleasant period, 
 and that we are to criticise you between the ovum and 
 malum, between the soup and the dessert? I have 
 touched, I think, on this subject before. I say again, if 
 you want real justice shown you, don't send your papers 
 to the private residence. At home, for instance, yester- 
 day, having given strict orders that I was to receive 
 nobody, " except on business," do you suppose a smiling 
 young Scottish gentleman, who forced himself into my 
 study, and there announced himself as agent of a Cattle- 
 food Company, was received with pleasure? There, as 
 I sat in my arm-chair, suppose he had proposed to 
 draw a couple of my teeth, would I have been pleased? 
 I could have throttled that agent. I daresay the whole 
 of that day's work will be found tinged with a ferocious 
 misanthropy, occasioned by my clever young friend's 
 intrusion. Cattle-food, indeed! As if beans, oats, warm 
 mashes, and a ball, are to be pushed down a man's 
 throat just as he is meditating on the great social 
 problem, or (for I think it was my epic I was going to 
 touch up) just as he was about to soar to the height of 
 the empyrean! 
 
 Having got my cattle-agent out of the door, I resume 
 my consideration of that little mark on the doorpost, 
 which is scored up as the text of the present little 
 sermon ; and which I hope will relate, not to chalk, nor 
 to any of its special uses or abuses (such as milk, 
 neck-powder, and the like), but to servants. Surely 
 ours might remove that unseemly little mark. Suppose 
 it were on my coat, might I not request its removal? I
 
 302 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 remember, when I was at school, a little careless boy, 
 upon whose forehead an ink-mark remained, and was 
 perfectly recognizable for three weeks after its first 
 appearance. May I take any notice of this chalk-stain 
 on the forehead of my house? Whose business is it to 
 wash that forehead? and ought I to fetch a brush and 
 a little hot water, and wash it off myself? 
 
 Yes. But that spot removed, why not come down at 
 six, and wash the doorsteps? I daresay the early rising 
 and exercise would do me a great deal of good. The 
 housemaid, in that case, might lie in bed a little later, 
 and have her tea and the morning paper brought to her in 
 bed: then, of course, Thomas would expect to be helped 
 about the boots and knives ; cook about the saucepans, 
 dishes, and what not ; the lady's-maid would want 
 somebody to take the curl-papers out of her hair, and 
 get her bath ready. You should have a set of servants 
 for the servants, and these under-servants should have 
 slaves to wait on them. The king commands the first 
 lord in waiting to desire the second lord to intimate to 
 the gentleman usher to request a page of the ante- 
 chamber to entreat the groom of the stair to implore 
 John to ask the captain of the buttons to desire the maid 
 of the still-room to beg the housekeeper to give out a 
 few more lumps of sugar, as his Majesty has none for 
 his coffee, which probably is getting cold during the 
 negotiation. In our little Brentfords we are all kings, 
 more or less. There are orders, gradations, hierarchies, 
 everywhere. In your house and mine there are mysteries 
 unknown to us. I am not going into the horrid old 
 question of " followers." I don't mean cousins from the 
 country, love-stricken policemen, or gentlemen in mufti 
 from Knightsbridge Barracks; but people who have an 
 occult right on the premises ; the uncovenanted servants 
 of the house ; grey women who are seen at evening 
 with baskets flitting about area-railings; dingy shawls 
 which drop you furtive curtsies in your neighbourhood ; 
 demure little Jacks, who start up from behind boxes in 
 the pantry. Those outsiders wear Thomas's crest and 
 livery, and call him " Sir; " those silent women address
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 303 
 
 the female servants as " Mum," and curtsey before 
 them, squaring* their arms over their wretched lean 
 aprons. Then again, those servi servorum have depend- 
 ents in the vast, silent, poverty-stricken world outside 
 your comfortable kitchen fire, in the world of darkness, 
 and hunger, and miserable cold, and dank, flagged 
 cellars, and huddled straw, and rags, in which pale 
 children are swarming. It may be your beer (which 
 runs with great volubility) has a pipe or two which com- 
 municates with those dark caverns where hopeless an- 
 guish pours the groan, and would scarce see light but 
 for a scrap or two of candle which has long been whipped 
 away from your worship's kitchen. Not many years 
 ago I don't know whether before or since that white 
 mark was drawn on the door a lady occupied the con- 
 fidential place of housemaid in this "private residence," 
 who brought a good character, who seemed to have a 
 cheerful temper, whom I used to hear clattering and 
 bumping overhead or on the stairs long before daylight 
 there, I say, was poor Camilla, scouring the plain, 
 trundling and brushing, and clattering with her pans 
 and brooms, and humming at her work. Well, she had 
 established a smuggling communication of beer over the 
 area frontier. This neat-handed Phyllis used to pack up 
 the nicest baskets of my provender, and convey them to 
 somebody outside I believe, on my conscience, to some 
 poor friend in distress. Camilla was consigned to her 
 doom. She was sent back to her friends in the country ; 
 and when she was gone we heard of many of her faults. 
 She expressed herself, when displeased, in language that I 
 shall not repeat. As for the beer and meat, there was no 
 mistake about them. But aprds? Can I have the heart 
 to be very angry with that poor jade for helping another 
 poorer jade out of my larder? On your honour and 
 conscience, when you were a boy, and the apples looked 
 temptingly over Farmer Quarringdon's hedge, did you 
 
 never ? When there was a grand dinner at home, 
 
 and you were sliding, with Master Bacon, up and down 
 the stairs, and the dishes came out, did you ever do 
 such a thing as just to ? Well, in many and many a
 
 3 o 4 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 respect servants are like children. They are under 
 domination. They are subject to reproof, to ill-temper, 
 to petty exactions and stupid tyrannies not seldom. They 
 scheme, conspire, fawn, and are hypocrites. " Little 
 boys should not loll on chairs." " Little girls should be 
 seen and not heard; " and so forth. Have we not almost 
 all learnt these expressions of old foozles : and uttered 
 them ourselves when in the square-toed state? The 
 Eton master, who was breaking" a lance with our Pater- 
 familias of late, turned on Paterfamilias, saying, He 
 knows not the nature and exquisite candour of well-bred 
 English boys. Exquisite fiddlestick's end, Mr. Master! 
 Do you mean for to go for to tell us that the relations 
 between young gentlemen and their schoolmasters are 
 entirely frank and cordial ; that the lad is familiar with 
 the man who can have him flogged; never shirks his 
 exercises ; never gets other boys to do his verses ; never 
 does other boys' verses ; never breaks bounds ; never 
 tells fibs I mean the fibs permitted by scholastic honour? 
 Did I know of a boy who pretended to such a character, 
 I would forbid my scapegraces to keep company with 
 him. Did I know a schoolmaster who pretended to 
 believe in the existence of many hundred such boys in 
 one school at one time, I would set that man down as a 
 baby in knowledge of the world. "Who was making 
 that noise?" "I don't know, sir." And he knows it 
 was the boy next him in school. " Who was climbing 
 over that wall?" " I don't know, sir." And it is in the 
 speaker's own trousers, very likely, the glass bottle-tops 
 have left their cruel scars. And so with servants. 
 "Who ate up the three pigeons which went down in 
 the pigeon-pie at breakfast this morning?" " Oh dear 
 me ! sir, it was John, who went away last month ! " or, 
 " I think it was Miss Mary's canary-bird, which got out 
 of the cage, and is so fond of pigeons, it never can have 
 enough of them." Yes, it was the canary-bird; and 
 Eliza saw it ; and Eliza is ready to vow she did. These 
 statements are not true ; but please don't call them lies. 
 This is not lying ; this is voting with your party. You 
 must back your own side. The servants'-hall stands by
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 305 
 
 the servants'-hall against the diningf-room. The school- 
 boys don't tell tales of each other. They agree not to 
 choose to know who has made the noise, who has broken 
 the window, who has eaten up the pigeons, who has 
 picked all the plovers'-eggs out of the aspic, how it is 
 that liqueur brandy of Gledstane's is in such porous 
 glass-bottles and so forth. Suppose Brutus had a foot- 
 man, who came and told him that the butler drank the 
 curacoa, which of these servants would you dismiss? 
 the butler, perhaps, but the footman certainly. 
 
 No. If your plate and glass are beautifully bright, 
 your bell quickly answered, and Thomas ready, neat, 
 and good-humoured, you are not to expect absolute 
 truth from him. The very obsequiousness and per- 
 fection of his service prevents truth. He may be ever so 
 unwell in mind or body, and he must go through his 
 service hand the shining plate, replenish the spotless 
 glass, lay the glittering fork never laugh when you 
 yourself oryour guests joke be profoundly attentive, and 
 yet look utterly impassive exchange a few hurried 
 curses at the door with that unseen slavey who ministers 
 without, and with you be perfectly calm and polite. If 
 you are ill, he will come twenty times in an hour to 
 your bell; or leave the girl of his heart his mother, 
 who is going to America his dearest friend, who has 
 come to say farewell his lunch, and his glass of beer 
 just freshly poured out any or all of these, if the door- 
 bell rings, or the master calls out "THOMAS " from the 
 hall. Do you suppose you can expect absolute candour 
 from a man whom you may order to powder his hair? 
 As between the Reverend Henry Holyshade and his pupil, 
 the idea of entire unreserve is utter bosh ; so the truth 
 as between you and Jeames or Thomas, or Mary the 
 housemaid, or Betty the cook, is relative, and not to be 
 demanded on one side or the other. Why, respectful 
 civility is itself a lie, which poor Jeames often has to 
 utter or perform to many a swaggering vulgarian, who 
 should black Jeames's boots, did Jeames wear them and 
 not shoes. There is your little Tom, just ten, ordering 
 the great, large, quiet, orderly young man about 
 x
 
 306 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 shrieking' calls for hot water bullying" Jeames because 
 the boots are not varnished enough, or ordering him to 
 go to the stables, and ask Jenkins why the deuce 
 Tomkins hasn't brought his pony round or what you 
 will. There is mamma rapping the knuckles of Pincot 
 the lady's-maid, and little Miss scolding Martha, who 
 waits up five pair of stairs in the nursery. Little Miss, 
 Tommy, papa, mamma, you all expect from Martha, 
 from Pincot, from Jenkins, from Jeames, obsequious 
 civility and willing service. My dear, good people, you 
 can't have truth too. Suppose you ask for your news- 
 paper, and Jeames says, " I'm reading it, and jest beg 
 not to be disturbed ; " or suppose you ask for a can of 
 water, and he remarks, " You great, big, 'ulking fellar, 
 ain't you big enough to bring it hup yoursulf? " what 
 would your feelings be? Now, if you made similar pro- 
 posals or requests to Mr. Jones next door, this is the 
 kind ot answer Jones would give you. You get truth 
 habitually from equals only: so my good Mr. Holyshade, 
 don't talk to me about the habitual candour of the young 
 Etonian of high birth, or I have my own opinion of your 
 candour or discernment when you do. No. Tom Bowling 
 is the soul of honour and has been true to Black-eyed 
 Syousan since the last time they parted at Wapping 
 Old Stairs; but do you suppose Tom is perfectly frank, 
 familiar, and above-board in his conversation with 
 Admiral Nelson, K.C.B.? There are secrets, prevarica- 
 tions, fibs, if you will, between Tom and the Admiral 
 between your crew and their captain. I know I hire a 
 worthy, clean, agreeable, and conscientious male or 
 female hypocrite, at so many guineas a year, to do so 
 and so for me. Were he other than hypocrite I would 
 send him about his business. Don't let my displeasure 
 be too fierce with him for a fib or two on his own 
 account. 
 
 Some dozen years ago, my family being absent in a 
 distant part of the country, and my business detaining 
 me in London, I remained in my own house with three 
 servants on board wages. I used only to breakfast at 
 home ; and future ages will be interested to know that
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 307 
 
 this meal used to consist, at that period, of tea, a penny 
 roll, a pat of butter, and, perhaps, an egg. My weekly 
 bill used invariably to be about fifty shillings ; so that, 
 as I never dined in the house, you see, my breakfast, 
 consisting of the delicacies before mentioned, cost about 
 seven shillings and threepence per diem. I must, there- 
 fore, have consumed daily 
 
 s. d. 
 A quarter of a pound of tea (say) .... 13 
 
 A penny roll (say) i o 
 
 One pound of butter (say) 13 
 
 One pound of lump sugar r o 
 
 A new-laid egg 29 
 
 Which is the only possible way I have for making out 
 the sum. 
 
 Well, I fell ill while under this regimen, and had an 
 illness which, but for a certain doctor, who was brought 
 to me by a certain kind friend I had in those days, 
 would, I think, have prevented the possibility of my 
 telling this interesting anecdote now a dozen years after. 
 Don't be frightened, my dear madam ; it is not a horrid, 
 sentimental account of a malady you are coming to- 
 only a question of grocery. This illness, I say, lasted 
 some seventeen days, during which the servants were 
 admirably attentive and kind ; and poor John, especially, 
 was up at all hours, watching night after night 
 amiable, cheerful, untiring, respectful, the very best of 
 Johns and nurses. 
 
 Twice or thrice in the seventeen days I may have had 
 a glass of eau sucrde say a dozen glasses of eau sucrde 
 certainly not more. Well, this admirable, watchful, 
 cheerful, tender, affectionate John brought me in a little 
 bill for seventeen pounds of sugar consumed during the 
 illness "Often 'ad sugar and water; always was 
 a-callin' for it," says John, wagging his head quite 
 gravely. You are dead, years and years ago, poor John 
 so patient, so friendly, so kind, so cheerful to the 
 invalid in the fever. But confess, now, wherever you 
 are, that seventeen pounds of sugar to make six glasses 
 of eau sucrde was a little too strong, wasn't it, John ?
 
 308 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Ah, how frankly, how trustily, how bravely he lied, poor 
 John! One evening, being at Brighton, in the con- 
 valescence, I remember John's step was unsteady, his 
 voice thick, his laugh queer and having some quinine 
 to give me, John brought the glass to me not to my 
 mouth, but struck me with it pretty smartly in the eye, 
 which was not the way in which Dr. Elliotson had in- 
 tended his prescription should be taken. Turning that 
 eye upon him, I ventured to hint that my attendant had 
 been drinking. Drinking ! I never was more humiliated 
 at the thought of my own injustice than at John's reply. 
 " Drinking! S'ulp me! I have had on'y one pint of 
 beer with my dinner at one o'clock! " and he retreats, 
 holding on by a chair. These are fibs, you see, apper- 
 taining to the situation. John is drunk. " S'ulp him, 
 he has only had an 'alf-pint of beer with his dinner six 
 hours ago; " and none of his fellow-servants will say 
 otherwise. Polly is smuggled on board ship. Who tells 
 the lieutenant when he comes his rounds? Boys are 
 playing cards in the bedroom. The outlying fag an- 
 nounces master coming out go candles cards popped 
 into bed boys sound asleep. Who had that light in the 
 dormitory? Law bless you! the poor dear innocents are 
 every one snoring. Every one snoring, and every snore 
 is a lie told through the nose! Suppose one of your 
 boys or mine is engaged in that awful crime, are we 
 going to break our hearts about it? Come, come. We 
 pull a long face, waggle a grave head, and chuckle 
 within our waistcoats. 
 
 Between me and those fellow-creatures of mine who 
 are sitting in the room below, how strange and wonder- 
 ful is the partition ! We meet at every hour of the day- 
 light, and are indebted to each other for a hundred 
 offices of duty and comfort of life ; and we live together 
 for years, and don't know each other. John's voice to 
 me is quite different from John's voice when it addresses 
 his mates below. If I met Hannah in the street with 
 a bonnet on, I doubt whether I should know her. And 
 all these good people with whom I may live for years 
 and years, have cares, interests, dear friends and
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 309 
 
 relatives, mayhap schemes, passions, longing hopes, 
 tragedies of their own, from which a carpet and a few 
 planks and beams utterly separate me. When we were 
 at the seaside, and poor Ellen used to look so pale, and 
 run after the postman's bell, and seize a letter in a great 
 scrawling hand, and read it, and cry in a corner, how 
 should we know that the poor little thing's heart was 
 breaking? She fetched the water, and she smoothed the 
 ribbons, and she laid out the dresses, and brought the 
 early cup of tea in the morning, just as if she had had no 
 cares to keep her awake. Henry (who lived out of the 
 house) was the servant of a friend of mine who lived in 
 chambers. There was a dinner one day, and Henry 
 waited all through the dinner. The champagne was 
 properly iced, the dinner was excellently served ; every 
 guest was attended to; the dinner disappeared; the 
 dessert was set ; the claret was in perfect order, carefully 
 decanted, and more ready. And then Henry said, " If 
 you please, sir, may I go home?" He had received 
 word that his house was on fire ; and, having seen 
 through his dinner, he wished to go and look after his 
 children, and little sticks of furniture. Why, such a 
 man's livery is a uniform of honour. The crest on his 
 button is a badge of bravery. 
 
 Do you see I imagine I do myself in these little in- 
 stances, a tinge of humour? Ellen's heart is breaking 
 for handsome Jeames of Buckley Square, whose great 
 legs are kneeling, and who has given a lock of his 
 precious powdered head, to some other than Ellen. 
 Henry is preparing the sauce for his master's wild ducks 
 while the engines are squirting over his own little nest 
 and brood. Lift these figures up but a storey from the 
 basement to the ground-floor, and the fun is gone. We 
 may be en pleine Irag6die. Ellen may breathe her last 
 sigh in blank verse, calling down blessings upon James 
 the profligate who deserts her. Henry is a hero, and 
 epaulettes are on his shoulders. Atqui sciebat, etc., 
 whatever tortures are in store for him, he will be at his 
 post of duty. 
 
 You concede, however, that there is a touch of humour
 
 3 io WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 in the two tragedies here mentioned. Why? Is it that 
 the idea of persons at service is somehow ludicrous? 
 Perhaps it is made more so in this country by the 
 splendid appearance of the liveried domestics of great 
 people. When you think that we dress in black our- 
 selves, and put our fellow-creatures in green, pink, or 
 canary-coloured breeches ; that we order them to plaster 
 their hair with flour, having brushed that nonsense out 
 of our own heads fifty years ago ; that some of the most 
 genteel and stately among us cause the men who drive 
 their carriages to put on little Albino wigs, and sit 
 behind great nosegays I say I suppose it is this heap- 
 ing of gold lace, gaudy colours, blooming plushes, on 
 honest John Trot, which makes the man absurd in our 
 eyes, who need be nothing but a simple reputable citizen 
 and in-door labourer. Suppose, my dear sir, that you 
 yourself were suddenly desired to put on a full dress, or 
 even undress, domestic uniform with our friend Jones's 
 crest repeated in varied combinations of button on your 
 front and back? Suppose, madam, your son were told, 
 that he could not get out except in lower garments of car- 
 nation or amber-coloured plush would you let him? . . . 
 But as you justly say, this is not the question, and 
 besides it is a question fraught with danger, sir; and 
 radicalism, sir; and subversion of the very foundations 
 of the social fabric, sir. . . . Well, John, we won't 
 enter on your great domestic question. Don't let us dis- 
 port with Jeames's dangerous strength, and the edge- 
 tools about his knife-board ; but with Betty and Susan 
 who wield the playful mop, and set on the simmering 
 kettle. Surely you have heard Mrs. Toddles talking to 
 Mrs. Doddles about their mutual maids. Miss Susan 
 must have a silk gown, and Miss Betty must wear 
 flowers under her bonnet when she goes to church if 
 you please, and did you ever hear such impudence? 
 The servant in many small establishments is a constant 
 and endless theme of talk. What small wage, sleep, 
 meal, what endless scouring, scolding, tramping on 
 messages fall to that poor Susan's lot ; what indignation 
 at the little kindly passing word with the grocer's young
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 311 
 
 man, the pot-boy, the chubby butcher! Where such 
 things will end, my dear Mrs. Toddles, I don't know. 
 What wages they will want next, my dear Mrs. 
 Doddles, etc. 
 
 Here, dear ladies, is an advertisement which I cut out 
 of the Times a few days since, expressly for you : 
 
 " A LADY is desirous of obtaining a SITUATION for a 
 I\ very respectable young woman as HEAD KITCHEN- 
 MAID under a man-cook. She has lived four years under a 
 very good cook and housekeeper. Can make ice, and is an 
 excellent baker. She will only take a place in a very good 
 family, where she can have the opportunity of improving her- 
 self, and, if possible, staying for two years. Apply by letter 
 to," etc. etc. 
 
 There, Mrs. Toddles, what do you think of that, and 
 did you ever? Well, no, Mrs. Doddles. Upon my word 
 now, Mrs. T., I don't think I ever did. A respectable 
 young woman as head kitchen-maid under a man- 
 cook, will only take a place in a very good family, where 
 she can improve, and stay two years. Just note up the 
 conditions, Mrs. Toddles, mum, if you please, mum, 
 and then let us see : 
 
 1. This young woman is to be HEAD kitchen-maid, 
 
 that is to say, there is to be a chorus of kitchen- 
 maids, of which Y. W. is to be chief. 
 
 2. She will only be situated under a man-cook. 
 
 (A) Ought he to be a French cook ; and (B), if 
 so, would the lady desire him to be a Protestant? 
 
 3. She will only take a place in a very good family. 
 
 How old ought the family to be, and what do you 
 call good? that is the question. How long after 
 the Conquest will do? Would a banker's family 
 do, or is a baronet's good enough? Best say what 
 rank in the peerage would be sufficiently high. 
 But the lady does not say whether she would like 
 a High Church or a Low Church family. Ought 
 there to be unmarried sons, and may they follow 
 a profession? and please say how many daughters ; 
 and would the lady like them to be musical? And
 
 3 i2 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 how many company dinners a week? Not too 
 many, for fear of fatiguing the upper kitchen- 
 maid; but sufficient, so as to keep the upper 
 kitchen-maid's hand in. [N.B. I think I can see 
 a rather bewildered expression on the countenances 
 of Mesdames Doddles and Toddles as I am prat- 
 tling on in this easy bantering way.] 
 
 4. The head kitchen-maid wishes to stay for two 
 years, and improve herself under the man-cook, 
 and having of course sucked the brains (as the 
 phrase is) from under the chefs nightcap, then 
 the head kitchen-maid wishes to go. 
 
 And upon my word, Mrs. Toddles, mum, I will go and 
 fetch the cab for her. The cab? Why not her ladyship's 
 own carriage and pair, and the head coachman to drive 
 away the head kitchen-maid? You see she stipulates for 
 everything the time to come; the time to stay; the 
 family she will be with; and as soon as she has im- 
 proved herself enough, of course the upper kitchen-maid 
 will step into the carriage and drive off. 
 
 Well, upon my word and conscience, if things are 
 coming to this pass, Mrs. Toddles and Mrs. Doddles, 
 mum, I think I will go upstairs and get a basin and a 
 sponge, and then downstairs and get some hot water; 
 and then I will go and scrub that chalk-mark off my own 
 door with my own hands. 
 
 It is wiped off, I declare ! After ever so many weeks ! 
 Who has done it ! It was just a little round-about mark, 
 you know, and it was there for days and weeks, before 
 I ever thought it would be the text of a Roundabout 
 Paper. 
 
 AUTOUR DE MON CHAPEAU. 
 
 NEVER have I seen a more noble tragic face. In the 
 centre of the forehead there was a great furrow of care, 
 towards which the brows rose piteously. What a deep 
 solemn grief in the eyes ! They looked blankly at the
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 313 
 
 object before them, but through it, as it were, and into 
 the grief beyond. In moments of pain, have you not 
 looked at some indifferent object so? It mingles dumbly 
 with your grief, and remains afterwards connected with 
 it in your mind. It may be some indifferent thing a 
 book which you were reading at the time when you 
 received her farewell letter (how well you remember the 
 paragraph afterwards the shape of the words, and their 
 position on the page) ; the words you were writing when 
 your mother came in, and said it was all over she was 
 MARRIED Emily married to that insignificant little 
 rival at whom you have laughed a hundred times in her 
 company. Well, well; my friend and reader, whoe'er 
 you be old man or young, wife or maiden you have 
 had your grief-pang. Boy, you have lain awake the first 
 night at school, and thought of home. Worse still, man, 
 you have parted from the dear ones with bursting heart; 
 and, lonely boy, recall the bolstering an unfeeling com- 
 rade gave you; and, lonely man, just torn from your 
 children their little tokens of affection yet in your 
 pocket pacing the deck at evening in the midst of the 
 roaring ocean, you can remember how you were told 
 that supper was ready, and how you went down to the 
 cabin and had brandy-and-water and biscuit. You re- 
 member the taste of them. Yes; for ever. Y*ou took 
 them whilst you and your Grief were sitting together, and 
 your Grief clutched you round the soul. Serpent, how 
 you have writhed round me, and bitten me! Remorse, 
 Remembrance, etc., come in the night season, and I feel 
 you gnawing, gnawing! ... I tell you that man's face 
 was like Laocoon's (which, by the way, I always think 
 over-rated. The real head is at Brussels, at the Duke 
 Daremberg's, not at Rome). 
 
 That man! What man? That man of whom I said 
 that his magnificent countenance exhibited the noblest 
 tragic woe. He was not of European blood. He was 
 handsome, but not of European beauty. His face white 
 not of a Northern whiteness; his eyes protruding 
 somewhat, and rolling in their grief. Those eyes had 
 seen the Orient sun, and his beak was the eagle's. His
 
 314 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 lips were full. The beard, curling 1 round them, was un- 
 kempt and tawny. The locks were of a deep, deep coppery 
 red. The hands, swart and powerful, accustomed to the 
 rough grasp of the wares in which he dealt, seemed un- 
 used to the flimsy artifices of the bath. He came from 
 the Wilderness, and its sands were on his robe, his 
 cheek, his tattered sandal, and the hardy foot it covered. 
 
 And his grief whence came his sorrow? I will tell 
 you. He bore it in his hand. He had evidently just con- 
 cluded the compact by which it became his. His business 
 was that of a purchaser of domestic raiment. At early 
 dawn nay, at what hour when the city is alive do we 
 not all hear the nasal cry of " Clo' "? In Paris, Habits, 
 Galons, Marchand cThabits, is the twanging signal with 
 which the wandering merchant makes his presence 
 known. It was in Paris I saw this man. Where else 
 have 1 not seen him? In the Roman Ghetto at the Gate 
 of David, in his fathers' once imperial city. The man I 
 mean was an itinerant vendor and purchaser of ward- 
 robes what you call an ... Enough ! You know his 
 name. 
 
 On his left shoulder hung his bag; and he held in that 
 hand a white hat, which I am sure he had just pur- 
 chased, and which was the cause of the grief which 
 smote his noble features. Of course I cannot particularize 
 the sum, but he had given too much for that hat. He 
 felt he might have got the thing for less money. It was 
 not the amount, I am sure ; it was the principle involved. 
 He had given fourpence (let us say) for that which 
 threepence would have purchased. He had been done : 
 and a manly shame was upon him, that he, whose 
 energy, acuteness, experience, point of honour, should 
 have made him the victor in any mercantile duel in which 
 he should engage, had been overcome by a porter's wife, 
 who very likely sold him the old hat, or by a student 
 who was tired of it. I can understand his grief. Do I 
 seem to be speaking of it in a disrespectful or flippant 
 way? Then you mistake me. He had been outwitted. 
 He had desired, coaxed, schemed, haggled, got what 
 he wanted, and now found he had paid too much for his
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 315 
 
 bargain. You don't suppose I would ask you to laugh 
 at that man's grief? It is you, clumsy cynic, who are 
 disposed to sneer, whilst it may be tears of genuine 
 sympathy are trickling down this nose of mine. What 
 do you mean by laughing? If you saw a wounded soldier 
 on the field of battle, would you laugh? If you saw a 
 ewe robbed of her lamb, would you laugh, you brute? 
 It is you who are the cynic, and have no feeling: and 
 you sneer because that grief is unintelligible to you 
 which touches my finer sensibility. The OLD-CLOTHES'- 
 MAN had been defeated in one of the daily battles of his 
 most interesting, chequered, adventurous life. 
 
 Have you ever figured to yourself what such a life 
 must be? The pursuit and conquest of twopence must 
 be the most eager and fascinating of occupations. We 
 might all engage in that business if we would. Do not 
 whist-players, for example, toil, and think, and lose their 
 temper over sixpenny points? They bring study, natural 
 genius, long forethought, memory, and careful historical 
 experience to bear upon their favourite labour. Don't 
 tell me that it is the sixpenny points, and five shillings 
 the rub, which keeps them for hours over their painted 
 pasteboard. It is the desire to conquer. Hours pass by. 
 Night glooms. Dawn, it may be, rises unheeded; and 
 they sit calling for fresh cards at the " Portland," or the 
 " Union," while waning candles splutter in the sockets, 
 and languid waiters snooze in the ante-room. Sol rises. 
 Jones has lost four pounds: Brown has won two; 
 Robinson lurks away to his family house and (mayhap 
 indignant) Mrs. R. Hours of evening, night, morning, 
 have passed away whilst they have been waging this 
 sixpenny battle. What is the loss of four pounds to 
 Jones, the gain of two to Brown? B. is, perhaps, so rich 
 that two pounds more or less are as naught to him ; 
 J. is so hopelessly involved that to win four pounds 
 cannot benefit his creditors, or alter his condition ; but 
 they play for that stake: they put forward their best 
 energies: they ruff, finesse (what are the technical 
 words, and how do I know?) It is but a sixpenny game 
 if you like ; but they want to win it. So as regards my
 
 3 :6 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 friend yonder with the hat. He stakes his money : he 
 wishes to win the game, not the hat merely. I am not 
 prepared to say that he is not inspired by a noble ambi- 
 tion. Caesar wished to be first in a village. If first of a 
 hundred yokels, why not first of two? And my friend 
 the old-clothes'-man wishes to win his game, as well as 
 to turn his little sixpence. 
 
 Suppose in the game of life and it is but a twopenny 
 game after all you are equally eager of winning. Shall 
 you be ashamed of your ambition, or glory in it? There 
 are games, too, which are becoming to particular periods 
 of life. I remember in the days of our youth, when my 
 friend Arthur Bowler was an eminent cricketer. Slim, 
 swift, strong, well-built, he presented a goodly appear- 
 ance on the ground in his flannel uniform. Militasti non 
 sine gloria, Bowler my boy! Hush! We tell no tales. 
 Mum is the word. Yonder comes Charley his son. Now 
 Charley his son has taken the field, and is famous among 
 the eleven of his school. Bowler senior, with his capa- 
 cious waistcoat, etc. , waddling after a ball, would pre- 
 sent an absurd object, whereas it does the eyes good to 
 see Bowler junior scouring the plain a young exemplar 
 of joyful health, vigour, activity. The old boy wisely 
 contents himself with amusements more becoming his 
 age and waist; takes his sober ride; visits his farm 
 soberly busies himself about his pigs, his ploughing, 
 his peaches, or what not? Very small rmitinier amuse- 
 ments interest him ; and (thank goodness !) nature pro- 
 vides very kindly for kindly-disposed fogies. We relish 
 those things which we scorned in our lusty youth. I see 
 the young folks of an evening kindling and glowing- 
 over their delicious novels. I look up and watch the 
 eager eye flashing down the page, being, for my part, 
 perfectly contented with my twaddling old volume of 
 Ho-weFs Letters or the Gentleman's Magazine. I am 
 actually arrived at such a calm frame of mind that I like 
 batter-pudding. I never should have believed it possible ; 
 but it is so. Yet a little while, and I may relish water- 
 gruel. It will be the age of mon lait de poule et mon 
 bonnet de nuit. And then the cotton extinguisher is
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 317 
 
 pulled over the old noddle, and the little flame of life is 
 popped out. 
 
 Don't you know elderly people who make learned 
 notes in Army Lists, Peerages, and the like? This is 
 the batter-pudding, water-gruel of old age. The worn- 
 out old digestion does not care for stronger food. 
 Formerly it could swallow twelve-hours' tough reading, 
 and digest an encyclopaedia. 
 
 If I had children to educate, I would, at ten or twelve 
 years of age, have a professor, or professoress, of whist 
 for them, and cause them to be well grounded in that 
 great and useful game. You cannot learn it well when 
 you are old, any more than you can learn dancing or 
 billiards. In our house at home we youngsters did not 
 play whist because we were dear obedient children, and 
 the elders said playing at cards was "a waste of time." 
 A waste of time, my good people! Allans! What do 
 elderly home-keeping people do of a night after dinner? 
 Darby gets his newspaper; my dear Joan her Missionary 
 Magazine or her volume of Cumming's Sermons and 
 don't you know what ensues? Over the arm of Darby's 
 arm-chair the paper flutters to the ground unheeded, 
 and he performs the trumpet obbligato que vous saves on 
 his old nose. My dear old Joan's head nods over her 
 sermon (awakening though the doctrine maybe). Ding, 
 ding, ding: can that be ten o'clock? It is time to send 
 the servants to bed, my dear and to bed master and 
 mistress go too. But they have not wasted their time 
 playing at cards. Oh, no! I belong to a Club where 
 there is whist of a night ; and not a little amusing is it 
 to hear Brown speak of Thompson's play, and vice versa. 
 But there is one man Greatorex let us call him who 
 is the acknowledged captain and primus of all the whist- 
 players. We all secretly admire him. I, for my part, 
 watch him in private life, hearken to what he says, note 
 what he orders for dinner, and have that feeling of awe 
 for him that I used to have as a boy for the cock of the 
 school. Not play at whist? " Quelle triste vieittesse vous 
 vous preparez! " were the words of the great and good 
 Bishop of Autun. I can't. It is too late now. Too late !
 
 3i8 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 too late ! Ah ! humiliating confession ! That joy might 
 have been clutched, but the life-stream has swept us by 
 it the swift life-stream rushing to the nearing sea. Too 
 late ! too late ! Twentystone my boy ! When you read 
 in the papers " Valse a deux temps," and all the fashion- 
 able dances taught to adults by " Miss Lightfoots," 
 don't you feel that you would like to go in and learn? 
 Ah, it is too late ! You have passed the choreas, Master 
 Twentystone, and the young people are dancing with- 
 out you. 
 
 I don't believe much of what my Lord Byron the poet 
 says; but when he wrote, "So, for a good old gentle- 
 manly vice, I think I shall put up with avarice," I think 
 his lordship meant what he wrote, and if he practised 
 what he preached, shall not quarrel with him. As an 
 occupation in declining years, I declare I think saving is 
 useful, amusing, and not unbecoming. It must be a 
 perpetual amusement. It is a game that can be played 
 by day, by night, at home and abroad, and at which 
 you must win in the long run. I am tired and want a cab. 
 The fare to my house, say, is two shillings. The cabman 
 will naturally want half-a-crown. I pull out my book. 
 I show him the distance is exactly three miles and fifteen 
 hundred and ninety yards. I offer him my card my 
 winning card. As he retires with the two shillings, 
 blaspheming inwardly, every curse is a compliment to 
 my skill. I have played him and beat him ; and a six- 
 pence is my spoil and just reward. This is a game, by 
 the way, which women play far more cleverly than we 
 do. But what an interest it imparts to life ! During the 
 whole drive home I know I shall have my game at the 
 journey's end ; am sure of my hand, and shall beat my 
 adversary. Or I can play in another way. I won't have 
 a cab at all, I will wait for the omnibus : I will be one 
 of the damp fourteen in that steaming vehicle. I will 
 wait about in the rain for an hour, and 'bus after 'bus 
 shall pass, but I will not be beat. I 'will have a place, 
 and get it at length, with my boots wet through, and an 
 umbrella dripping between my legs. I have a rheuma- 
 tism, a cold, a sore throat, a sulky evening a doctor's
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 319 
 
 bill to-morrow perhaps? Yes, but I have won my game, 
 and am a gainer of a shilling on this rubber. 
 
 If you play this game all through life it is wonderful 
 what daily interest it has, and amusing occupation. For 
 instance, my wife goes to sleep after dinner over her 
 volume of sermons. As soon as the dear soul is sound 
 asleep, I advance softly and puff out her candle. Her 
 pure dreams will be all the happier without that light; 
 and, say she sleeps an hour, there is a penny gained. 
 
 As for clothes, parbleu! there is not much money to 
 be saved in clothes, for the fact is, as a man advances in 
 life as he becomes an Ancient Briton (mark the pleas- 
 antry) he goes without clothes. When my tailor pro- 
 poses something in the way of a change of raiment, I 
 laugh in his face. My blue coat and brass buttons will 
 last these ten years. It is seedy? What then? I don't 
 want to charm any body in particular; You say that my 
 clothes are shabby? What do I care? When I wished 
 to look well in somebody's eyes, the matter may have 
 been different. But now, when I receive my bill of 10 
 (let us say) at the year's end, and contrast it with old 
 tailors' reckonings, I feel that I have played the game 
 with master tailor, and beat him ; and my old clothes 
 are a token of the victory. 
 
 I do not like to give servants board wages, though 
 they are cheaper than household bills ; but I know they 
 save out of board wages ; and so beat me. This shows 
 that it is not the money but the game which interests 
 me. So about wine. I have it good and dear. I will 
 trouble you to tell me where to get it good and cheap. 
 You may as well give me the address of a shop where I 
 can buy meat for fourpence a pound, or sovereigns for 
 fifteen shillings apiece. At the game of auctions, docks, 
 shy wine-merchants, depend on it there is no winning; 
 and I would as soon think of buying jewellery at an 
 auction in Fleet Street as of purchasing wine from one 
 of your dreadful needy wine-agents such as infest every 
 man's door. Grudge myself good wine? As soon grudge 
 my horse corn. Merci! that would be a very losing game 
 indeed, and your humble servant has no relish for such.
 
 320 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 But in the very pursuit of saving there must be a hun- 
 dred harmless delights and pleasures which we who are 
 careless necessarily forego. What do you know about 
 the natural history of your household? Upon your 
 honour and conscience, do you know the price of a pound 
 of butter? Can you say what sugar costs, and how much 
 your family consumes and ought to consume? How much 
 lard do you use in your house? As I think on these 
 subjects I own I hang down the head of shame. I 
 suppose for a moment that you, who are reading this, 
 are a middle-aged gentleman, and paterfamilias. Can 
 you answer the above questions? You know, sir, you 
 cannot. Now turn round, lay down the book, and sud- 
 denly ask Mrs. Jones and your daughters if they can 
 answer? They cannot. They look at one another. They 
 pretend they can answer. They can tell you the plot 
 and principal characters of the last novel. Some of them 
 know something about history, geology, and so forth. 
 But of the natural history of home Nichts, and for 
 shame on you all! Honnis soyez! For shame on you? 
 for shame on us ! 
 
 In the early morning I hear a sort of call or jodel 
 under my window : and know 'tis the matutinal milkman 
 leaving his can at my gate. O household gods ! have I 
 lived all these years and don't know the price or the 
 quantity of the milk which is delivered in that can? 
 Why don't I know? As I live, if I live till to-morrow 
 morning, as soon as I hear the call of Lactantius, I will 
 dash out upon him. How many cows? How much 
 milk, on an average, all the year round? What rent? 
 What cost of food and dairy servants? What loss of 
 animals, and average cost of purchase? If I interested 
 myself properly about my pint (or hogshead, whatever 
 it be) of milk, all this knowledge would ensue ; all this 
 additional interest in life. What is this talk of my 
 friend, Mr. Lewes, about objects at the seaside, and so 
 forth? 1 Objects at the seaside? Objects at the area- 
 bell : objects before my nose : objects which the butcher 
 
 1 Seaside Studies. By G. H. Lewes.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 321 
 
 brings me in his tray : which the cook dresses and puts 
 down before me, and over which I say grace ! My daily 
 life is surrounded with objects which ought to interest 
 me. The pudding I eat (or refuse, that is neither here 
 nor there : and, between ourselves, what I have said 
 about batter-pudding may be taken cum grano we are 
 not come to that yet, except for the sake of argument or 
 illustration) the pudding, I say, on my plate, the eggs 
 that made it, the fire that cooked it, the tablecloth on 
 which it is laid, and so forth are each and all of these 
 objects a knowledge of which I may acquire a know- 
 ledge of the cost and production of which I might 
 advantageously learn? To the man who does know these 
 things, I say the interest of life is prodigiously increased. 
 The milkman becomes a study to him ; the baker a being 
 he curiously and tenderly examines. Go, Lewes, and 
 clap a hideous sea-anemone into a glass : I will put a 
 cabman under mine, and make a vivisection of a butcher. 
 O Lares, Penates, and gentle household gods, teach me 
 to sympathize with all that comes within my doors! 
 Give me an interest in the butcher's book. Let me 
 look forward to the ensuing number of the grocer's ac- 
 count with eagerness. It seems ungrateful to my kitchen- 
 chimney not to know the cost of sweeping it; and I 
 trust that many a man who reads this, and muses on it, 
 will feel, like the writer, ashamed of himself, and hang 
 down his head humbly. 
 
 Now, if to this household game you could add a little 
 money interest, the amusement would be increased far 
 beyond the mere money value, as a game at cards for 
 sixpence is better than a rubber for nothing. If you can 
 interest yourself about sixpence, all life is invested with 
 a new excitement. From sunrise to sleeping you can 
 always be playing that game with butcher, baker, 
 coal-merchant, cabman, omnibus-man nay, diamond- 
 merchant and stockbroker. You can bargain for a guinea 
 over the price of a diamond necklace, or for a sixteenth 
 per cent, in a transaction at the Stock Exchange. We 
 all know men who have this faculty who are not un- 
 generous with their money. They give it on great occa- 
 
 Y
 
 322 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 sions. They are more able to help than you and I who 
 spend ours, and say to poor Prodigal who comes to us 
 out at elbow, "My dear fellow, I should have been 
 delighted: but I have already anticipated my quarter, 
 and am going to ask Screwby if he can do anything for 
 me." 
 
 In this delightful, wholesome, ever-novel twopenny 
 game, there is a danger of excess, as there is in every 
 other pastime or occupation of life. If you grow too 
 eager for your twopence, the acquisition or the loss of 
 it may affect your peace of mind, and peace of mind is 
 better than any amount of twopences. My friend, the 
 old-clothes'-man, whose agonies over the hat have led 
 to this rambling disquisition, has, I very much fear, by 
 a too eager pursuit of small profits, disturbed the equan- 
 imity of a mind that ought to be easy and happy. " Had 
 I stood out," he thinks, " I might have had the hat for 
 threepence," and he doubts whether, having given four- 
 pence for it, he will ever get back his money. My good 
 Shadrach, it you go through life passionately deploring 
 the irrevocable, and allow yesterday's transactions to 
 embitter the cheerfulness of to-day and to-morrow as 
 lief walk down to the Seine, souse in, hats, body, 
 clothes-bag and all, and put an end to your sorrow and 
 sordid cares. Before and since Mr. Franklin wrote his 
 pretty apologue of the Whistle, have we not all made 
 bargains of which we repented, and coveted and acquired 
 objects for which we have paid too dearly? Who has 
 not purchased his hat in some market or other? There 
 is General M'Clellan's cocked-hat for example: I dare- 
 say he was eager enough to wear it, and he has learned 
 that it is by no means cheerful wear. There were the 
 military beavers of Messeigneurs of Orleans : * they 
 wore them gallantly in the face of battle ; but I suspect 
 they were glad enough to pitch them into the James 
 River and come home in mufti. Ah, mes amis! a chacun 
 son schakot! I was looking at a bishop the other day, 
 and thinking, " My right reverend lord, that broad 
 
 1 Two cadets of the House of Orleans who served as Volunteers 
 under General M'Clellan in his campaign against Richmond.
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 323 
 
 brim and rosette must bind your great broad forehead 
 very tightly, and give you many a headache. A good 
 easy wideawake were better for you, and I would like 
 to see that honest face with a cutty pipe in the middle 
 of it." There is my Lord Mayor. My once dear lord, 
 my kind friend, when your two years' reign was over, 
 did not you jump for joy and fling your chapeau-bras 
 out of window : and hasn't that hat cost you a pretty bit 
 of money? There, in a splendid travelling chariot, in 
 the sweetest bonnet, all trimmed with orange-blossoms 
 and Chantilly lace, sits my Lady Rosa, with old Lord 
 Snowden by her side. Ah, Rosa! what a price have you 
 paid for that hat which you wear ; and is your ladyship's 
 coronet not purchased too dear? Enough of hats. Sir, 
 or Madam, I take off mine, and salute you with profound 
 respect. 
 
 DESSEIN'S 
 
 I ARRIVED by the night-mail packet from Dover. The 
 passage had been rough, and the usual consequences 
 had ensued. I was disinclined to travel farther that 
 night on my road to Paris, and knew the Calais hotel 
 of old as one of the cleanest, one of the dearest, one of 
 the most comfortable hotels on the continent of Europe. 
 There is no town more French than Calais. That charm- 
 ing old " Hotel Dessein," with its court, its gardens, its 
 lordly kitchen, its princely waiter a gentleman of the 
 old school, who has welcomed the finest company in 
 Europe have long been known to me. I have read 
 complaints in the Times, more than once, I think, that 
 the Dessein bills are dear. A bottle of soda-water cer- 
 tainly costs well, never mind how much. I remember 
 as a boy, at the "Ship" at Dover (imperante Carolo 
 Decimo), when, my place to London being paid, I had 
 but i2s. left after a certain little Paris excursion (about 
 which my benighted parents never knew anything), 
 ordering for dinner a whiting, a beef-steak, and a glass
 
 324 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 of negus, and the bill was, dinner 7.9., glass of negus 25. , 
 waiter 6a?. , and only half-a-crown left, as I was a sinner, 
 for the guard and coachman on the way to London! 
 And I was a sinner. I had gone without leave. What a 
 long, dreary, guilty forty hours journey it was from 
 Paris to Calais, I remember! How did I come to think 
 of this escapade, which occurred in the Easter vacation 
 of the year 1830? I always think of it when I am cross- 
 ing to Calais. Guilt, sir, guilt remains stamped on the 
 memory, and I feel easier in my mind now that it is 
 liberated of this old peccadillo. I met my college tutor 
 only yesterday. We were travelling, and stopped at the 
 same hotel. He had the very next room to mine. After 
 he had gone into his apartment, having shaken me quite 
 kindly by the hand, I felt inclined to knock at his door 
 and say, "Doctor Bentley, I beg your pardon, but do 
 you remember, when I was going down at the Easter 
 vacation in 1830, you asked me where I was going to 
 spend my vacation ? And I said, With my friend 
 Slingsby, in Huntingdonshire. Well, sir, I grieve to have 
 to confess that I told you a fib. I had got 20 and was 
 going for a lark to Paris, where my friend Edwards was 
 staying." There, it is out. The Doctor will read it, for 
 I did not wake him up after all to make my confession, 
 but protest he shall have a copy of this Roundabout sent 
 to him when he returns to his lodge. 
 
 They gave me a bed-room there ; a very neat room on 
 the first floor, looking into the pretty garden. The hotel 
 must look pretty much as it did a hundred years ago 
 when he visited it. I wonder whether he paid his bill? 
 Yes : his journey was just began. He had borrowed or 
 got the money somehow. Such a man would spend it 
 liberally enough when he had it, give generously nay, 
 drop a tear over the fate of the poor fellow whom he 
 relieved. I don't believe a word he says, but I never 
 accused him of stinginess about money. That is a fault 
 of much more virtuous people than he. Mr. Laurence is 
 ready enough with his purse when there are anybody's 
 guineas in it. Still when I went to bed in the room, in 
 his room ; when I think how I admire, dislike, and have
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 325 
 
 abused him, a certain dim feeling of apprehension filled 
 my mind at the midnight hour. What if I should see his 
 lean figure in the black-satin breeches, his sinister smile, 
 his long thin finger pointing to me in the moonlight (for 
 I am in bed, and have popped my candle out), and he 
 should say, "You mistrust me, you hate me, do you? 
 And you, don't you know how Jack, Tom, and Harry, 
 your brother authors hate you?" I grin and laugh in 
 the moonlight, in the midnight, in the silence. " O you 
 ghost in black-satin breeches and a wig ! I like to be 
 hated by some men," I say. " I know men whose lives 
 are a scheme, whose laughter is a conspiracy, whose 
 smile means something else, whose hatred is a cloak, 
 and I had rather these men should hate me than not." 
 
 " My good sir," says he, with a ghastly grin on his 
 lean face, " you have your wish." 
 
 " Aprds? " I say. " Please let me go to sleep. I shan't 
 sleep any the worse because " 
 
 " Because there are insects in the bed, and they sting 
 you?" (This is only by way of illustration, my good 
 sir; the animals don't bite me now. All the house at 
 present seems to me excellently clean.) " 'Tis absurd to 
 affect this indifference. If you are thin-skinned, and the 
 reptiles bite, they keep you from sleep." 
 
 "There are some men who cry out at a flea-bite as 
 loud as if they were torn by a vulture," I growl. 
 
 " Men of the genus irritabile, my worthy good gentle- 
 man! and you are one." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I am of the profession, as you say; and I 
 daresay make a great shouting and crying at a small 
 hurt." 
 
 " You are ashamed of that quality by which you earn 
 your subsistence, and such reputation as you have? 
 Your sensibility is your livelihood, my worthy friend. 
 You feel a pang of pleasure or pain? It is noted in your 
 memory, and some day or other makes its appearance 
 in your manuscript. Why, in your last Roundabout rub- 
 bish you mention reading your first novel on the day 
 when King George IV was crowned. I remember him in 
 his cradle at St. James's, a lovely little babe ; a gilt
 
 326 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Chinese railing" was before him, and I dropped the tear 
 of sensibility as I gazed on the sleeping cherub." 
 
 "A tear a fiddlestick, Mr. STERNE," I growled out, 
 for of course I knew my friend in the wig and satin 
 breeches to be no other than the notorious, nay, cele- 
 brated Mr. Laurence Sterne. 
 
 " Does not the sight of a beautiful infant charm and 
 melt you, mon ami? If not, I pity you. Yes, he was 
 beautiful. I was in London the year he was born. I 
 used to breakfast at the 'Mount Coffee-house.' I did 
 not become the fashion until two years later, when my 
 ' Tristram ' made his appearance, who has held his own 
 for a hundred years. By the way, mon bon monsieur, 
 how many authors of your present time will last till the 
 next century? Do you think Brown will? " 
 
 I laughed with scorn as I lay in my bed (and so did 
 the ghost give a ghastly snigger). 
 
 "Brown!" I roared. "One of the most over-rated 
 men that ever put pen to paper! " 
 
 " What do you think of Jones? " 
 
 I grew indignant with this old cynic. " As a reason- 
 able ghost, come out of the other world, you don't 
 mean," I said, "to ask me a serious opinion of Mr. 
 Jones? His books may be very good reading for maid- 
 servants and school-boys, but you don't ask me to read 
 them? As a scholar yourself you must know that " 
 
 "Well, then Robinson?" 
 
 " Robinson, I am told, has merit. I daresay; I never 
 have been able to read his books, and can't, therefore, 
 form any opinion about Mr. Robinson. At least you will 
 allow that I am not speaking in a prejudiced manner 
 about him" 
 
 "Ah! I see you men of letters have your cabals and 
 jealousies, as we had in my time. There was an Irish 
 fellow by the name of Gouldsmith, who used to abuse 
 me ; but he went into no genteel company and faith ! 
 it mattered little, his praise or abuse. I never was 
 more surprised than when I heard that Mr. Irving, an 
 American gentleman of parts and elegance, had wrote 
 the fellow's life. To make a hero of that man, my dear
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 327 
 
 sir, 'twas ridiculous! You followed in the fashion, I 
 hear, and chose to lay a wreath before this queer little 
 idol. Preposterous! A pretty writer, who has turned 
 some neat couplets. Bah ! I have no patience with 
 Master Posterity, that has chosen to take up this fellow, 
 and make a hero of him ! And there was another gentle- 
 man of my time, Mr. Thiefcatcher Fielding, forsooth! 
 a fellow with the strength, and the tastes, and the 
 manners of a porter! What madness has possessed you 
 all to bow before that Calvert Butt of a man? a creature 
 without elegance or sensibility! The dog had spirits, 
 certainly. I remember my Lord Bathurst praising them : 
 but as for reading his books mafri, I would as lief go 
 and dive for tripe in a cellar. The man's vulgarity stifles 
 me. He wafts me whiffs of gin. Tobacco and onions 
 are in his great coarse laugh, which choke me, pardi\ 
 and I don't think much better of the other fellow the 
 Scots' gallipot purveyor Peregrine Clinker, Humphrey 
 Random how did the fellow call his rubbish? Neither 
 of these men had the bel air, the bon ton^ the je ne s$ais 
 quoy. Pah ! If I meet them in my walks by our Stygian 
 river, I give them a wide berth, as that hybrid apothecary 
 fellow would say. An ounce of civet, good apothecary ; 
 horrible, horrible ! The mere thought of the coarseness 
 of those men gives me the chair de poule. Mr. Fielding, 
 especially, has no more sensibility than a butcher in 
 Fleet Market. He takes fris heroes out of ale-house 
 kitchens, or worse places still. And this is the person 
 whom Posterity has chosen to honour along with me 
 me! Faith, Monsieur Posterity, you have put me in 
 pretty company, and I see you are no wiser than we 
 were in our time. Mr. Fielding, forsooth! Mr. Tripe 
 and Onions ! Mr. Cow-heel and Gin ! Thank you for 
 nothing, Monsieur Posterity ! " 
 
 "And so," thought I, "even among these Stygians 
 this envy and quarrelsomeness (if you will permit me the 
 word) survive? What a pitiful meanness ! To be sure, I 
 can understand this feeling to a certain extent; a sense 
 of justice will prompt it. In my own case, I often feel 
 myself forced to protest against the absurd praises
 
 328 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 lavished on contemporaries. Yesterday, for instance, 
 Lady Jones was good enough to praise one of my works. 
 Tr&s bien. But in the very next minute she began, with 
 quite as great enthusiasm, to praise Miss Hobson's last 
 romance. My good creature, what is that woman's 
 praise worth who absolutely admires the writings of 
 Miss Hobson? I offer a friend a bottle of '44 claret, fit 
 for a pontifical supper. 'This is capital wine,' says he; 
 ' and now we have finished the bottle, will you give me 
 a bottle of that ordinaire we drank the other day?' 
 Very well, my good man. You are a good judge of 
 ordinaire, I daresay. Nothing so provokes my anger, 
 and rouses my sense of justice, as to hear other men 
 undeservedly praised. In a word, if you wish to remain 
 friends with me, don't praise anybody. You tell me that 
 the Venus de' Medici is beautiful, or Jacob Omnium is 
 tall. Que diable! Can't I judge for myself? Haven't I 
 eyes and a foot-rule? I don't think the Venus is so hand- 
 some, since you press me. She is pretty, but she has no 
 expression. And as for Mr. Omnium, I can see much 
 taller men in a fair for twopence." 
 
 "And so," I said, turning round to Mr. Sterne, "you 
 are actually jealous of Mr. Fielding? O you men of 
 letters, you men of letters ! Is not the world (your world, 
 I mean) big enough for all of you?" 
 
 I often travel in my sleep. I often of a night find my- 
 self walking in my night-gown about the grey streets. 
 It is awkward at first, but somehow nobody makes any 
 remark. I glide along over the ground with my naked 
 feet. The mud does not wet them. The passers-by do 
 not tread on them. I am wafted over the ground, down 
 the stairs, through the doors. This sort of travelling, 
 dear friends, I am sure you have all of you indulged in. 
 
 Well, on the night in question (and, if you wish to 
 know the precise date, it was the 3ist of September last), 
 after having some little conversation with Mr. Sterne in 
 our bed-room, I must have got up, though I protest I 
 don't know how, and come downstairs with him into the 
 coffee-room of the " Hotel Dessein," where the moon 
 was shining, and a cold supper was laid out. I forget
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 329 
 
 what we had " vol-au-vent d'oeufs de Phdnix agneau 
 aux pistaches a la Barmecide," what matters what 
 we had? 
 
 "As regards supper this is certain, the less you have 
 of it the better." 
 
 That is what one of the guests remarked, a shabby 
 old man, in a wig, and such a dirty, ragged, disreputable 
 dressing-gown that I should have been quite surprised 
 
 at him, only one never is surprised in dr under 
 
 certain circumstances. 
 
 " I can't eat 'em now," said the greasy man (with his 
 false old teeth, I wonder he could eat anything). "I 
 remember Alvanley eating three suppers once at Carlton 
 House one night de petite comite"." 
 
 "Petit comite", sir," said Mr. Sterne. 
 
 " Dammy, sir, let me tell my own story my own way. 
 I say, one night at Carlton House, playing at blind hookey 
 with York, Wales, Tom Raikes, Prince Boothby, and 
 Dutch Sam the boxer, Alvanley ate three suppers, and 
 won three and twenty hundred pounds in ponies. Never 
 saw a fellow with such an appetite, except Wales in his 
 good time. But he destroyed the finest digestion a man 
 ever had with maraschino, by Jove always at it." 
 
 "Try mine," said Mr. Sterne. 
 
 " What a doosid queer box," says Mr. Brummell. 
 
 " I had it from a Capuchin friar in this town. The box 
 is but a horn one ; but to the nose of sensibility Araby's 
 perfume is not more delicate." 
 
 " I call it doosid stale old rappee," says Mr. Brummell 
 (as for me I declare I could not smell anything at all in 
 either of the boxes). " Old boy in smock-frock, take a 
 pinch? " 
 
 The old boy in the smock-frock, as Mr. Brummell 
 called him, was a very old man, with long white beard, 
 wearing, not a smock-frock, but a shirt ; and he had 
 actually nothing else save a rope round his neck, which 
 hung behind his chair in the queerest way. 
 
 " Fair sir," he said, turning to Mr. Brummell, " when 
 the Prince of Wales and his father laid siege to our 
 town "
 
 330 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 "What nonsense are you talking, old cock?" says 
 Mr. Brummell ; ' ' Wales was never here. His late Majesty 
 George IV passed through on his way to Hanover. My 
 good man, you don't seem to know what's up at all 
 What is he talkin' about the siege of Calais? I lived here 
 fifteen years! Ought to know. What's his old name? " 
 
 " I am Master Eustace of Saint Peter's," said the old 
 gentleman in the shirt. " When my Lord King Edward 
 laid siege to this city " 
 
 " Laid siege to Jericho! " cries Mr. Brummell. "The 
 old man is cracked cracked, sir! " 
 
 " Laid siege to this city," continued the old man, 
 
 " I and five more promised Messire Gautier de Mauny 
 that we would give ourselves up as ransom for the place. 
 And we came before our Lord King Edward, attired as 
 you see, and the fair queen begged our lives out of her 
 gramercy." 
 
 " Queen, nonsense! you mean the Princess of Wales 
 pretty woman, petit nez retrousse, grew monstrous 
 stout?" suggested Mr. Brummell, whose reading was 
 evidently not extensive. "Sir Sidney Smith was a fine 
 fellow, great talker, hook nose, so has Lord Cochrane, 
 so has Lord Wellington. She was very sweet on Sir 
 Sidney." 
 
 "Your acquaintance with the history of Calais does 
 not seem to be considerable," said Mr. Sterne to Mr. 
 Brummell, with a shrug. 
 
 " Don't it, bishop? for I conclude you are a bishop 
 by your wig. I know Calais as well as any man. I lived 
 here for years before I took that confounded consulate at 
 Caen. Lived in this hotel, then at Leleux's. People used 
 to stop here. Good fellows used to ask for poor George 
 Brummell ; Hertford did, so did the Duchess of Devon- 
 shire. Not know Calais indeed ! That is a good joke. 
 Had many a good dinner here: sorry I ever left it." 
 
 " My Lord King Edward," chirped the queer old 
 gentleman in the shirt, "colonized the place with his 
 English, after we had yielded it up to him. I have heard 
 tell they kept it for nigh three hundred years, till my 
 Lord de Guise took it from a fair Queen, Mary of blessed
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 4 331 
 
 memory, a holy woman. Eh, but Sire Gautier of Mauny 
 was a good knight, a valiant captain, gentle and courteous 
 withal ! Do you remember his ransoming the ? " 
 
 "What is the old fellow twaddlin' about?" cries 
 Brummell. " He is talking about some knight? I never 
 spoke to a knight, and very seldom to a baronet. Firkins, 
 my butterman, was a knight a knight and alderman. 
 Wales knighted him once on going into the City." 
 
 " I am not surprised that the gentleman should not 
 understand Messire Eustace of St. Peter's," said the 
 ghostly individual addressed as Mr. Sterne. "Your 
 reading doubtless has not been very extensive?" 
 
 " Dammy, sir, speak for yourself!" cries Mr. Brum- 
 mell, testily. " I never professed to be a reading man, 
 but I was as good as my neighbours. Wales wasn't a 
 reading man ; York wasn't a reading man ; Clarence 
 wasn't a reading man; Sussex was, but he wasn't a man 
 in society. I remember reading your ' Sentimental 
 Journey,' old boy: read it to the Duchess at Beauvoir, I 
 recollect, and she cried over it. Doosid clever amusing 
 book, and does you great credit. Birron wrote doosid 
 clever books, too ; so did Monk Lewis. George Spencer 
 was an elegant poet, and my dear Duchess of Devon- 
 shire, if she had not been a grande dame, would have 
 beat 'em all, by George. Wales couldn't write : he could 
 sing, but he couldn't spell." 
 
 " Ah, you know the great world? so did I in my time, 
 Mr. Brummell. I have had the visiting tickets of half 
 the nobility at my lodgings in Bond Street. But they left 
 me there no more cared for than last year's calendar," 
 sighed Mr. Sterne. " I wonder who is the mode in 
 London now? One of our late arrivals, my Lord 
 Macaulay, has prodigious merit and learning, and faith, 
 his histories are more amusing than any novels, my own 
 included." 
 
 "Don't know, I'm sure; not in my line. Pick this 
 bone of chicken," says Mr. Brummell, trifling with a 
 skeleton bird before him. 
 
 " I remember in this city of Calais worse fare than 
 yon bird," said old Mr. Eustace of Saint Peter's.
 
 332 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 "Marry, sirs, when my Lord King Edward laid siege 
 to us, lucky was he who could get a slice of horse for 
 his breakfast, and a rat was sold at the price of a hare." 
 
 "Hare is coarse food, never tasted rat," remarked 
 the Beau. " Table-d'hote poor fare enough for a man 
 like me, who has been accustomed to the best of cookery. 
 But rat stifle me ! I couldn't swallow that : never could 
 bear hardship at all." 
 
 " We had to bear enough when my Lord of England 
 pressed us. 'Twas pitiful to see the faces of our women 
 as the siege went on, and hear the little ones asking for 
 dinner." 
 
 "Always a bore, children. At dessert, they are bad 
 enough, but at dinner they're the deuce and all," re- 
 marked Mr. Brummell. 
 
 Messire Eustace of St. Peter's did not seem to pay 
 much attention to the Beau's remarks, but continued his 
 own train of thought as old men will do. 
 
 " I hear," said he, "that there has actually been no 
 war between us of France and you men of England for 
 well nigh fifty year. Ours has ever been a nation of 
 warriors. And besides her regular found men-at-arms, 
 'tis said the English of the present time have more than 
 a hundred thousand of archers with weapons that will 
 carry for half a mile. And a multitude have come 
 amongst us of late from a great Western country, never 
 so much as heard of in my time valiant men and great 
 drawers of the long-bow, and they say they have ships 
 in armour that no shot can penetrate. Is it so? Won- 
 derful ; wonderful ! The best armour, gossips, is a stout 
 heart." 
 
 "And if ever manly heart beat under shirt-frill, thine 
 is that heart, Sir Eustace ! " cried Mr. Sterne, enthusi- 
 astically. 
 
 "We, of France, were never accused of lack of 
 courage, sir, in so far as I know," said Messire Eustace. 
 " We have shown as much in a thousand wars with you 
 English by sea and land; and sometimes we conquered, 
 and sometimes, as is the fortune of war, we were dis- 
 comfited. And notably in a great sea-fight which befell
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 333 
 
 of Ushant on the first of June our Amiral, Messire 
 
 Villaret de Joyeuse, on board his galleon named the 
 ' Vengeur,' being sore pressed by an English bombard, 
 rather than yield the crew of his ship to mercy, deter- 
 mined to go down with all on board of her: and to the 
 
 cry of Vive la R^pub or, I would say, of Notre Dame 
 
 a la Rescousse, he and his crew all sank to an immortal 
 grave- " 
 
 " Sir," said I, looking with amazement at the old 
 gentleman, "surely, surely, there is some mistake in 
 your statement. Permit me to observe that the action 
 of the first of June took place five hundred years after 
 your time, and " 
 
 "Perhaps I am confusing my dates," said the old 
 gentleman, with a faint blush. "You say I am mixing 
 up the transactions of my time on earth with the story 
 of my successors? It may be so. We take no count of 
 a few centuries more or less in our dwelling by the dark- 
 ling Stygian river. Of late, there came amongst us a 
 good knight, Messire de Cambronne, who fought against 
 you English in the country of Flanders, being captain of 
 the guard of my Lord the King of France, in a famous 
 battle where you English would have been utterly routed 
 but for the succour of the Prussian heathen. This Messire 
 de Cambronne, when bidden to yield by you of England, 
 answered this, ' The Guard dies but never surrenders ; ' 
 and fought a long time afterwards, as became a good 
 knight. In our wars with you of England it may have 
 pleased the Fates to give you the greater success, but 
 on our side, also, there has been no lack of brave deeds 
 performed by brave men." 
 
 ' ' King Edward may have been the victor, sir, as 
 being the strongest, but you are the hero of the siege of 
 Calais!" cried Mr. Sterne. "Your story is sacred, and 
 your name has been blessed for five hundred years. 
 Wherever men speak of patriotism and sacrifice, Eustace 
 of Saint Pierre shall be beloved and remembered. I 
 prostrate myself before the bare feet which stood before 
 King Edward. What collar of chivalry is to be com- 
 pared to that glorious order which you wear? Think,
 
 334 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 sir, how out of the myriad millions of our race, you, and 
 some few more, stand forth as exemplars of duty and 
 honour. Fortunati nimium! " 
 
 "Sir," said the old gentleman, "I did but my duty 
 at a painful moment; and 'tis matter of wonder to me 
 that men talk still, and glorify such a trifling matter. 
 By Our Lady's grace, in the fair kingdom of France, 
 there are scores of thousands of men, gentle and simple, 
 who would do as I did. Does not every sentinel at his 
 post, does not every archer in the front of battle, brave 
 it, and die where his captain bids him? Who am I that 
 I should be chosen out of all France to be an example 
 of fortitude? I braved no tortures, though these I trust 
 I would have endured with a good heart. I was subject 
 to threats only. Who was the Roman knight of whom 
 the Latin clerk Horatius tells?" 
 
 "A Latin clerk? Faith, I forget my Latin," says 
 Mr. Brummell. "Ask the parson here." 
 
 " Messire Regulus, I remember, was his name. Taken 
 prisoner by the Saracens, he gave his knightly word, 
 and was permitted to go seek a ransom among his own 
 people. Being unable to raise the sum that was a fitting 
 ransom for such a knight, he returned to Afric, and 
 cheerfully submitted to the tortures which the Paynims 
 inflicted. And 'tis said he took leave of his friends as 
 gaily as though he were going to a village kermes, or 
 riding to his garden house in ^he suburb of the city." 
 
 " Great, good, glorious man! " cried Mr. Sterne, very 
 much moved. " Let me embrace that gallant hand, and 
 bedew it with my tears ! As long as honour lasts thy 
 name shall be remembered. See this dew-drop twink- 
 ling on my cheek? 'Tis the sparkling tribute that Sensi- 
 bility pays to Valour. Though in my life and practice I 
 may turn from Virtue, believe me, I never have ceased 
 to honour her! Ah, Virtue! Ah, Sensibility! Oh 
 
 Here Mr. Sterne was interrupted by a monk of the 
 Order of St. Francis, who stepped into the room, and 
 begged us all to take a pinch of his famous old rappee. 
 I suppose the snuff was very pungent, for, with a great 
 start, I woke up; and now perceived that I must have
 
 ROUNDABOUT PAPERS 335 
 
 been dreaming altogether. " Dessein's " of nowadays 
 is not the "Dessein's" which Mr. Sterne, and Mr. 
 Brummell, and I recollect in the good old times. The 
 town of Calais has bought the old hotel, and " Dessein" 
 has gone over to " Quillacq's." And I was there yester- 
 day. And I remember old diligences, and old postillions 
 in pig-tails and jack-boots, who were once as alive as I 
 am, and whose cracking whips I have heard in the mid- 
 night many and many a time. Now, where are they? 
 Behold, they have been ferried over Styx, and have 
 passed away into limbo. 
 
 I wonder what time does my boat go? Ah! Here 
 comes the waiter bringing me my little bill.
 
 POEMS 
 
 [The present editor would be inclined to give considerable space 
 to the lyrics of Thackeray ; not because they are better than his 
 novels or essays, but because they can be so much better repre- 
 sented here. No scene from any story can even approximately 
 suggest the strength and growth of that story ; and even such a 
 series as that of the " Roundabout Papers" has a conversational 
 continuity that is spoilt by selection. But a lyric is essentially a 
 lonely thing. The smallest song is big enough to fill the universe. 
 And Thackeray, though garrulous here as everywhere else, had a 
 true and noble lyric instinct. He was an echo of Horace, but a 
 genuine echo. He was Horatian in his feeling that the weightiest 
 lessons of time ought to be expressed the most lightly. This 
 selection is slender through practical necessity, but I have begun 
 with one of the kindliest of his songs of memory and emotion, and 
 I have ended upon the note on which he always wished to end.] 
 
 THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR 
 
 IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 
 And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, 
 Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
 I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 
 
 To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 
 
 But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; 
 
 And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 
 
 Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 
 
 This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks 
 With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, 
 And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
 Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from 
 friends.
 
 338 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd), 
 
 Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ; 
 
 A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see ; 
 
 What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 
 
 No better divan need the Sultan require, 
 Than the creaking- old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
 And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
 From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 
 
 That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
 By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; 
 A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 
 
 Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the 
 
 chimes, 
 Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old 
 
 times ; 
 
 As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie 
 This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 
 
 But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 
 There 's one that I love and I cherish the best : 
 For the finest of couches that 's padded with hair 
 I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, 
 With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; 
 But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
 I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 
 A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms ! 
 I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; 
 I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 It was but a moment she sat in this place, 
 She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! 
 A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 
 And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd 
 chair.
 
 POEMS 339 
 
 And so I have valued my chair ever since, 
 
 Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; 
 
 Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, 
 
 The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 When the candles burn low, and the company 's gone 
 In the silence of night as I sit here alone 
 I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair 
 My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
 She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; 
 So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, 
 And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 SORROWS OF WERTHER 
 
 WERTHER had a love for Charlotte 
 Such as words could never utter; 
 
 Would you know how first he met her? 
 She was cutting bread and butter. 
 
 Charlotte was a married lady, 
 And a moral man was Werther, 
 
 And, for all the wealth of Indies, 
 Would do nothing for to hurt her. 
 
 So he sighed and pined and ogled, 
 And his passion boiled and bubbled, 
 
 Till he blew his silly brains out, 
 And no more was by it troubled. 
 
 Charlotte, having seen his body 
 Borne before her on a shutter, 
 
 Like a well-conducted person, 
 
 Went on cutting bread and butter.
 
 340 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 THE WHITE SQUALL 
 
 ON deck, beneath the awning", 
 I dozing lay and yawning; 
 It was the gray of dawning, 
 
 Ere yet the sun arose ; 
 And above the funnel's roaring, 
 And the fitful wind's deploring, 
 I heard the cabin snoring 
 
 With universal nose. 
 I could hear the passengers snorting 
 I envied their disporting 
 Vainly I was courting 
 
 The pleasure of a doze ! 
 
 So I lay, and wondered why light 
 Came not, and watched the twilight, 
 And the glimmer of the skylight, 
 
 That shot across the deck; 
 And the binnacle pale and steady, 
 And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye, 
 And the sparks in fiery eddy 
 
 That whirled from the chimney neck. 
 In our jovial floating prison 
 There was sleep from fore to mizen, 
 And never a star had risen 
 
 The hazy sky to speck. 
 
 Strange company we harboured ; 
 We'd a hundred Jews to larboard, 
 Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered 
 
 Jews black, and brown, and gray ; 
 With terror it would seize ye, 
 And make your souls uneasy, 
 To see those Rabbis greasy, 
 
 Who did nought but scratch and pray 
 Their dirty children puking 
 Their dirty saucepans cooking
 
 POEMS 341 
 
 Their dirty fingers hooking 
 Their swarming fleas away. 
 
 To starboard, Turks and Greeks were 
 Whiskered and brown their cheeks were 
 Enormous wide their breeks were, 
 
 Their pipes did puff alway; 
 Each on his mat allotted 
 In silence smoked and squatted, 
 Whilst round their children trotted 
 
 In pretty, pleasant play. 
 He can't but smile who traces 
 The smiles on those brown faces, 
 And the pretty prattling graces 
 
 Of those small heathens gay. 
 
 And so the hours kept tolling, 
 And through the ocean rolling 
 Went the brave " Iberia" bowling 
 Before the break of day 
 
 When a SQUALL, upon a sudden, 
 Came o'er the waters scudding ; 
 And the clouds began to gather, 
 And the sea was lashed to lather, 
 And the lowering thunder grumbled, 
 And the lightning jumped and tumbled, 
 And the ship, and all the ocean, 
 Woke up in wild commotion. 
 Then the wind set up a howling, 
 And the poodle dog a yowling, 
 And the cocks began a crowing, 
 And the old cow raised a lowing 
 As she heard the tempest blowing; 
 And fowls and geese did cackle, 
 And the cordage and the tackle 
 Began to shriek and crackle: 
 And the spray dashed o'er the funnels, 
 And down the deck in runnels; 
 And the rushing water soaks all, 
 From the seamen in the fo'ksal
 
 342 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 To the stokers whose black faces 
 
 Peer out of their bed-places; 
 
 And the captain he was bawling-, 
 
 And the sailors pulling-, hauling-, 
 
 And the quarter-deck tarpauling 
 
 Was shivered in the squalling-; 
 
 And the passengers awaken, 
 
 Most pitifully shaken; 
 
 And the steward jumps up, and hastens 
 
 For the necessary basins. 
 
 Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered, 
 And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered, 
 As the plunging waters met them, 
 And splashed and overset them ; 
 And they call in their emergence 
 Upon countless saints and virgins ; 
 And their marrowbones are bended, 
 And they think the world is ended. 
 
 And the Turkish women for'ard 
 Were frightened and behorror'd ; 
 And shrieking and bewildering, 
 The mothers clutched their children; 
 The men sung " Allah! Illah! 
 Mashallah Bismillah ! " 
 As the warring waters doused them 
 And splashed them and soused them, 
 And they called upon the Prophet, 
 And thought but little of it. 
 
 Then all the fleas in Jewry 
 
 Jumped up and bit like fury; 
 
 And the progeny of Jacob 
 
 Did on the main-deck wake up 
 
 (I wot those greasy Rabbins 
 
 Would never pay for cabins) ; 
 
 And each man moaned and jabbered in 
 
 His filthy Jewish gaberdine, 
 
 In woe and lamentation, 
 
 And howling consternation.
 
 POEMS 343 
 
 And the splashing water drenches 
 Their dirty brats and wenches ; 
 And they crawl from bales and benches 
 In a hundred thousand stenches. 
 
 This was the White Squall famous, 
 
 Which latterly o'ercame us, 
 
 And which all will well remember 
 
 On the 28th September; 
 
 When a Prussian captain of Lancers 
 
 (Those tight-laced, whiskered prancers) 
 
 Came on the deck astonished, 
 
 By that wild squall admonished, 
 
 And wondering cried, " Potztausend, 
 
 Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend ! " 
 
 And looked at Captain Lewis, 
 
 Who calmly stood and blew his 
 
 Cigar in all the bustle, 
 
 And scorned the tempest's tussle. 
 
 And oft we've thought thereafter 
 
 How he beat the storm to laughter : 
 
 For well he knew his vessel 
 
 With that vain wind could wrestle ; 
 
 And when a wreck we thought her, 
 
 And doomed ourselves to slaughter, 
 
 How gaily he fought her, 
 
 And through the hubbub brought her, 
 
 And as the tempest caught her, 
 
 Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER ! " 
 
 And when, its force expended, 
 The harmless storm was ended, 
 And as the sunrise splendid 
 
 Came blushing o'er the sea, 
 I thought, as day was breaking, 
 My little girls were waking, 
 And smiling, and making 
 
 A prayer at home for me. 
 
 1844.
 
 344 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 
 
 A STREET there is in Paris famous, 
 
 For which no rhyme our language yields, 
 Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is 
 
 The New Street of the Little Fields. 
 And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 
 
 But still in comfortable case; 
 The which in youth I oft attended, 
 
 To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is 
 
 A sort of soup or broth or brew, 
 Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, 
 
 That Greenwich never could outdo ; 
 Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, 
 
 Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: 
 All these you eat at TERRE'S tavern, 
 
 In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Indeed a rich and savoury stew 'tis; 
 
 And true philosophers, methinks, 
 Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 
 
 Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
 And Cordelier or Benedictine 
 
 Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
 Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 
 
 Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 
 
 I wonder if the house still there is? 
 
 Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
 The smiling red-cheeked dcailfere is 
 
 Still opening oysters at the door. 
 Is TERRE still alive and able? 
 
 I recollect his droll grimace : 
 He'd come and smile before your table, 
 
 And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
 
 POEMS 345 
 
 We enter nothing's changed or older. 
 
 " How's Monsieur TERRE, waiter, pray?" 
 The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder 
 
 " Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
 "It is the lot of saint and sinner, 
 
 So honest TERRA'S run his race." 
 " What will Monsieur require for dinner? " 
 
 " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse? " 
 
 " Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; 
 
 " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?" 
 "Tell me a good one." "That I can, Sir: 
 
 The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
 " So TERRE'S gone," I say, and sink in 
 
 My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
 " He's done with feasting and with drinking, 
 
 With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 
 
 My old accustom'd corner here is, 
 
 The table still is in the nook ; 
 Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is 
 
 This well-known chair since last I took. 
 When first I saw ye, cart luoghi, 
 
 I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
 And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 
 
 I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Where are you, old companions trusty 
 
 Of early days here met to dine? 
 Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty 
 
 I'll pledge them in the good old wine. 
 The kind old voices and old faces 
 
 My memory can quick retrace ; 
 Around the board they take their places, 
 
 And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 
 
 There's JACK has made a wondrous marriage ; 
 
 There's laughing TOM is laughing yet ; 
 There's brave AUGUSTUS drives his carriage ; 
 
 There's poor old FRED in the Gazette;
 
 346 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 On JAMES'S head the grass is growing : 
 Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
 
 Since here we set the claret flowing, 
 And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting ! 
 
 I mind me of a time that's gone, 
 When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 
 
 In this same place but not alone. 
 A fair young form was nestled near me, 
 
 A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
 And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 
 
 There's no one now to share my cup. 
 
 I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 
 
 Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
 Fill up the lonely glass and drain it 
 
 In memory of dear old times. 
 Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ; 
 
 And sit you down and say your grace 
 With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is, 
 
 Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse! 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE 
 
 ALTHOUGH I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 
 Ofttimes I hover ; 
 And near the sacred gate 
 With longing eyes I wait, 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The Minster bell tolls out 
 Above the city's rout, 
 
 And noise and humming:
 
 POEMS 347 
 
 They've hush'd the Minster bell : 
 The organ 'gins to swell : 
 
 She's coming, she's coming! 
 
 My lady conies at last, 
 
 Timid, and stepping fast, 
 And hastening hither, 
 
 With modest eyes downcast: 
 
 She comes she's here she's past- 
 May Heaven go with her ! 
 
 Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 I will not enter there, 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 THE AGE OF WISDOM 
 
 Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, 
 
 That never has known the barber's shear, 
 All your wish is woman to win, 
 This is the way that boys begin, 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year. 
 
 Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, 
 Billing and cooing is all your cheer; 
 Sighing and singing of midnight strains, 
 Under Bonnybell's window panes, 
 Wait till you come to Forty Year.
 
 348 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 Forty times over let Michaelmas pass, 
 Grizzling hair the brain doth clear 
 Then you know a boy is an ass, 
 Then you know the worth of a lass, 
 Once you have come to Forty Year. 
 
 Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, 
 
 All good fellows whose beards are gray, 
 Did not the fairest of the fair 
 Common grow and wearisome ere 
 Ever a month was pass'd away? 
 
 The reddest lips that ever have kissed, 
 
 The brightest eyes that ever have shone, 
 May pray and whisper, and we not list, 
 Or look away, and never be missed, 
 Ere yet ever a month is gone. 
 
 Gillian's dead, God rest her bier, 
 
 How I loved her twenty years syne ! 
 Marian's married, but I sit here 
 Alone and merry at Forty Year, 
 
 Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. 
 
 VANITAS VANITATUM 
 
 How spoke of old the Royal Seer? 
 
 (His text is one I love to treat on.) 
 This life of ours he said is sheer 
 
 Mataiotes Mataioteton. 
 
 O student of this gilded Book, 
 
 Declare, while musing on its pages, 
 
 If truer words were ever spoke 
 By ancient, or by modern sages?
 
 POEMS 349 
 
 The various authors' names but note, 1 
 
 French, Spanish, English, Russians, Germans : 
 
 And in the volume polyglot, 
 
 Sure you may read a hundred sermons ! 
 
 What histories of life are here, 
 
 More wild than all romancers' stories; 
 
 What wondrous transformations queer, 
 What homilies on human glories ! 
 
 What theme for sorrow or for scorn ! 
 
 What chronicle of Fates' surprises 
 Of adverse fortune nobly borne, 
 
 Of chances, changes, ruins, rises ! 
 
 Of thrones upset, and sceptres broke, 
 How strange a record here is written ! 
 
 Of honours, dealt as if in joke ; 
 Of brave desert unkindly smitten. 
 
 How low men were, and how they rise! 
 
 How high they were, and how they tumble! 
 
 vanity of vanities ! 
 
 laughable, pathetic jumble ! 
 
 Here between honest Janin's joke 
 And his Turk Excellency's firman, 
 
 1 write my name upon the book : 
 
 1 write my name and end my sermon. 
 
 O Vanity of vanities ! 
 
 How wayward the decrees of Fate are ; 
 How very weak the very wise, 
 
 How very small the very great are ! 
 
 1 Between a page by Jules Janin, and a poem by the Turkish 
 Ambassador, in Madame de R 's album, containing the auto- 
 graphs of kings, princes, poets, marshals, musicians, diplomatists, 
 statesmen, artists, and men of letters of all nations.
 
 350 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 
 What mean these stale moralities, 
 
 Sir Preacher, from your desk you mumble? 
 
 Why rail against the great and wise, 
 
 And tire us with your ceaseless grumble? 
 
 Pray choose us out another text, 
 O man morose and narrow-minded ! 
 
 Come turn the page I read the next, 
 And then the next, and still I find it. 
 
 Read here how Wealth aside was thrust, 
 
 And Folly set in place exalted ; 
 How Princes footed in the dust, 
 
 While lacqueys in the saddle vaulted. 
 
 Though thrice a thousand years are past, 
 Since David's son, the sad and splendid, 
 
 The weary King Ecclesiast, 
 
 Upon his awful tablets penned it, 
 
 Methinks the text is never stale, 
 
 And life is every day renewing 
 Fresh comments on the old, old tale 
 
 Of Folly, Fortune, Glory, Ruin. 
 
 Hark to the Preacher, preaching still 
 He lifts his voice and cries his sermon, 
 
 Here at St. Peter's of Cornhill, 
 As yonder on the Mount of Hermon : 
 
 For you and me to heart to take 
 (O dear beloved brother readers) 
 
 To-day as when the good King spake 
 Beneath the solemn Syrian cedars. 
 
 CHISWICK PRESS : PRINTED BY CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. 
 TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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