Various
Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II
"But, what was they, Joe?" inquired the boatswain's mate, "they must have shifted their rigging pretty quick."
"I think I can explain it all," said the sergeant, laughing heartily, "for I happened to be there at the time, though I had no idea that our friend Joe here was the man we played the trick on."
"Just mind how you shapes your course, Muster Sergeant!" exclaimed Joe, angrily. "I'd ounly give you one piece of good adwice, – don't be falling athwart my hawse, or mayhap you may wish yourself out o' this."
"Don't be testy, Joe," said the sergeant, "on my honour I'll tell you the truth. Shipmates, the facts are these: – I belonged to the party in the battery, and went with some of the officers to explore a burial-ground, not without hopes of picking up a prize or two, as the report was that the mummies had plates of gold on their breasts. Corporal Stunt went with us; and, when we got to the place we lighted torches and commenced examination, but, if they ever had any gold about them the French had been there before us, for we found none. Whilst we were exploring, a storm came on, and not being able to leave the vault the officers dressed Stunt up in some of the cerements that had been unrolled from the mummies by way of amusement, little expecting the fun that it was afterward to produce. When Joe came in as he has described, we all hid ourselves, and, if truth must be spoken, he was more than half sprung." Joe grumbled out an expletive. "Stunt went to him, and we had as fine a piece of pantomime – "
"Panter what?" uttered Joe, with vehemence, "there's no such rope in the top, you lubber! and arter all you can say I werily believes it wur King Herod; but, you see, messmates, what with running so hard, and what with losing my canteens, I got dumbfoundered all at once, and then they claps me in limbo for knocking down the sentry."
"And the officers begged you off," said the sergeant, "on account of the fun they'd enjoyed, and you was sent away on board, to keep you out of further mischief, Joe, and to prevent your going a mummy-hunting again. As for Corporal Stunt – "
"Corporal D – n!" exclaimed Joe in a rage, "it's all gammon about your Corporal Stunt; and in regard o' the matter o' that, what have you got to say in displanation o' the woice? There I has you snug enough anyhow; there was no mistake about the woice," and Joe chuckled with pleasure at what he deemed unanswerable evidence in his favour.
"It may be accounted for in the most sensible way imaginable," said the sergeant; "Corporal Stunt was what they call a ventriloquist."
"More gammon!" says Joe; "and, what's a wentillerquis, I should like to know; and how came the mummies to muster out of their niches when I woke?"
"We placed them there whilst you were asleep," replied the sergeant, "and, as for Stunt, he was as drunk and drowsy as yourself."
"Ay, – ay, sergeant!" said Joe, affecting to laugh, "it's all wery well what you're overhauling upon, but I'm blessed if you'll ever make me log that ere down about Corporal Stunt and the wentiller consarn. I ounly wish I had the canteens now."
"Get a musket ready there for'ard!" shouted his lordship from the gangway, "fire athwart the brig's bows."
"They seem to be all asleep aboard, my lord!" said Mr. Nugent. "At all events they don't seem to care much about us."
"You're mistaken, Mr. Nugent," replied his lordship, as he directed his night-glass steadily at the stranger, "she's full of men, and if I am correct in my conjectures, there are many, very many eyes anxiously watching our motions."
The musket was fired, and the brig came to the wind with her maintopsail to the mast. The frigate ranged up to windward of her, and the sonorous voice of Lord Eustace was heard,
"Brig a-hoy! What brig's that?"
"L'Hirondelle de Toulon," responded the commander of the vessel hailing through his speaking-trumpet. "Vat sal your ship be?"
"His Britannic Majesty's frigate, the Spankaway," answered Lord Eustace: "lower away the cutter, Mr. Nugent, and board her."
The two craft had neared each other so closely, and the moon shone with such clearness and splendour, that every thing was perfectly visible from each other on the decks of both. The brig was full of men, and when Lord Eustace had announced the name of his ship, the sounds had not yet died away upon the waters when out burst a spontaneous cheer from the smaller vessel such as only English throats could give, – it was a truly heart-stirring British demonstration, and there was no mistaking it. The effect was perfectly electric on the man-of-war's men, – the lee gangway was instantly crowded as well as the lee ports, and, as if by a sudden communion of spirit that was irrepressible, the cheer was returned.
There is amongst thorough tars a sort of freemasonry in these things that no language can describe, – it is the secret sign, the mystery that binds the brotherhood together, – felt, but not understood, – expressed, yet undefined.
"Where are you from?" shouted his lordship as soon as the cheering had subsided.
"From Genoa, bound to Malta, your honour," answered a voice in clear English: "we're a Cartel."
"Fortune favours us, Monsieur Capitaine," said his lordship to Citizen Begaud; "the exchange of prisoners can be effected where we are, and I will take it on my own responsibility to dismiss you on the usual terms, if you wish to return to France."
"A thousand thanks, my lord," returned Begaud, with evident satisfaction. "Yet all places are alike to me now. You have heard my narrative, and I hope, if we part, you will not hold me altogether in contempt and abhorrence. My spirits are depressed – my star is dim and descending – my destiny will soon be accomplished."
"You fought your ship bravely, Monsieur," said Lord Eustace, "and I trust your future career will redeem the past. You have suffered much, and experience is a wise teacher to the human mind. But there is one thing I am desirous of having explained. You say that Robespierre detained you for some time before he gave you a pardon for the Countess – do you think he was aware of her approaching execution?"
"Aware of it, my lord?" exclaimed the French Captain, in a tone approaching to a shriek: "Danton, whom you well remember I said I met quitting the bureau, had the death-warrant, with the wretch's signature, in his hand – 'twas solely for the purpose of destruction that he detained me – he knew the villain would be speedy – they had planned it between them."
"All ready with the cutter, my lord," exclaimed Mr. Sinnitt, coming up to the gangway, and saluting his noble captain.
"Board the brig, Mr. Nugent, and bring the master and his papers to the frigate," directed Lord Eustace. "Call the gunner – a rocket and a blue light."
Both orders were obeyed; the signal was readily comprehended by Mr. Seymour, who hove-to in the prize, and in a few minutes Nugent returned from his embassy with the master of the cartel and the officer authorized to effect an exchange. The papers were rigidly examined – there were no less than one hundred and six Englishmen on board the brig, the principal portion of whom had been either wrecked or captured in merchant-men, and were now on their way to Malta for an equal number of French prisoners in return; the commander-in-chief at Genoa, rightly judging that British humanity would gladly accede to the proposition. There were no officers, but Lord Eustace undertook to liberate Citizen Captain Begaud – the preliminaries were arranged – the Frenchmen, man for man, were transferred to the brig (his lordship throwing in a few hands who earnestly implored his consideration) – the Englishmen were received on board the frigate – necessary documents were signed, and they parted company – the brig making sail for Toulon – the Spankaway rejoining her prize.
"We've made a luckly windfall, Seymour," hailed his lordship when the frigates had closed; "I've a hundred prime hands for you. Out boats, Mr. Sinnitt, and send the new men away directly – but first of all, let every soul of them come aft." A very few minutes sufficed to execute the command. "My lads," said his lordship, addressing them, "are you willing to serve your country? – speak the word. I've an object in view that will produce a fair share of prize-money – enter for his majesty's service, and you shall have an equal distribution with the rest. Yonder's your ship, a few hours will probably bring us into action, and I know every man will do his duty."
With but few exceptions, the seamen promptly entered, and were sent away to the Hippolito, where Mr. Seymour was instructed to station them at the guns with all possible despatch.
"Well, here we goes again," said old Savage, as the order was given to bear up and make sail, "it's infarnally provoking not to be able to discover what the skipper's arter. There's the Pollytoe running away ahead, and Muster Seymour's just fancying himself first Lord o' the Admirality."
"Beat to quarters, Mr. Sinnitt," exclaimed his lordship, "and cast loose the guns."
"Well, I'm – if I can make anything on it, Jack," grumbled the boatswain; "what are we going to engage now – the Flying Dutchman, or Davy Jones?"
"Mayhap a whole shole of Joe's mummies, sir," said Jack Sheavehole, with a respectful demeanour, as he cast loose his gun upon the forecastle, and threw his eye along the sight. Suddenly his gaze was fixed, he then raised his head for a moment, looked eagerly in the same direction, and once more glanced along the gun. "Well, I'm blessed if there aint," says he, – his voice echoed among the canvass as he shouted – "two sail on the starboard bow."
"Who's that hailing?" said the captain, as he walked forward to the bows, with his glass under his arm.
"It's Jack Sheavehole, your honour, my lord," replied the boatswain's mate, his eye still steadily fixed upon the objects.
"If they're what I expect, it will be a hundred guineas for you, my man, and, perhaps something better," said his lordship. "Where are they?"
"Just over the muzzle of the gun, my lord," answered Jack, as a fervent wish escaped him, that his lordship's expectations might be realized; for the hundred guineas, and something better, brought to his remembrance Suke and the youngsters.
Lord Eustace took a steady persevering sight through his night glass, as the men went to their quarters, and the ship was made clear for action; his lordship then ascertained the correct distance of the Hippolito ahead to be about two miles. "Get top-ropes rove, Mr. Savage," said he; "heave taut upon 'em, and see all clear for knocking the fids out of the topmasts."
"Ay ay, my lord," responded the boatswain, as he prepared for immediate obedience, but mumbling to himself, "What the – will he be at next; rigging the jib-boom out o' the cabin windows, and onshipping the rudder, I suppose. Well, I'm – , if the sarvice arn't going to the devil hand-over-hand; I shouldn't be surprised if we have to take a reef in the mainmast next."
"Mr. Sinnitt," said his lordship, "let them pass a hawser into the cutter," – the boat had not been hoisted up again, – "take the plug out, and drop her astern."
"D'ye hear that, Joe?" growled the boatswain; "there'll be more stores expended if she breaks adrift, and I'm – if I can make it out; first of all, we goes in chase o' nothing – now here's a couple o' craft in sight, that mayhap may be enemies' frigates, – he's sinking the cutter to stop our way. Well, we shall all be wiser in time."
The strangers were made out to be two ships, standing in for the land, and whilst they were clearly visible to the Spankaway and the Hippolito, the position the moon was in prevented the strangers from seeing the two frigates. At length, however, they did obtain sight of them, and they immediately hauled to the wind, with their heads off shore.
"There's a gun from the prize, sir," shouted one of the men forward, as the booming report of a heavy piece of ordnance came over the waters.
"Run out the two bow-guns through the foremost ports, and fire blank cartridge," said his lordship. "Where's the gunner?" – Mr. Blueblazes responded, "Ay ay, my lord." – "Draw all the shot on the larboard side," continued Lord Eustace, to the great astonishment of the man of powder, and still greater surprise of the old boatswain.
"Mr. Seymour is making signals, my lord," said the third lieutenant; "and he's altered his course towards the strangers."
"Very good, Mr. Nugent," said his lordship; "let them blaze away with the bow-guns, but be careful not to shot them."
The Hippolito kept discharging her stern chasers as she stood towards the strangers, who made all possible sail away, and the Spankaway fired her bow-guns without intermission, as she pursued her prize.
"What an onmarciful waste of powder," said the boatswain to his mate; "I say, Jack, just shove in a shot to take off the scandal o' the thing."
Whether Jack complied or not, is unknown. The boat astern was cut away, the Spankaway felt relieved, and drew up with the prize; the strangers retained their position, about three or four miles distant, and thus the chase continued till daylight, no one being able to make out what it all meant.
THE CASTLE BY THE SEA
FROM UHLAND
And didst thou see that castle,
That castle by the sea?
The rosy-tinctured cloudlets
Float o'er it bright and free.
'Twould be bending down its shadows
Into the crystal deep, —
In the sunset's rays all glowing
'Twould tower with haughty sweep.
"Ay, wot ye well, I saw it —
That castle by the sea,
And the pale moon standing o'er it,
And mists hung on its lee."
The wind and ocean's rolling,
Was their voice fresh and strong?
Came from its halls the echoes
Of lute and festal song?
"The winds, the waves around it
In sullen stillness slept,
Forth came a song of wailing, —
I heard it, and I wept."
The king and his proud ladye,
Were they pacing that high hall,
With crowns of gold, and girded
In purple and in pall?
And led they not exulting
A maid of rarest mould,
Bright as the sun, and beaming
In tresses all of gold?
"I saw that king and ladye —
The crown gemmed not their hair,
Dark mourning weeds were on them —
The maid I saw not there."
E.N.
LEGISLATIVE NOMENCLATURE
AMONGST THE MOTLEY CHARACTERS AND COMBINATIONS IN THE NEW HOUSE OF COMMONS MAY BE FOUND
A Duke, an Erle, a Bannerman,
A Barron, and a Knight;
A Northland Lord, a Denison,
With Manners most polite.
A Kirk and Chaplin still remain,
Tho' the House has lost its Clerk;
But a Parrott's there to say amen,
And a Fox and Woulfe to bark!
Saint Andrew, holy man, is gone,
Who Knightley, Neeld, and Praed,43
A Haytor44 of the poor man's joy,
And Sunday Baker trade.
A Leader, and a Crewe with Spiers,
Conspire against A'Court;
But Dick declares, and Darby swears,
No-el is meant nor Hurt.
They've hunted Roebuck from his hold,
And Buck-ingham and Bruen;
But a Sheppard stays to guard the fold,
And save the flock from ruin!
There's Cow-per, Bull-ers, and Knatch-bull,
With Lamb-ton, Hinde, and Hogg;
A brace of Martins, Finch, and Hawkes,
And Pusey in a Bagge!
There's Moles-worth, Duck-worth, Cod-rington,
Three Roches and a Seale;
A Rose, a Plumptre, and a Reid,
With Hawes and Lemon Peel.
A Bold-ero, with Muskett armed,
Goes thro' the Woods to Chute;45
He fires some Rounds, and then brings down
A Heron and Wilde Coote!
Great Dan, with his smooth Winning-ton,
Contrives his Poyntz to Wynn;
For his supple tail has stronger grown,
Tho', alas! he's lost his Finn!
Two Baillies and an Irish Maher,46
And Burroughes, Power, a Bewes;47
Two Tory Woods, a Forester,
With Hastie, Vigor, Hughes!48
A Cave, a Loch, a Hill, a Fort,
A Divett, and a Trench;
A Fleming and a Bruges, Guest,
With Holland, Folkes and Ffrench.
A Hob-house, Wode-house, Powers-court,
Two Est-courts and a Hall;
The Hutt, alas! they've undermined,
And left a Black-stone, Wall!
A Marshall-Law, with Power, C. Vere,49
And Foley and Strange-ways;
Three Palmers on a pilgrimage,
A Gally in a Hayes!50
Tho' North and West are both displaced,
An East-hope has been gained;
While East-nor, East and West-enra,
Their stations have maintain'd!
Camp-bells we have, and Durham Bowes,51
With one Northumbrian Bell;
From Stirlingshire they've sent For-bes,52
To Lisburn for Mey-nell!53
Tho' Beau-clerk and Beau-mont are gone,
We've Fellowes, Hale and Young,
In Style to carry on the Ball,
And dash and Strutt a Long.
A Horsman with Fre-mantle trots
Two Miles to Wynn a Pryse;
Two Walkers, Pryme, the distance run,
More confident than Wyse.
A Chapman with his Packe and Price,
A Potter with his Clay;
A Fresh-field, Baring, Pease, and Rice,
A thriving Field-en Hay.
A Carter, Coopers, Turners, Smiths,
A Collier with his Coles;
A Master-Cartwright with his Maule,
A Bolling-Green and Bowles.
A Black-burn, Blew-itt, and Brown-rigge,
And Black-ett, White, and Grey;
With double Scarlett, Orange-Peel,
And Brown and Green-away.
There's Crawford, Wood, and Pattison,
And Barings passing Rich;
With Money-penny and a Grote,
And Grimston and Grimsditch.
There's Rum-bold, Tancred, and Phill-potts,
A Butler from Kilkenny;
A Heath-coat, Thorn-hill, and Broad-wood,
With Mild-may and Ma-hony.
A Bodkin, Sharpe, Kent Hodges, Blunt,
A Miller and a Baker;
With sinners, saints, and Methodists,
Socinians, and a Quaker!
Staunch Papists, Presbyterians,
And Churchmen great and small;
With Mathew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Old Adam and St. Paul!
G.W.
NOBILITY IN DISGUISE
BY DUDLEY COSTELLO
"They name ye before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me. – "
Byron.
One of the evils of an increasing population is the difficulty of finding names for all the new-comers. As long as the census remained proportionate to the superficies of the country, and every man could entrench himself within the walls of his own domicile, or isolate himself between his own hedges, the principle of individuality continued unassailed; but when, from a thousand causes, the population became doubled, almost within our recollection, and men were forced to herd together, gregarious by compulsion, we felt that a blow had been struck at personal identity which it would require the utmost ingenuity to parry.
Amongst the many responsibilities entailed upon parents, not the least, in these prolific times, is that of providing their offspring with names which shall carry them safely through the wear and tear of after-life without encroaching upon the privileges, or sharing in the disgraces, of others. The man, for instance, who happens to bear the not-impossible name of Smith, and who chooses to christen his son by the not-uncommon one of John, commits an error as fatal as can well be imagined. At school that son is buffeted by mistake, and birched by accident, for the broken windows and invaded orchards: the acts of another John Smith. As he advances towards man's estate, his good reputation is stolen, and a bad one substituted, by the graceless conduct of a namesake. He is dunned for debts he never contracted, rendered liable for hearts he never broke, and imprisoned for assaults he never committed. He is superseded in the affections of his mistress by another John Smith, disinherited on his account, and when he dies – for even Smiths must die – no tear is shed to his memory, no record commemorates his decease; like the pebble which is cast into the ocean, a little circle just marks the spot for a moment, and the waves of oblivion roll over it for ever!
The same melancholy fate haply attends the possessors of the names of Green, Brown, Jones, Robinson, Thompson, and others no less familiar. The destiny of one becomes involved in the general lot of all; the multitude can no more distinguish between them than they can separate one sheep from a flock, or one bee from a swarm. The hand of fate is on the unhappy crowd, – "they are the victims of its iron rule;" and victimised to a certainty they would have remained, had not a boldly-conceiving individual invented a mode of particularising that which was general, severing the with which bound them in one universal faggot. It was effected in this wise. He considered the name he bore – one of those already alluded to – as being only the type of man; and, spurning at the imbecility or indifference of a godfather, who had thus neutralised his existence at the very outset, he resolved to intercalate certain high-sounding appellations, which of themselves would attract sufficient attention, but, when combined with his own futile denomination, would be sure to strike, from the absurdity of the contrast, or singularity of the juxta-position. Thomas Brown was a name as insignificant as parents or sponsors could make it; but when, in the course of time, it swelled itself into Thomas Claudius Fitzwilliam Carnaby Browne, it was impossible to pass it unregarded. The feat once accomplished, like the broken egg of Columbus, it became of easy performance; and few were the Thompsons, few the Simpsons, and fewer still the Johnsons, who did not claim "the benefit of the act."
A prospective advantage was included also in their calculations. As time wore away, the obnoxious Thomas or John was silently dropped; and then, by a daring coup-de-maître, the plebeian sur-name, which had been gradually contracting its powers, was altogether sunk, and the grub became a butterfly of most aristocratic pretensions. This is no vain theory founded on chance occurrences, but a truth which every one will recognise who runs over the list of his acquaintance, or examines the visiting-cards on his mantel-piece. It is as impossible now-a-days to meet with a man content to bear the opprobrium of a single monosyllabic name, as to raise money without security, or induce any one to avoid politics in conversation. The ancient prejudice against the "homo trium literarum" is now wholly removed; and we verily believe that Cavendish Mortimer Pierrepoint, an acknowledged scion of the swell-mob, would find more favour in the eyes of society than plain Benjamin Bunks, a well-known respectable hosier or linendraper, if a question of right were at issue between them.
There are two classes of persons who build up to themselves an altar of vain-glory founded on names of self-assumption. The first are those who, being cast originally in the basest metal, add the pinchbeck of quality to enhance the value of the original plebeian pewter; the second, of "dull and meagre lead," who thereunto conjoin the glare of brass or gloom of iron by the adoption of double names of equal dissonance. Examples are rife everywhere. Mr. and Mrs. Vokins, while their fortune was yet to make, were happy and content "as such;" but, the carriage once set up, the arms found, and the visiting-cards printed, her friends are awake to the pleasing consciousness that "Mrs. Ferdinand Vokins" is "at home" every alternate Wednesday during the season.
Mr. Mudge was a plain, simple Glo'stershire squire, shooting partridges on the paternal acres, and called "Young Mr. Mudge," as manhood and whiskers expanded on his native soil. He comes to town, sees the world, and discovers, for the first time, despite the importance which inflates him, that he is nameless. He accordingly borrows from the French, and is straightway transformed into "the interesting Mr. Montmorency Mudge, who plays so divinely on the flute," though his very existence had been a question but a few brief hours before.
The Badgers, though proud of course of their name as a family name, have daughters to marry, and sons to provide for: it is of no use to be good unless one appears so; and therefore Mrs. Howard Badger's suppers are the best in town, while Mr. Howard Badger is received with smiles at the Treasury.
Plain Boss would have succeeded nowhere, except, perhaps, on a street-door; but Felix Orlando Boss may enter the gayest drawing-room in Christendom, announced by files of intonating footmen.
We are invited to dine, and seek to ascertain the profit and loss of the invitation by inquiries of a fellow convive as to the guests who will be there: he is l'ami de la maison, and, to give due emphasis to the description, and honour to the Amphitryon, he thus enumerates them. "Oh, you'll have the Mortimer Bullwinkles, Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Cutbush, the Stafford Priddys, Sir Montague Stumps, Mr. Temple Sniggers, the Beauchamp Horrockses, and Mrs. Courtenay Cocking; nobody else, that I remember." "Won't the Wartons be there?" "I don't know, – who are they? – I never heard of them: – what's their other name?"
And so it is: this "other name," – this alter ego– becomes the grand desideratum in description, – the passport to fashion and celebrity.
The anonymous in authorship is no longer regarded, save in the instance of those veterans in literature whose silence is more significant than the loud-tongued voices of a million aspirants. We need no sign-post to show us the way to London, neither do we seek a name to anticipate their page. But the new candidates for fame are of a different order. The title-page of a work is in their estimation a maiden shield whereon it is their privilege to quarter the names of all their lineage, concentrated in themselves, or pompously appealed to in the names of others. Hence we have, "Rambles in Russia, by Charles Valentine Mowbray Muggins;" "Thoughts on the Poor-Laws, by Pygmalion Gammage;" "The Exile; a poem, by Brownlow Busfield, of the Middle Temple, Barrister-at-Law;" "Desperation; a novel, by Grenville Grindle, Esq.;" "The Veil Withdrawn, or, A Peep behind the Curtain, by the Nieces of the Hon. and Rev. Fitzherbert Fineclark;" and "Domestic Tyranny, or, The Stony-hearted Step-father, by Lavinia Cecilia Bottomley, only child of the late Captain Roderick Bottomley, of the Bombay Cavalry."
It is no longer our cue to be rendered "illustrious by courtesy;" we compel the admiration which the niggard world so carefully withholds, and extort the approbation it would smother. It matters little how raw, how shapeless, how crude, how undigested be the mass when drawn from the quarry of its creation; its uncouth aspect and angular deformity offer no impediment to the lapidary's skill, but rather enhance its value; and the more barbarous the name which ignorant parents have transmitted, the wider is the scope afforded to their descendants for rendering the adjunct more brilliant by the contrast.
He who is born Buggins, and changeth not, perisheth unregarded; his name appears in the Newgate Calendar, and whatever his fate, it is deemed a just one. But he who (though equally degraded in the annals of nomenclature by the repulsive or sneaking appellations of Jaggers, Blatcher, Gullock, or Lumkin,) adds to his patronymic the soft seduction or romantic interest of Albert, Eustace, Stanley, or Fitzmaurice, may appeal to the lord in waiting, or a patroness at Almack's, and kiss the hand of royalty, or bow at the shrine of beauty.
The motto is old and true, which many "gentlemen of coat-armour" do bear, that "Fortune favours the bold;" the daring speculators in the names of others are eminently successful in their adventure after greatness. To this category belong the sheriffs and aldermen, the bearers of addresses, and the deputed of corporations; these are they who may literally be said to have greatness "thrust upon them."
The Mayor of Norwich, hight Timothy Gamblebuck, urged by the ambitious spiritings of Mrs. G., kneels at his sovereign's feet, and, rewarded by an accolade, returns, in the triumph of knighthood and plenitude of loyalty, "Sir Timotheus Guelph Gamblebuck" by more than royal permission.
Mr. Sheriff Hole, presented by a peer, and similarly honoured by the king, marks his sense of his patron's kindness by the insertion of his title before the cavernous epithet, and figures at urban festivals as Sir John Cornwallis Hole, the most aristocratic on the shrieval archives.
Sir Marmaduke Fuggles, Sir Cholmondeley Bilke, Sir Constantine Peregrine Rumball, Sir Temple Gostick, and Sir Peter Sackville Biles, are amongst the many whom female instigation or personal desire have led to illustrate the glory of ancient houses. It is somewhere said in "Pelham" that one's unknown neighbour, or opposite at dinner, must necessarily be a baronet and Sir John; it is no less true that at the corner of every street, in the avenues of every ballroom, a newly created knight lies in waiting to devour one. A man with a bright blue coat, and, if possible, brighter buttons, with black satin waistcoat and very gold chain, with large hands and a face of red portent, cuts in with us at whist; his antagonists are perpetually appealing to him by his brilliant title. "It is your deal, Sir Vavasour," – "My ace, Sir Vavasour," – "Sir Vavasour, two doubles and the rub;" – till, bewildered by the glories of our feudal partner, we lose the game, and stealthily inquire of some one near, "Who is the gentleman opposite?" "Sir Vavasour Clapshaw" is the whispered reply, recalling the name of one much respected in our youthful days, – a celebrated artist in the cricket-bat line, who has now pitched his wicket within the precincts of aristocracy, and bowls down society with the grandeur of his préfixe.
A lady in crimson velvet, with a bird of paradise in her blue and silver "turband," and a marabout boa wreathed round her neck, with long white gloves tightened unto bursting, and serpentine chains clinging unto suffocation, is seated in lofty pride at the upper end of the principal saloon, and overwhelms by the dignity of her demeanour all who come within the vortex of her "full-blown suffisance."
"Lady – what did you say? Harcourt, or Harewood, – which? – I didn't distinctly hear." "Yes, Lady Harcourt." "Why, I thought she was dead." "Oh, yes, the Countess is dead; but this is Lady Harcourt Bumsted: that's her husband, Sir Julius, – he was knighted last Wednesday."
"There's honour for you! – grinning honour," as Falstaff has it.
Notabilities like these are nearly as illustrious as the surreptitious knights and dames who, by dint of surpassing impudence, pass current for as good as they. Both classes remind us of the gypsy-herald "Rouge-Sanglier," whose colours were as bright, and trappings as gay, as those of the legitimate "Toison d'Or:" they have but one fault; like him, their blazon is false, their arms are wrongly "tricked," metal overlays metal, gold covers brass, and native gules gives way to intrusive purple. The glory of our chivalry is often awkwardly eclipsed when it happens that a Frenchman is called upon to designate the new-made knight; he treats his Christian name with as much indifference as he manifests in the spelling of his surname, – a rule he always applies to those of British growth. We know a clever, shrewd, little, antiquarian Frenchman, whom no persuasion can induce to abbreviate a single letter of reference to page, folio, edition, or date; but who, whenever he has occasion to mention a knight or baronet of his acquaintance, invariably omits his nom de baptême?. How pleasantly it would sound to hear the announcement of "Sir Biddles," "Sir Doody," or "Sir Farwig!" and yet this would be the predicament of these worthies were they ungraced by noble prænomina.