now i will draw, carefully, faithfully, and lovingly, the portraits of some of my friends; they are not ever likely to set eyes on the delineation: and if by some chance they do, they will forgive me, i think.

i have chosen three or four of the most typical of my not very numerous neighbours, though there are many similar portraits scattered up and down my diaries.

it happened this morning that a small piece of parish business turned up which necessitated my communicating with sir james, our chief landowner. staunton is his name, and his rank is baronet. he comes from a typically english stock. as early as the fourteenth century the stauntons seem to have held land in the parish; they were yeomen, no doubt, owning a few hundred acres of freehold. in the sixteenth century one of them drifted to london, made a fortune, and, dying childless, left his money to the head of the[110] house, who bought more land, built a larger house, became esquire, and eventually knight; his brass is in the church. they were unimaginative folk, and whenever the country was divided, they generally contrived to find themselves upon the prosaic and successful side.

the bishop

early in the eighteenth century there were two brothers: the younger, a clergyman, by some happy accident became connected with the court, made a fortunate marriage, and held a deanery first, and then a bishopric. here he amassed a considerable fortune. his portrait, which hangs at the park, represents a man with a face of the shape and colour of a ripe plum, with hardly more distinction of feature, shrouded in a full wig. behind him, under a velvet curtain, stands his cathedral, in a stormy sky. the bishop’s monument is one of the chief disfigurements, or the chief ornaments of our church, according as your taste is severe or catholic. it represents the deceased prelate in a reclining attitude, with a somewhat rueful expression, as of a man fallen from a considerable height. over him bends a solicitous angel in the attitude of one inquiring what is amiss. one of the prelate’s delicate hands is outstretched from a gigantic[111] lawn sleeve, like a haggis, which requires an iron support to sustain it; the other elbow is propped upon some marble volumes of controversial divinity. in an alcove behind is a tumid mitre, quite putting into the shade a meagre celestial crown with marble rays, which is pushed unceremoniously into the top of the recess.

the baronets

the bishop succeeded his elder brother in the estate, and added largely to the property. the bishop’s only son sat for a neighbouring borough, and was created a baronet for his services, which were of the most straightforward kind. at this point, by one of the strange freaks of which even county families are sometimes guilty, a curious gleam of romance flashed across the dull record. the baronet’s eldest son developed dim literary tastes, drifted to london, became a hanger-on of the johnsonian circle—his name occurs in footnotes to literary memoirs of the period; married a lady of questionable reputation, and published two volumes of “letters to a young lady of quality,” which combine, to a quite singular degree, magnificence of diction with tenuity of thought. this jack staunton was a spendthrift, and would have made[112] strange havoc of the estate, but his father fortunately outlived him; and by the offer of a small pension to mrs. jack, who was left hopelessly destitute, contrived to get the little grandson and heir into his own hands. the little boy developed into the kind of person that no one would desire as a descendant, but that all would envy as an ancestor. he was a miser pure and simple. in his day the tenants were ground down, rents were raised, plantations were made, land was acquired in all directions; but the house became ruinous, and the miserable owner, in a suit of coarse cloth like a second-rate farmer, sneaked about his lands with a shy and secret smile, avoiding speech with tenants and neighbours alike, and eating small and penurious meals in the dusty dining-room in company with an aged and drunken bailiff, the discovery of whose constant attempts to defraud his master of a few shillings were the delight and triumph of the baronet’s life. he died a bachelor; at his death a cousin, a grandson of the first baronet, succeeded, and found that whatever else he had done, the miser had left immense accumulations of money behind him. this gentleman was in the army, and fought at waterloo,[113] after which he imitated the example of his class, and became an unflinching tory politician. the fourth baronet was a singularly inconspicuous person whom i can just remember, whose principal diversion was his kennel. i have often seen him when, as a child, i used to lunch there with my mother, stand throughout the meal in absolute silence, sipping a glass of sherry on the hearthrug, and slowly munching a large biscuit, and, before we withdrew, producing from his pocket the envelopes which had contained the correspondence of the morning, and filling them with bones, pieces of fat, fag-ends of joints, to bestow upon the dogs in the course of the afternoon. this habit i considered, as a child, to be distinctly agreeable, and i should have been deeply disappointed if sir john had ever failed to do it.

sir james

the present sir james is now a man of forty. he was at eton and trinity, and for a short time in the guards. he married the daughter of a neighbouring baronet, and at the age of thirty, when his father died, settled down to the congenial occupation of a country gentleman. he is, in spite of the fact that he had a large landed estate, a very[114] wealthy man. i imagine he has at least ￡20,000 a year. he has a london house, to which lady staunton goes for the season, but sir james, who makes a point of accompanying her, soon finds that business necessitates his at once returning to the country; and i am not sure that the summer months, which he spends absolutely alone, are not the most agreeable part of the year for him. he has three stolid and healthy children—two boys and a girl. he takes no interest whatever in politics, religion, literature, or art. he takes in the standard and the field. he hunts a little, and shoots a little, but does not care about either. he spends his morning and afternoon in pottering about the estate. in the evening he writes a few letters, dines well, reads the paper and goes to bed. he does not care about dining out; indeed the prospect of a dinner-party or a dance clouds the pleasure of the day. he goes to church once on sunday; he is an active magistrate; he has, at long intervals, two or three friends of like tastes to stay with him, who accompany him, much to his dislike, in his perambulations, and stand about whistling, or staring at stacks and cattle, while he talks to the bailiff. but he is[115] a kindly, cheery, generous man, with a good head for business, and an idea of his position. he is absolutely honourable and straightforward, and faces an unpleasant duty, when he has made up his mind to it, with entire tranquillity. no mental speculation has ever come in his way; at school he was a sound, healthy boy, good at games, who did his work punctually, and was of blameless character. he made no particular friends; sat through school after school, under various sorts of masters, never inattentive, and never interested. he had a preference for dull and sober teachers, men with whom, as he said, “you knew where you were;” a stimulating teacher bewildered him,—“always talking about poetry and rot.” at cambridge it was the same. he rowed in his college boat; he passed the prescribed examinations; he led a clean healthy decorous life; and no idea, small or great, no sense of beauty, no wonder at the scheme of things, ever entered his head. if by chance he ever found himself in the company of an enthusiastic undergraduate, whose mind and heart were full of burning, incomplete, fantastic thoughts, james listened politely to what he had to say, hazarded no statements, and said,[116] in quiet after-comment, “gad, how that chap does jaw!” no one ever thought him stupid; he knew what was going on; he was sociable, kind, not the least egotistical, and far too much of a gentleman to exhibit the least complacency in his position or wealth—only he knew exactly what he liked, and had none of the pathetic admiration for talent that is sometimes found in the unintellectual. when he went into the guards it was just the same. he was popular and respected, friendly with his men, perfectly punctual, capable and respectable. he had no taste for wine or gambling, or disreputable courses. he admired nobody and nothing, and no one ever obtained the slightest influence over him. at home he was perfectly happy, kind to his sisters, ready to do anything he was asked, and to join in anything that was going on. when he succeeded to the estate, he went quietly to work to find a wife, and married a pretty, contented girl, with the same notions as himself. he never said an unkind thing to her, or to any of his family, and expressed no extravagant affection for any one. he is trustee for all his relations, and always finds time to look after their affairs. he is always ready to[117] subscribe to any good object, and had contrived never to squabble with an angular ritualistic clergyman, who thinks him a devoted son of the church. he has declined several invitations to stand for parliament, and has no desire to be elevated to the peerage. he will probably live to a green old age, and leave an immense fortune. i do not fancy that he is much given to meditate about his latter end; but if he ever lets his mind range over the life beyond the grave, he probably anticipates vaguely that, under somewhat airy conditions, he will continue to enjoy the consideration of his fellow-beings, and deserve their respect.