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I wish to ask you a simple question. Why do you render those who spend
their lives in your service so extremely ridiculous? That may be just
the fashion of your humour; but is it fair to persist as you do? There
is, for instance, my old friend BENJAMIN CHUMP, little BEN CHUMP as
we used to call him in the irreverent days, before his face had turned
purple or his waistcoat had prevented him from catching stray glimpses
of his patent-leathered toes. Little BEN was not made for the country,
that was certain. A life of Clubs and dinner-parties would have suited
him to perfection. In his Club he could always pose before a select
and, it must be added, a dwindling circle as a man of influence.
"There is no Club, however watched and tended, but one dread bore
is there." BEN might have developed into a prime bore, but as he was
plentifully supplied with money and had a good cook and a pleasant
wife, he would always have managed to gather round him plenty of
guests who would have forgiven him his elaborate platitudes, for the
sake of his admirable made-dishes. Suddenly, however, he resolved to
become a country gentleman. As there is no law to prevent a CHUMP
from turning into a squire, BEN had not to wait very long before he
was able to put his fatal resolve into execution. He purchased an
Elizabethan mansion, and descended with all his airs and belongings
upon the unhappy country-side which he had decided to make the scene
of his rural education. Before that I used to see him constantly.
After that I quite lost sight of him. Occasionally I read paragraphs
in weekly papers about immense festivities due to the enterprise of
the CHUMPS, and from time to time I received local papers containing
long accounts of hunt breakfasts, athletic sports, the roasting of
whole oxen, and other such stirring country incidents in which it