Chapter VII: Crawley of Queen's Crawley

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　Among the most respected of the names beginning in Cwhich the Court-Guide contained, in the year 18--, wasthat of Crawley, Sir Pitt, Baronet, Great Gaunt Street,and Queen's Crawley, Hants. This honourable name hadfigured constantly also in the Parliamentary list for manyyears, in conjunction with that of a number of otherworthy gentlemen who sat in turns for the borough.

　　It is related, with regard to the borough of Queen'sCrawley, that Queen Elizabeth in one of her progresses,stopping at Crawley to breakfast, was so delighted withsome remarkably fine Hampshire beer which was thenpresented to her by the Crawley of the day (a handsomegentleman with a trim beard and a good leg), that sheforthwith erected Crawley into a borough to send twomembers to Parliament; and the place, from the day ofthat illustrious visit, took the name of Queen's Crawley,which it holds up to the present moment. And though, bythe lapse of time, and those mutations which age producesin empires, cities, and boroughs, Queen's Crawley was nolonger so populous a place as it had been in Queen Bess'stime--nay, was come down to that condition of boroughwhich used to be denominated rotten--yet, as Sir PittCrawley would say with perfect justice in his elegantway, "Rotten! be hanged--it produces me a good fifteenhundred a year."

　　Sir Pitt Crawley (named after the great Commoner)was the son of Walpole Crawley, first Baronet, of theTape and Sealing-Wax Office in the reign of George II.,when he was impeached for peculation, as were a greatnumber of other honest gentlemen of those days; andWalpole Crawley was, as need scarcely be said, son ofJohn Churchill Crawley, named after the celebratedmilitary commander of the reign of Queen Anne. The familytree (which hangs up at Queen's Crawley) furthermorementions Charles Stuart, afterwards called BarebonesCrawley, son of the Crawley of James the First's time;and finally, Queen Elizabeth's Crawley, who is representedas the foreground of the picture in his forked beard andarmour. Out of his waistcoat, as usual, grows a tree, onthe main branches of which the above illustrious namesare inscribed. Close by the name of Sir Pitt Crawley,Baronet (the subject of the present memoir), are writtenthat of his brother, the Reverend Bute Crawley (the greatCommoner was in disgrace when the reverend gentlemanwas born), rector of Crawley-cum-Snailby, and of variousother male and female members of the Crawley family.

　　Sir Pitt was first married to Grizzel, sixth daughter ofMungo Binkie, Lord Binkie, and cousin, in consequence,of Mr. Dundas. She brought him two sons: Pitt, namednot so much after his father as after the heaven-bornminister; and Rawdon Crawley, from the Prince ofWales's friend, whom his Majesty George IV forgot socompletely. Many years after her ladyship's demise, SirPitt led to the altar Rosa, daughter of Mr. G. Dawson,of Mudbury, by whom he had two daughters, for whosebenefit Miss Rebecca Sharp was now engaged asgoverness. It will be seen that the young lady was come into afamily of very genteel connexions, and was about to movein a much more distinguished circle than that humble onewhich she had just quitted in Russell Square.

　　She had received her orders to join her pupils, in anote which was written upon an old envelope, and whichcontained the following words:

　　Sir Pitt Crawley begs Miss Sharp and baggidge may behear on Tuesday, as I leaf for Queen's Crawley to-morrowmorning erly.

　　Great Gaunt Street.

　　Rebecca had never seen a Baronet, as far as she knew,and as soon as she had taken leave of Amelia, andcounted the guineas which good-natured Mr. Sedley hadput into a purse for her, and as soon as she had donewiping her eyes with her handkerchief (which operationshe concluded the very moment the carriage had turnedthe corner of the street), she began to depict in her ownmind what a Baronet must be. "I wonder, does he weara star?" thought she, "or is it only lords that wear stars?But he will be very handsomely dressed in a court suit,with ruffles, and his hair a little powdered, like Mr.Wroughton at Covent Garden. I suppose he will beawfully proud, and that I shall be treated mostcontemptuously. Still I must bear my hard lot as wellas I can--at least, I shall be amongst gentlefolks, andnot with vulgar city people": and she fell to thinking ofher Russell Square friends with that very same philosophicalbitterness with which, in a certain apologue, the fox isrepresented as speaking of the grapes.

　　Having passed through Gaunt Square into Great GauntStreet, the carriage at length stopped at a tall gloomyhouse between two other tall gloomy houses, each with ahatchment over the middle drawing-room window; as isthe custom of houses in Great Gaunt Street, in whichgloomy locality death seems to reign perpetual. Theshutters of the first-floor windows of Sir Pitt's mansionwere closed--those of the dining-room were partially open,and the blinds neatly covered up in old newspapers.

　　John, the groom, who had driven the carriage alone,did not care to descend to ring the bell; and so prayed apassing milk-boy to perform that office for him. When thebell was rung, a head appeared between the interstices ofthe dining-room shutters, and the door was opened by aman in drab breeches and gaiters, with a dirty old coat,a foul old neckcloth lashed round his bristly neck, ashining bald head, a leering red face, a pair of twinkling greyeyes, and a mouth perpetually on the grin

　　"This Sir Pitt Crawley's?" says John, from the box.

　　"Ees," says the man at the door, with a nod.

　　"Hand down these 'ere trunks then," said John.

　　"Hand 'n down yourself," said the porter.

　　"Don't you see I can't leave my hosses? Come, bear ahand, my fine feller, and Miss will give you some beer,"said John, with a horse-laugh, for he was no longerrespectful to Miss Sharp, as her connexion with the familywas broken off, and as she had given nothing to theservants on coming away.

　　The bald-headed man, taking his hands out of hisbreeches pockets, advanced on this summons, andthrowing Miss Sharp's trunk over his shoulder, carried it intothe house.

　　"Take this basket and shawl, if you please, and openthe door," said Miss Sharp, and descended from thecarriage in much indignation. "I shall write to Mr. Sedleyand inform him of your conduct," said she to the groom.

　　"Don't," replied that functionary. "I hope you've forgotnothink? Miss 'Melia's gownds--have you got them--asthe lady's maid was to have 'ad? I hope they'll fit you.Shut the door, Jim, you'll get no good out of 'er,"continued John, pointing with his thumb towards Miss Sharp:"a bad lot, I tell you, a bad lot," and so saying, Mr.Sedley's groom drove away. The truth is, he was attachedto the lady's maid in question, and indignant that sheshould have been robbed of her perquisites.

　　On entering the dining-room, by the orders of theindividual in gaiters, Rebecca found that apartment notmore cheerful than such rooms usually are, when genteelfamilies are out of town. The faithful chambers seem, asit were, to mourn the absence of their masters. The turkeycarpet has rolled itself up, and retired sulkily under thesideboard: the pictures have hidden their faces behind oldsheets of brown paper: the ceiling lamp is muffled up in adismal sack of brown holland: the window-curtains havedisappeared under all sorts of shabby envelopes: themarble bust of Sir Walpole Crawley is looking from itsblack corner at the bare boards and the oiled fire-irons,and the empty card-racks over the mantelpiece: thecellaret has lurked away behind the carpet: the chairs areturned up heads and tails along the walls: and in thedark corner opposite the statue, is an old-fashionedcrabbed knife-box, locked and sitting on a dumb waiter.

　　Two kitchen chairs, and a round table, and anattenuated old poker and tongs were, however, gatheredround the fire-place, as was a saucepan over a feeblesputtering fire. There was a bit of cheese and bread, anda tin candlestick on the table, and a little black porterin a pint-pot.

　　"Had your dinner, I suppose? It is not too warm foryou? Like a drop of beer?"

　　"Where is Sir Pitt Crawley?" said Miss Sharpmajestically.

　　"He, he! I'm Sir Pitt Crawley. Reklect you owe me apint for bringing down your luggage. He, he! AskTinker if I aynt. Mrs. Tinker, Miss Sharp; MissGoverness, Mrs. Charwoman. Ho, ho!"

　　The lady addressed as Mrs. Tinker at this momentmade her appearance with a pipe and a paper of tobacco,for which she had been despatched a minute beforeMiss Sharp's arrival; and she handed the articles over toSir Pitt, who had taken his seat by the fire.

　　"Where's the farden?" said he. "I gave you threehalfpence. Where's the change, old Tinker?"

　　"There!" replied Mrs. Tinker, flinging down the coin;it's only baronets as cares about farthings."

　　"A farthing a day is seven shillings a year," answeredthe M.P.; "seven shillings a year is the interest of sevenguineas. Take care of your farthings, old Tinker, and yourguineas will come quite nat'ral."

　　"You may be sure it's Sir Pitt Crawley, young woman,"said Mrs. Tinker, surlily; "because he looks to hisfarthings. You'll know him better afore long."

　　"And like me none the worse, Miss Sharp," said theold gentleman, with an air almost of politeness. "I mustbe just before I'm generous."

　　"He never gave away a farthing in his life," growledTinker.

　　"Never, and never will: it's against my principle. Goand get another chair from the kitchen, Tinker, if youwant to sit down; and then we'll have a bit of supper."

　　Presently the baronet plunged a fork into the saucepanon the fire, and withdrew from the pot a piece of tripeand an onion, which he divided into pretty equalportions, and of which he partook with Mrs. Tinker. "Yousee, Miss Sharp, when I'm not here Tinker's on boardwages: when I'm in town she dines with the family.Haw! haw! I'm glad Miss Sharp's not hungry, ain't you,Tink?" And they fell to upon their frugal supper.

　　After supper Sir Pitt Crawley began to smoke hispipe; and when it became quite dark, he lighted therushlight in the tin candlestick, and producing from aninterminable pocket a huge mass of papers, began readingthem, and putting them in order.

　　"I'm here on law business, my dear, and that's how ithappens that I shall have the pleasure of such a prettytravelling companion to-morrow."

　　"He's always at law business," said Mrs. Tinker,taking up the pot of porter.

　　"Drink and drink about," said the Baronet. "Yes; mydear, Tinker is quite right: I've lost and won morelawsuits than any man in England. Look here at Crawley,Bart. v. Snaffle. I'll throw him over, or my name's notPitt Crawley. Podder and another versus Crawley, Bart.Overseers of Snaily parish against Crawley, Bart. Theycan't prove it's common: I'll defy 'em; the land's mine.It no more belongs to the parish than it does to you orTinker here. I'll beat 'em, if it cost me a thousand guineas.Look over the papers; you may if you like, my dear.Do you write a good hand? I'll make you useful whenwe're at Queen's Crawley, depend on it, Miss Sharp.Now the dowager's dead I want some one."

　　"She was as bad as he," said Tinker. "She took thelaw of every one of her tradesmen; and turned awayforty-eight footmen in four year."

　　"She was close--very close," said the Baronet, simply;"but she was a valyble woman to me, and saved me asteward."--And in this confidential strain, and much tothe amusement of the new-comer, the conversationcontinued for a considerable time. Whatever Sir PittCrawley's qualities might be, good or bad, he did not makethe least disguise of them. He talked of himself incessantly,sometimes in the coarsest and vulgarest Hampshire accent; sometimesadopting the tone of a man of the world. And so,with injunctions to Miss Sharp to be ready at five in themorning, he bade her good night. "You'll sleep with Tinkerto-night," he said; "it's a big bed, and there's room for two.Lady Crawley died in it. Good night."

　　Sir Pitt went off after this benediction, and the solemnTinker, rushlight in hand, led the way up the greatbleak stone stairs, past the great dreary drawing-roomdoors, with the handles muffled up in paper, into thegreat front bedroom, where Lady Crawley had slept herlast. The bed and chamber were so funereal and gloomy,you might have fancied, not only that Lady Crawley diedin the room, but that her ghost inhabited it. Rebeccasprang about the apartment, however, with the greatestliveliness, and had peeped into the huge wardrobes, andthe closets, and the cupboards, and tried the drawerswhich were locked, and examined the dreary picturesand toilette appointments, while the old charwomanwas saying her prayers. "I shouldn't like to sleep in thisyeer bed without a good conscience, Miss," said the oldwoman. "There's room for us and a half-dozen of ghostsin it," says Rebecca. "Tell me all about Lady Crawleyand Sir Pitt Crawley, and everybody, my dear Mrs.Tinker."

　　But old Tinker was not to be pumped by this littlecross-questioner; and signifying to her that bed was aplace for sleeping, not conversation, set up in her cornerof the bed such a snore as only the nose of innocencecan produce. Rebecca lay awake for a long, long time,thinking of the morrow, and of the new world into whichshe was going, and of her chances of success there. Therushlight flickered in the basin. The mantelpiece cast upa great black shadow, over half of a mouldy old sampler,which her defunct ladyship had worked, no doubt, andover two little family pictures of young lads, one in acollege gown, and the other in a red jacket like a soldier.When she went to sleep, Rebecca chose that one todream about.

　　At four o'clock, on such a roseate summer's morningas even made Great Gaunt Street look cheerful, thefaithful Tinker, having wakened her bedfellow, and bid herprepare for departure, unbarred and unbolted the greathall door (the clanging and clapping whereof startledthe sleeping echoes in the street), and taking her wayinto Oxford Street, summoned a coach from a standthere. It is needless to particularize the number of thevehicle, or to state that the driver was stationed thusearly in the neighbourhood of Swallow Street, in hopesthat some young buck, reeling homeward from the tavern,might need the aid of his vehicle, and pay him withthe generosity of intoxication.

　　It is likewise needless to say that the driver, if he hadany such hopes as those.above stated, was grosslydisappointed; and that the worthy Baronet whom he droveto the City did not give him one single penny more thanhis fare. It was in vain that Jehu appealed and stormed;that he flung down Miss Sharp's bandboxes in the gutterat the 'Necks, and swore he would take the law of hisfare.

　　"You'd better not," said one of the ostlers; "it's SirPitt Crawley."

　　"So it is, Joe," cried the Baronet, approvingly; "andI'd like to see the man can do me."

　　"So should oi," said Joe, grinning sulkily, andmounting the Baronet's baggage on the roof of the coach.

　　"Keep the box for me, Leader," exclaims the Memberof Parliament to the coachman; who replied, "Yes,Sir Pitt," with a touch of his hat, and rage in his soul(for he had promised the box to a young gentlemanfrom Cambridge, who would have given a crown to acertainty), and Miss Sharp was accommodated with aback seat inside the carriage, which might be said to becarrying her into the wide world.

　　How the young man from Cambridge sulkily put hisfive great-coats in front; but was reconciled when littleMiss Sharp was made to quit the carriage, and mountup beside him--when he covered her up in one of hisBenjamins, and became perfectly good-humoured--howthe asthmatic gentleman, the prim lady, who declaredupon her sacred honour she had never travelled in apublic carriage before (there is always such a lady in acoach--Alas! was; for the coaches, where are they?),and the fat widow with the brandy-bottle, took theirplaces inside--how the porter asked them all for money,and got sixpence from the gentleman and five greasyhalfpence from the fat widow--and how the carriageat length drove away--now threading the dark lanes ofAldersgate, anon clattering by the Blue Cupola of St.Paul's, jingling rapidly by the strangers' entry of Fleet-Market, which, with Exeter 'Change, has now departedto the world of shadows--how they passed the WhiteBear in Piccadilly, and saw the dew rising up from themarket-gardens of Knightsbridge--how Turnhamgreen,Brentwood, Bagshot, were passed--need not be told here.But the writer of these pages, who has pursued in formerdays, and in the same bright weather, the same remarkablejourney, cannot but think of it with a sweet andtender regret. Where is the road now, and its merryincidents of life? Is there no Chelsea or Greenwich forthe old honest pimple-nosed coachmen? I wonder whereare they, those good fellows? Is old Weller alive or dead?and the waiters, yea, and the inns at which they waited,and the cold rounds of beef inside, and the stunted ostler,with his blue nose and clinking pail, where is he, andwhere is his generation? To those great geniuses now inpetticoats, who shall write novels for the beloved reader'schildren, these men and things will be as much legendand history as Nineveh, or Coeur de Lion, or JackSheppard. For them stage-coaches will have become romances--a team of four bays as fabulous as Bucephalus or BlackBess. Ah, how their coats shone, as the stable-men pulledtheir clothes off, and away they went--ah, how theirtails shook, as with smoking sides at the stage's endthey demurely walked away into the inn-yard. Alas! weshall never hear the horn sing at midnight, or see thepike-gates fly open any more. Whither, however, is thelight four-inside Trafalgar coach carrying us? Let us beset down at Queen's Crawley without further divagation,and see how Miss Rebecca Sharp speeds there.