Vanity Fair - Page 59/573

A carriage and four splendid horses, covered with armorial bearings,

however, awaited us at Mudbury, four miles from Queen's Crawley, and we

made our entrance to the baronet's park in state. There is a fine

avenue of a mile long leading to the house, and the woman at the

lodge-gate (over the pillars of which are a serpent and a dove, the

supporters of the Crawley arms), made us a number of curtsies as she

flung open the old iron carved doors, which are something like those at

odious Chiswick.

"There's an avenue," said Sir Pitt, "a mile long. There's six thousand

pound of timber in them there trees. Do you call that nothing?" He

pronounced avenue--EVENUE, and nothing--NOTHINK, so droll; and he had a

Mr. Hodson, his hind from Mudbury, into the carriage with him, and they

talked about distraining, and selling up, and draining and subsoiling,

and a great deal about tenants and farming--much more than I could

understand. Sam Miles had been caught poaching, and Peter Bailey had

gone to the workhouse at last. "Serve him right," said Sir Pitt; "him

and his family has been cheating me on that farm these hundred and

fifty years." Some old tenant, I suppose, who could not pay his rent.

Sir Pitt might have said "he and his family," to be sure; but rich

baronets do not need to be careful about grammar, as poor governesses

must be.

As we passed, I remarked a beautiful church-spire rising above some old

elms in the park; and before them, in the midst of a lawn, and some

outhouses, an old red house with tall chimneys covered with ivy, and

the windows shining in the sun. "Is that your church, sir?" I said.

"Yes, hang it," (said Sir Pitt, only he used, dear, A MUCH WICKEDER

WORD); "how's Buty, Hodson? Buty's my brother Bute, my dear--my brother

the parson. Buty and the Beast I call him, ha, ha!"

Hodson laughed too, and then looking more grave and nodding his head,

said, "I'm afraid he's better, Sir Pitt. He was out on his pony

yesterday, looking at our corn."

"Looking after his tithes, hang'un (only he used the same wicked word).

Will brandy and water never kill him? He's as tough as old

whatdyecallum--old Methusalem."

Mr. Hodson laughed again. "The young men is home from college. They've

whopped John Scroggins till he's well nigh dead."

"Whop my second keeper!" roared out Sir Pitt.

"He was on the parson's ground, sir," replied Mr. Hodson; and Sir Pitt

in a fury swore that if he ever caught 'em poaching on his ground, he'd

transport 'em, by the lord he would. However, he said, "I've sold the

presentation of the living, Hodson; none of that breed shall get it, I

war'nt"; and Mr. Hodson said he was quite right: and I have no doubt

from this that the two brothers are at variance--as brothers often are,

and sisters too. Don't you remember the two Miss Scratchleys at

Chiswick, how they used always to fight and quarrel--and Mary Box, how

she was always thumping Louisa?