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Page 31
Charles James was an exact and careful boy; he never committed
himself; he well knew how much was expected from the eldest son of the
Archdeacon of Barchester, and was therefore mindful not to mix too
freely with other boys. He had not the great talents of his younger
brothers, but he exceeded them in judgment and propriety of demeanour;
his fault, if he had one, was an over-attention to words instead of
things; there was a thought too much finesse about him, and, as even
his father sometimes told him, he was too fond of a compromise.
The second was the archdeacon's favourite son, and Henry was indeed a
brilliant boy. The versatility of his genius was surprising, and the
visitors at Plumstead Episcopi were often amazed at the marvellous
manner in which he would, when called on, adapt his capacity to
apparently most uncongenial pursuits. He appeared once before a large
circle as Luther the reformer, and delighted them with the perfect
manner in which he assumed the character; and within three days he
again astonished them by acting the part of a Capuchin friar to the
very life. For this last exploit his father gave him a golden guinea,
and his brothers said the reward had been promised beforehand in the
event of the performance being successful. He was also sent on a tour
into Devonshire; a treat which the lad was most anxious of enjoying.
His father's friends there, however, did not appreciate his talents,
and sad accounts were sent home of the perversity of his nature. He
was a most courageous lad, game to the backbone.
It was soon known, both at home, where he lived, and within some miles
of Barchester Cathedral, and also at Westminster, where he was at
school, that young Henry could box well and would never own himself
beat; other boys would fight while they had a leg to stand on, but he
would fight with no leg at all. Those backing him would sometimes
think him crushed by the weight of blows and faint with loss of blood,
and his friends would endeavour to withdraw him from the contest; but
no, Henry never gave in, was never weary of the battle. The ring was
the only element in which he seemed to enjoy himself; and while other
boys were happy in the number of their friends, he rejoiced most in
the multitude of his foes.
His relations could not but admire his pluck, but they sometimes were
forced to regret that he was inclined to be a bully; and those not
so partial to him as his father was, observed with pain that, though
he could fawn to the masters and the archdeacon's friends, he was
imperious and masterful to the servants and the poor.
But perhaps Samuel was the general favourite; and dear little Soapy,
as he was familiarly called, was as engaging a child as ever fond
mother petted. He was soft and gentle in his manners, and attractive
in his speech; the tone of his voice was melody, and every action was
a grace; unlike his brothers, he was courteous to all, he was affable
to the lowly, and meek even to the very scullery-maid. He was a boy
of great promise, minding his books and delighting the hearts of his
masters. His brothers, however, were not particularly fond of him;
they would complain to their mother that Soapy's civility all meant
something; they thought that his voice was too often listened to at
Plumstead Episcopi, and evidently feared that, as he grew up, he
would have more weight in the house than either of them; there was,
therefore, a sort of agreement among them to put young Soapy down.
This, however, was not so easy to be done; Samuel, though young, was
sharp; he could not assume the stiff decorum of Charles James, nor
could he fight like Henry; but he was a perfect master of his own
weapons, and contrived, in the teeth of both of them, to hold the
place which he had assumed. Henry declared that he was a false,
cunning creature; and Charles James, though he always spoke of him as
his dear brother Samuel, was not slow to say a word against him when
opportunity offered. To speak the truth, Samuel was a cunning boy,
and those even who loved him best could not but own that for one so
young, he was too adroit in choosing his words, and too skilled in
modulating his voice.
The two little girls Florinda and Grizzel were nice little girls
enough, but they did not possess the strong sterling qualities of
their brothers; their voices were not often heard at Plumstead
Episcopi; they were bashful and timid by nature, slow to speak before
company even when asked to do so; and though they looked very nice in
their clean white muslin frocks and pink sashes, they were but little
noticed by the archdeacon's visitors.
Whatever of submissive humility may have appeared in the gait and
visage of the archdeacon during his colloquy with his wife in the
sanctum of their dressing-rooms was dispelled as he entered his
breakfast-parlour with erect head and powerful step. In the presence
of a third person he assumed the lord and master; and that wise and
talented lady too well knew the man to whom her lot for life was
bound, to stretch her authority beyond the point at which it would be
borne. Strangers at Plumstead Episcopi, when they saw the imperious
brow with which he commanded silence from the large circle of
visitors, children, and servants who came together in the morning to
hear him read the word of God, and watched how meekly that wife seated
herself behind her basket of keys with a little girl on each side,
as she caught that commanding glance; strangers, I say, seeing this,
could little guess that some fifteen minutes since she had stoutly
held her ground against him, hardly allowing him to open his mouth in
his own defence. But such is the tact and talent of women!
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