One Of Them. Lever Charles James

of “petty officers”? The great minister who rises in his place in Parliament, the exponent of some grand policy, the author of some extensive measure, is, after all, little more than the mouthpiece of some “Mr. Ogden” in Downing Street; some not very brilliant or very statesmanlike personage, but a man of business habits, every-day intelligence, and long official traditions, – one of those three or four men in all England who can say to a minister, “It can’t be done,” and yet give no reason why.

      The men of this Ogden stamp are, in reality, great influences in a country like ours, where frequent changes of government require that the traditions of office should be transmitted through something higher and more responsible than mere clerks. They are the stokers who keep the fires alight and the steam up till a new captain comes aboard, and, though neither commanders nor pilots, they do manage to influence the course of the ship, by the mere fact that they can diminish the force of her speed or increase its power without any one being very well aware of how or wherefore.

      Such men as these are great people in that dingy old house, whose frail props without are more than emblems of what goes on within. Of their very offices men speak as of the Holy of Holies; places where none enter fearlessly save secretaries of state, and at whose door inferior mortals wipe their feet with heart-sinking fear and lowness of spirit, rehearsing not unfrequently the abject words of submissiveness with which they are to approach such greatness.

      It is curious, therefore, to see one of these men in private life. One wishes to know how M. Houdin will look without his conjuring-rod, or what Coriolanus will do in plain clothes; for, after all, he must come into the world unattended with his belongings, and can no more carry Downing Street about with him than could Albert Smith carry “China” to a dinner-party.

      And now the soup has been brought back, and the fish, somewhat cold and mangled, to be sure, has been served to Dr. Layton; the servant has helped him to an admirable glass of sherry, and the dinner proceeds pleasantly enough, – not, however, without its casualties. But of these the next chapter will tell us.

      CHAPTER IX. A DINNER AT THE RECTORY

      These are men who have specialities for giving admirable “little dinners,” and little dinners are unquestionably the ne plus ultra of social enjoyment. To accomplish these there are far more requirements necessary than the world usually wots of. They are not the triumphs of great houses, with regiments of yellow plush and gold candelabra; they affect no vast dining-rooms, nor a private band. They are, on the contrary, the prerogatives of moderate incomes, middle-aged or elderly hosts, usually bachelors, with small houses, furnished in the perfection of comfort, without any display, but where everything, from the careful disposal of a fire-screen to the noiseless gait of the footman, shows you that a certain supervision and discipline prevail, even though you never hear an order and rarely see a servant.

      Where these people get their cooks, I never could make out! It is easy enough to understand that fish and soup, your sirloin and your woodcock, could be well and carefully dressed, but who devised that exquisite little entrée, what genius presided over that dish of macaroni, that omelette, or that soufflé? Whence, besides, came the infinite taste of the whole meal, with its few dishes, served in an order of artistic elegance? And that butler, too, – how quiet, how observant, how noiseless his ministration; how steady his decanter hand! Where did they find him? And that pale sherry, and that Chablis, and that exquisite cup of Mocha? Don’t tell me that you or I can have them all as good, – that you know his wine-merchant, and have the receipt for his coffee. You might as well tell me you could sing like Mario because you employ his hairdresser. No, no; they who accomplish these things are peculiar organizations. They have great gifts of order and system, the nicest perceptions of taste, considerable refinement, and no small share of sensuality. They possess a number of high qualities in miniature, and are, so to say, “great men seen through the wrong end of a telescope.”

      Of this the Rev. Dr. Millar was a pleasing specimen. With that consciousness of having done everything possible for your comfort which makes a good host, he had a racy gratification in quietly watching your enjoyment. Easily and unobtrusively marking your taste for this or preference for that, he would contrive that your liking should be gratified, as though by mere accident, and never let you know yourself a debtor for the attentions bestowed upon you. It was his pride to have a perfect establishment: would that all vanity were as harmless and as pleasurable to others! And now to the dinner, which, in our digression, we are forgetting.

      “Try these cutlets, doctor,” interposed the host. “It is a receipt I brought back with me from Provence; I think you ‘ll find them good.”

      “An over-rich, greasy sort of cuisine is the Provençale,” remarked Ogden.

      “And yet almost every good cook of France comes from that country,” said Layton.

      Ogden raised his large double eye-glass to look at the man who thus dared to “cap” a remark of his.

      “I wish we could get out of the bastard French cookery all the clubs give us nowadays,” said the Colonel. “You neither see a good English joint nor a well-dressed entrée.”

      “An emblem of the alliance,” said Layton, “where each nation spoils something of its own in the effort to be more palatable to its neighbor.”

      “Apparently, then, Sir, the great statesmen who promoted this policy are not fortunate enough to enjoy your sanction?” said Ogden, with an insolent air.

      “My sanction is scarcely the word for it. They have not, certainly, my approval.”

      “I hope you like French wines, though, doctor,” said the host, eager to draw the conversation into some easier channel. “Taste that Sauterne.”

      “It only wants age to be perfect,” said the doctor, sipping. “All these French white wines require more time than the red.”

      Ogden again looked through his glass at the dispensary doctor who thus dared to give judgment on a question of such connoisseurship; and then, with the air of one not easily imposed on, said, —

      “You have travelled much abroad, perhaps?”

      Layton bowed a silent assent.

      “I think I saw a German diploma amongst the papers you forwarded to our committee?” said Karstairs.

      “Yes, I am a doctor of medicine of Gottingen.”

      “A university, I verily believe, only known to Englishmen through Canning’s doggerel,” said Ogden.

      “I trust not, sir. I hope that Blumenbach’s name alone would rescue it from such oblivion.”

      “I like the Germans, I confess,” broke in the Colonel. “I served with Arentschild’s Hanoverians, and never knew better or pleasanter fellows.”

      “Oh, I by no means undervalue Germans!” said Ogden. “I think we, at this very moment, owe to them no small gratitude for suggesting to us the inestimable practice of examination for all public employment.”

      “In my mind, the greatest humbug of an age of humbug!” said Layton, fiercely.

      “Nay, doctor, you will, I ‘m certain, recall your words when I tell you that my friend here, Mr. Ogden, is one of the most distinguished promoters of that system.”

      “The gentleman would confer a far deeper obligation upon me by sustaining than by withdrawing his thesis,” said Ogden, with a sarcastic smile.

      “To undertake the task of sustaining the cause of ignorance against knowledge,” said Layton, quietly, “would be an ungrateful one always. In the present case, too, it would be like pitting myself against that gentleman opposite. I decline such an office.”

      “So, then, you confess that such would be your cause, sir?” said Ogden, triumphantly.

      “No, sir; but it would partake so much the appearance of such a struggle, that I cannot accept it. What I called a humbug was the attempt to test men’s fitness for the public service by an examination at which the most incapable might distinguish himself, and the ablest not pass. The system of examination begot the system of ‘grinding,’ – a vulgar term for