The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Volume 11Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
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The Caxtons: A Family Picture — Volume 11
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century; Families -- Fiction
It was easy to see that Lord Castleton had been brought up with a careful
knowledge of his future greatness, and its serious responsibilities. He
stood immeasurably aloof from all the affectations common to the youth of
minor patricians. He had not been taught to value himself on the cut of
a coat or the shape of a hat. His world was far above St. James's Street
and the clubs. He was dressed plainly, though in a style peculiar to
himself,--a white neck-cloth (which was not at that day quite so uncommon
for morning use as it is now), trousers without straps, thin shoes, and
gaiters. In his manner there was nothing of the supercilious apathy
which characterizes the dandy introduced to some one whom he doubts if he
can nod to from the bow-window at White's,--none of such vulgar
coxcombries had Lord Castleton; and yet a young gentleman more
emphatically coxcomb it was impossible to see. He had been told, no
doubt, that as the head of a house which was almost in itself a party in
the state, he should be bland and civil to all men; and this duty being
grafted upon a nature singularly cold and unsocial, gave to his
politeness something so stiff, yet so condescending that it brought the
blood to one's cheek,--though the momentary anger was counterbalanced by
a sense of the almost ludicrous contrast between this gracious majesty of
deportment and the insignificant figure, with the boyish beardless face,
by which it was assumed. Lord Castleton did not content himself with a
mere bow at our introduction. Much to my wonder how he came by the
information he displayed, he made me a little speech after the manner of
Louis XIV. to a provincial noble, studiously modelled upon that royal
maxim of urbane policy which instructs a king that he should know
something of the birth, parentage, and family of his meanest gentleman.
It was a little speech in which my father's learning and my uncle's
services and the amiable qualities of your humble servant were neatly
interwoven, delivered in a falsetto tone, as if learned by heart, though
it must have been necessarily impromptu; and then, reseating himself, he
made a gracious motion of the head and hand, as if to authorize me to do
the same.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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