ROGERS

This Man Rogers happened upon me and introduced himself at the town of

——-, in the South of England, where I stayed awhile. His stepfather

had married a distant relative of mine who was afterward hanged; and so

he seemed to think a blood relationship existed between us. He came

in every day and sat down and talked. Of all the bland, serene human

curiosities I ever saw, I think he was the chiefest. He desired to look

at my new chimney-pot hat. I was very willing, for I thought he would

notice the name of the great Oxford Street hatter in it, and respect

me accordingly. But he turned it about with a sort of grave compassion,

pointed out two or three blemishes, and said that I, being so recently

arrived, could not be expected to know where to supply myself. Said he

would send me the address of his hatter. Then he said, “Pardon me,” and

proceeded to cut a neat circle of red tissue paper; daintily notched the

edges of it; took the mucilage and pasted it in my hat so as to cover

the manufacturer's name. He said, “No one will know now where you got

it. I will send you a hat-tip of my hatter, and you can paste it over

this tissue circle.” It was the calmest, coolest thing—I never admired

a man so much in my life. Mind, he did this while his own hat sat

offensively near our noses, on the table—an ancient extinguisher of

the “slouch” pattern, limp and shapeless with age, discolored by

vicissitudes of the weather, and banded by an equator of bear's grease

that had stewed through.

Another time he examined my coat. I had no terrors, for over my tailor's

door was the legend, “By Special Appointment Tailor to H. R. H. the

Prince of Wales,” etc. I did not know at the time that the most of

the tailor shops had the same sign out, and that whereas it takes nine

tailors to make an ordinary man, it takes a hundred and fifty to make a

prince. He was full of compassion for my coat. Wrote down the address

of his tailor for me. Did not tell me to mention my nom de plume and the

tailor would put his best work on my garment, as complimentary people

sometimes do, but said his tailor would hardly trouble himself for an

unknown person (unknown person, when I thought I was so celebrated in

England!—that was the cruelest cut), but cautioned me to mention his

name, and it would be all right. Thinking to be facetious, I said:—

“But he might sit up all night and injure his health.”

“Well, let him,” said Rogers; “I've done enough for him, for him to show

some appreciation of it.”

I might as well have tried to disconcert a mummy with my facetiousness.

Said Rogers: “I get all my coats there—they're the only coats fit to be

seen in.”

I made one more attempt. I said, “I wish you had brought one with you—I

would like to look at it.”

“Bless your heart, haven't I got one on?—this article is Morgan's

make.”

I examined it. The coat had been bought ready-made, of a Chatham Street

Jew, without any question—about 1848. It probably cost four dollars

when it was new. It was ripped, it was frayed, it was napless and

greasy. I could not resist showing him where it was ripped. It so

affected him that I was almost sorry I had done it. First he seemed

plunged into a bottomless abyss of grief. Then he roused himself, made

a feint with his hands as if waving off the pity of a nation, and

said—with what seemed to me a manufactured emotion—“No matter; no

matter; don't mind me; do not bother about it. I can get another.”

When he was thoroughly restored, so that he could examine the rip and

command his feelings, he said, ah, now he understood it—his servant

must have done it while dressing him that morning.

His servant! There was something awe-inspiring in effrontery like this.

Nearly every day he interested himself in some article of my clothing.

One would hardly have expected this sort of infatuation in a man who

always wore the same suit, and it a suit that seemed coeval with the

Conquest.

It was an unworthy ambition, perhaps, but I did wish I could make this

man admire something about me or something I did—you would have felt

the same way. I saw my opportunity: I was about to return to London,

and had “listed” my soiled linen for the wash. It made quite an imposing

mountain in the corner of the room—fifty-four pieces. I hoped he would

fancy it was the accumulation of a single week. I took up the wash-list,

as if to see that it was all right, and then tossed it on the table,

with pretended forgetfulness. Sure enough, he took it up and ran his

eye along down to the grand total. Then he said, “You get off easy,” and

laid it down again.

His gloves were the saddest ruin, but he told me where I could get some

like them. His shoes would hardly hold walnuts without leaking, but he

liked to put his feet up on the mantelpiece and contemplate them.

He wore a dim glass breastpin, which he called a “morphylitic

diamond”—whatever that may mean—and said only two of them had ever

been found—the Emperor of China had the other one.

Afterward, in London, it was a pleasure to me to see this fantastic

vagabond come marching into the lobby of the hotel in his grand-ducal

way, for he always had some new imaginary grandeur to develop—there

was nothing stale about him but his clothes. If he addressed me when

strangers were about, he always raised his voice a little and called me

“Sir Richard,” or “General,” or “Your Lordship”—and when people began

to stare and look deferential, he would fall to inquiring in a casual

way why I disappointed the Duke of Argyll the night before; and then

remind me of our engagement at the Duke of Westminster's for the

following day. I think that for the time being these things were

realities to him. He once came and invited me to go with him and spend

the evening with the Earl of Warwick at his town house. I said I had

received no formal invitation. He said that that was of no consequence,

the Earl had no formalities for him or his friends. I asked if I could

go just as I was. He said no, that would hardly do; evening dress was

requisite at night in any gentleman's house. He said he would wait while

I dressed, and then we would go to his apartments and I could take a

bottle of champagne and a cigar while he dressed. I was very willing to

see how this enterprise would turn out, so I dressed, and we started to

his lodgings. He said if I didn't mind we would walk. So we tramped some

four miles through the mud and fog, and finally found his “apartments”;

they consisted of a single room over a barber's shop in a back street.

Two chairs, a small table, an ancient valise, a wash-basin and pitcher

(both on the floor in a corner), an unmade bed, a fragment of a

looking-glass, and a flower-pot, with a perishing little rose geranium

in it, which he called a century plant, and said it had not bloomed now

for upward of two centuries—given to him by the late Lord

Palmerston—(been offered a prodigious sum for it)—these were

the contents of the room. Also a brass candlestick and a part of a

candle. Rogers lit the candle, and told me to sit down and make myself

at home. He said he hoped I was thirsty, because he would surprise my

palate with an article of champagne that seldom got into a commoner's

system; or would I prefer sherry, or port? Said he had port in bottles

that were swathed in stratified cobwebs, every stratum representing a

generation. And as for his cigars—well, I should judge of them

myself. Then he put his head out at the door and called:

“Sackville!” No answer.

“Hi-Sackville!” No answer.

“Now what the devil can have become of that butler? I never allow a

servant to—Oh, confound that idiot, he's got the keys. Can't get into

the other rooms without the keys.”

(I was just wondering at his intrepidity in still keeping up the

delusion of the champagne, and trying to imagine how he was going to get

out of the difficulty.)

Now he stopped calling Sackville and began to call “Anglesy.” But

Anglesy didn't come. He said, “This is the second time that that equerry

has been absent without leave. To-morrow I'll discharge him.” Now

he began to whoop for “Thomas,” but Thomas didn't answer. Then for

“Theodore,” but no Theodore replied.

“Well, I give it up,” said Rogers. “The servants never expect me at

this hour, and so they're all off on a lark. Might get along without

the equerry and the page, but can't have any wine or cigars without the

butler, and can't dress without my valet.”

I offered to help him dress, but he would not hear of it; and besides,

he said he would not feel comfortable unless dressed by a practised

hand. However, he finally concluded that he was such old friends with

the Earl that it would not make any difference how he was dressed. So we

took a cab, he gave the driver some directions, and we started. By and

by we stopped before a large house and got out. I never had seen this

man with a collar on. He now stepped under a lamp and got a venerable

paper collar out of his coat pocket, along with a hoary cravat, and put

them on. He ascended the stoop, and entered. Presently he reappeared,

descended rapidly, and said:

“Come—quick!”

We hurried away, and turned the corner.

“Now we're safe,” he said, and took off his collar and cravat and

returned them to his pocket.

“Made a mighty narrow escape,” said he.

“How?” said I.

“B' George, the Countess was there!”

“Well, what of that?—don't she know you?”

“Know me? Absolutely worships me. I just did happen to catch a glimpse

of her before she saw me—and out I shot. Haven't seen her for two

months—to rush in on her without any warning might have been fatal. She

could not have stood it. I didn't know she was in town—thought she

was at the castle. Let me lean on you—just a moment—there; now I

am better—thank you; thank you ever so much. Lord bless me, what an

escape!”

So I never got to call on the Earl, after all. But I marked the house

for future reference. It proved to be an ordinary family hotel, with

about a thousand plebeians roosting in it.

In most things Rogers was by no means a fool. In some things it was

plain enough that he was a fool, but he certainly did not know it. He

was in the “deadest” earnest in these matters. He died at sea, last

summer, as the “Earl of Ramsgate.”