“He beat his fist on the table and he roared out at the top of his voice: ‘Your father’s a damned fool, Maria; and your mother’s a damned fool, Maria; but, by gad, you’re a bigger damned fool than both of them put together.’”
The Canon sprang up and throwing back his head with a gesture habitual to him, drew to his full, imposing height.
“You shock and surprise me, Sophia. If these are your recollections, I advise you to forget them as quickly as you possibly can.”
Nor had he better success with his brother.
“I wonder whether you can give me no anecdotes, no interesting side-lights on our father’s character? I am determined to make my biography as complete as possible.”
“I’ll give you an anecdote by all means,” said Lord Spratte. “You remember that the old ’un very much objected to potatoes baked in their skins.”
“A very pardonable and interesting idiosyncrasy of genius,” interposed the biographer.
“Well, one Sunday night when we had people to supper, by some accident they were brought in. The servant handed the dish to father. Father looked at him and slowly rose to his feet. ‘Don’t you know, you idiot,’ he bellowed, ‘that I don’t like potatoes baked in their skins?’ He took them out of the dish, one by one, while the servant stood petrified, and threw them with all his might at the pictures on the walls. Each picture had its potato till the dish was empty. Then he sat down again calmly and began to eat his supper.”
“I shall certainly put down nothing in my biography which tends to cast ridicule or odium on the memory of a great man,” said Canon Spratte, frigidly. “My motto is: _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_.”
On this principle the _Life and Letters_ was written. To testify to filial admiration there were in St. Gregory’s Vicarage no less than three portraits of the first Earl Spratte, but the most characteristic was a copy of that which the Chancellor himself, with due regard to his fame and importance, had bequeathed to the National Portrait Gallery. It showed the great man seated, his hands grasping the arms of his chair with the savage vigour that was customary with him. They were strong, large hands, and the tendons stood out from the brutal force wherewith he held them. He looked the spectator full in the face, sitting very squarely, bent forward in the despotic attitude which all who had appeared before him knew so well. He wore the full-bottomed wig of his office and the gorgeous robes, edged with gold. His head was thrust out and he stared from under his shaggy brows with an expression of ruthless violence; his strong features were set in a villainous scowl; his hard, cruel mouth was clenched as though he were determined that nothing should affect his will. And the idea which the fine portrait gave, was borne out by the memoirs of the time.