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TOM HOPKINS.


At the time of which I speak, Tom Hopkins was of an age somewhat
equivocal; public fame called him fifty, whilst he himself stuck
obstinately at thirty-five; of a stout active figure, rather manly than
gentlemanly, and a bold, jovial visage, in excellent keeping with his
person, distinguished by round, bright, stupid black eyes, an aquiline
nose, a knowing smile, and a general comely vulgarity of aspect. His
voice was hoarse and deep, his manner bluff and blunt, and his
conversation loud and boisterous. With all these natural impediments to
good company, the lowness of his origin, recent in their memories, and
the flagrant fact of his residence in a country town, staring them in
the face, Mr. Tom Hopkins made his way into almost every family of
consideration in the neighbourhood. Sportsmanship, sheer sportsmanship,
the qualification that, more than any other, commands the respect of
your great English landholder, surmounted every obstacle.

With the ladies, he made his way by different qualities; in the first
place he was a character, an oddity, and the audacity of his vulgarity
was tolerated, where a man only half as boisterous would have been
scouted; then he was gallant in his way, affected, perhaps felt, a great
devotion to the sex, and they were half amused, half pleased, with the
rough flattery which seemed, and probably was, so sincere.

His house was an ugly brick dwelling of his own erection, situate in the
principal street of Cranley, and adorned with a green door and a brass