Читать книгу Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II - Egan Pierce - Страница 28

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What is Bon Ton? Oh d—— me (cries a Buck,

Half drunk, ) ask me, my dear, and you're in luck:

Bon Ton's to swear, break windows, beat the Watch,

Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a catch.

Keep it up, keep it up! d—— me, take your swing—

Bon Ton is Life, my boy! Bon Ton's the thing!

“Ah, I loves Life and all the joys it yields—

(Says Madam Fussock. warm from Spitalfields; )

Bon Ton's the space 'twixt Saturday and Monday,

And riding out in one-horse shay o' Sunday;

?Tis drinking tea on summer afternoons

At Bagnigge Wells, with china and gilt spoons;

?Tis laying by our stuffs, red cloaks and pattens,

To dance cowtillions all in silks and satins.”

“Vulgar! (cries Miss) observe in higher Life

The feather'd spinster and three feather'd wife;

The Club's Bon Ton—Bon Ton's a constant trade

Of rout, festino, ball and masquerade;

?Tis plays and puppet shows—'tis something new—

?Tis losing thousands every night at loo;

Nature it thwarts, and contradicts all reason;

?Tis stiff French stays, and fruit when out of season,

A rose, when half a guinea is the price;

A set of bays scarce bigger than six mice;

To visit friends you never wish to see—

Marriage 'twixt those who never can agree;

Old dowagers, dress'd, painted, patch'd and curl'd—

This is Bon Ton, and this we call the World!

AS they passed through the gate, Tom observed it was rather too early to expect much company. “Never mind,” said Sparkle, “we are company enough among ourselves; the morning is fine, the curricle not arrived, and we shall find plenty of conversation, if we do not discover interesting character, to diversify our promenade. Travelling spoils conversation, unless you are squeezed like an Egyptian mummy into a stage or a mail-coach; and perhaps in that case you may meet with animals who have voices, without possessing the power of intellect to direct them to any useful or agreeable purpose.”

Tallyho, who was at all times delighted with Sparkle's descriptions of society and manners, appeared pleased with the proposition.

“Your absence from town,” continued Sparkle, addressing himself to Dashall, “has prevented my introduction of Mr. Mortimer before, though you have heard me mention his Sister. They are now inhabitants of our own sphere of action, and I trust we shall all become better known to each other.”

This piece of information appeared to be truly acceptable to all parties. Young Mortimer was a good-looking and well made young man; his features were animated and intelligent; his manners polished, though not quite so unrestrained as those which are to be acquired by an acquaintance with metropolitan associations.

“I am happy,” said he, “to be introduced to any friends of your's, and shall be proud to number them among mine.”

“You may,” replied Sparkle, “with great safety place them on your list; though you know I have already made it appear to you that friendship is a term more generally made use of than understood in London—

“For what is Friendship but a name,

A charm which lulls to sleep,

A shade that follows wealth and fame,

And leaves the wretch to weep?

And Love is still an emptier sound,

The modern fair one's jest;

On earth unseen, or only found

To warm the turtle's nest.”

“These sentiments are excellently expressed,” said Tom, pinching him by the arm—“and I suppose in perfect consonance with your own?”

Sparkle felt 'the rebuke, look'd down, and seem'd confused; but in a moment recovering himself,

“Not exactly so,” replied he; “but then you know, and I don't mind confessing it among friends, though you are aware it is very unfashionable to acknowledge the existence of any thing of the kind, I am a pupil of nature.”

“You seem to be in a serious humour all at once,” said young Mortimer.

"Can't help it,” continued Sparkle—“for,

“Let them all say what they will,

Nature will be nature still.”

“And that usurper, or I should rather say, would be usurper, Fashion, is in no way in alliance with our natures. I remember the old Duchess of Marlborough used to say 'That to love some persons very much, and to see often those we love, is the greatest happiness I can enjoy;' but it appears almost impossible for any person in London to secure such an enjoyment, and I can't help feeling it.”

By the look and manner with which this last sentiment was uttered, Tom plainly discovered there was a something labouring at his heart which prompted it. “Moralizing!” said he. “Ah, Charley, you are a happy fellow. I never yet knew one who could so rapidly change 'from grave to gay, from lively to severe; and for the benefit of our friends, I can't help thinking you could further elucidate the very subject you have so feelingly introduced.”

“You are a quiz” said Sparkle; “but there is one thing to be said, I know you, and have no great objection to your hits now and then, provided they are not knock down blows.”

“But,” said Mortimer, “what has this to do with friendship and love? I thought you were going to give something like a London definition of the terms.”

“Why,” said Sparkle, “in London it is equally difficult to get to love any body very much, or often to meet those that we love. There are such numbers of acquaintances, such a constant succession of engagements of one sort or other, such a round of delights, that the town resembles Vauxhall, where the nearest and dearest friends may walk round and round all night without once meeting: for instance, at dinner you should see a person whose manners and conversation are agreeable and pleasing to you; you may wish in vain to become more intimate, for the chance is, that you will not meet so as to converse a second time for many months; for no one can tell when the dice-box of society may turn up the same numbers again. I do not mean to infer that you may not barely see the same features again; it is possible that you may catch a glimpse of them on the opposite side of Pall Mall or Bond-street, or see them near to you at a crowded rout, without a possibility of approaching.

“It is from this cause, that those who live in London are so totally indifferent to each other; the waves follow so quick, that every vacancy is immediately filled up, and the want is not perceived. The well-bred civility of modern times, and the example of some 'very popular people,' it is true, have introduced a shaking of hands, a pretended warmth, a dissembled cordiality, into the manners of the cold and warm, alike the dear friend and the acquaintance of yesterday. Consequently we continually hear such conversation as the following:—' Ah, how d'ye do? I'm delighted to see you! How is Mrs. M——?'

?She's very well, thank you.' 'Has she any increase in family?' 'Any increase! why I've only been married three months. I see you are talking of my former wife: bless you, she has been dead these three years.'—Or, ?Ah, my dear friend, how d'ye do? You have been out of town some time; where have you been? In Norfolk?' 'No, I have been two years in India.'”

This description of a friendly salutation appeared to interest and amuse both Talltho and Mortimer. Tom laughed, shrugg'd up his shoulders, acknowledged the picture was too true, and Sparkle continued.

“And thus it is, that, ignorant of one another's interests and occupations, the generality of friendships of London contain nothing more tender than a visiting card: nor are they much better, indeed they are much worse, if you renounce the world, and determine to live only with your relations and nearest connexions; for if you go to see them at one o'clock, they are not stirring; at two, the room is full of different acquaintances, who talk over the occurrences of the last night's ball, and, of course, are paid more attention to than yourself; at three, they are out shopping; at four, they are in this place dashing among the Pinks, from which they do not return till seven, then they are dressing; at eight, they are dining with two dozen friends; at nine and ten the same; at eleven, they are dressing for the ball; and at twelve, when you are retiring to rest, they are gone into society for the evening: so that you are left in solitude; you soon begin again to try the world—and we will endeavour to discover what it produces.

“The first inconvenience of a London Life is the late hour of a fashionable dinner. To pass the day in fasting, and then sit down to a great dinner at eight o'clock, is entirely against the first dictates of common sense and common stomachs. But what is to be done? he who rails against the fashion of the times will be considered a most unfashionable dog, and perhaps I have already said more than sufficient to entitle me to that appellation.”

“Don't turn King's Evidence against yourself,” said Tom; “for, if you plead guilty in this happy country, you must be tried by your Peers.”

“Nay,” said Mortimer, “while fashion and reason appear to be in such direct opposition to each other, I must confess their merits deserve to be impartially tried; though I cannot, for one moment, doubt but the latter must ultimately prevail with the generality, however her dictates may be disregarded by the votaries of the former.”

“You are a good one at a ramble” said Tom, “and not a bad one in a spree, but I cannot help thinking you are rambling out of your road; you seem to have lost the thread of your subject, and, having been disappointed with love and friendship, you are just going to sit down to dinner.”

“Pardon me,” replied Sparkle, “I was proceeding naturally, and not fashionably, to my subject; but I know you are so great an admirer of the latter, that you care but little about the former.”

“Hit for hit,” said Tom; “but go on—you are certainly growing old, Sparkle; at all events, you appear very grave this morning, and if you continue in this humour long, I shall expect you are about taking Orders.”

“There is a time for all things, but the time for that has not yet arrived.”

“Well, then, proceed without sermonizing.”

“I don't like to be interrupted,” replied Sparkle; “and there is yet much to be said on the subject. I find there are many difficulties to encounter in contending with the fashionable customs. Some learned persons have endeavoured to support the practice of late dinners by precedent, and quoted the Roman supper; but it ought to be recollected that those suppers were at three o'clock in the afternoon, and should be a subject of contempt, instead of imitation, in Grosvenor Square. Women, however, are not quite so irrational as men, in London, for they generally sit down to a substantial lunch about three or four; if men would do the same, the meal at eight might be relieved of many of its weighty dishes, and conversation would be a gainer by it; for it must be allowed on all hands, that conversation suffers great interruption from the manner in which fashionable dinners are managed. First, the host and hostess (or her unfortunate coadjutor) are employed during three parts of the dinner in doing the work of servants, helping fish, or carving venison to twenty hungry guests, to the total loss of the host's powers of amusement, and the entire disfigurement of the fair hostess's face. Again, much time is lost by the attention every one is obliged to pay, in order to find out (which, by the way, he cannot do if he is short-sighted) what dishes are at the extreme end of the table; and if a guest is desirous of a glass of wine, he must peep through the Apollos and Cupids of the plateau, in order to find some one to take it with; otherwise he is compelled to wait till some one asks him, which will probably happen in succession; so that after having had no wine for half an hour, he will have to swallow five glasses in five minutes. Convenience teaches, that the best manner of enjoying society at dinner, is to leave every thing to the servants that servants can do; so that no farther trouble may be experienced than to accept the dishes that are presented, and to drink at your own time the wines which are handed round. A fashionable dinner, on the contrary, seems to presume beforehand on the silence, dulness, and insipidity of the guests, and to have provided little interruptions, like the jerks which the Chaplain gives to the Archbishop to prevent his going to sleep during a sermon.”

“Accurate descriptions, as usual,” said Tom, “and highly amusing.”

Tallyho and Mortimer were intent upon hearing the remainder of Sparkle's account, though they occasionally joined in the laugh, and observed that Sparkle seemed to be in a very sentimental mood. As they continued to walk on, he resumed—

“Well then, some time after dinner comes the hour for the ball, or rout; but this is sooner said than done: it often requires as much time to go from St. James's Square to Cleveland Row, as to go from London to Hounslow.

It would require volumes to describe the disappointment which occurs on arriving in the brilliant mob of a ball-room. Sometimes, as it has been before said, a friend is seen squeezed like yourself, at the other end of the room, without a possibility of your communicating, except by signs; and as the whole arrangement of the society is regulated by mechanical pressure, you may happen to be pushed against those to whom you do not wish to speak, whether bores, slight acquaintances, or determined enemies. Confined by the crowd, stifled by the heat, dazzled by the light, all powers of intellect are obscured; wit loses its point, and sagacity its observation; indeed, the limbs are so crushed, and the tongue so parched, that, except particularly undressed ladies, all are in the case of the traveller, Mr. Clarke, when he says, that in the plains of Syria some might blame him for not making moral reflections on the state of the country; but that he must own that the heat quite deprived him of all power of thought. Hence it is, that the conversation you hear around you is generally nothing more than—“Have you been here long?—Have you been at Mrs. H——'s?—Are you going to Lady D——'s?”—Hence too,

Madam de Staël said very justly to an Englishman, “Dans vos routes le corps fait plus de frai que l'esprit.” But even if there are persons of a constitution robust enough to talk, they dare not do so, when twenty heads are forced into the compass of one square foot; nay, even if, to your great delight, you see a person to whom you have much to say, and by fair means or foul, elbows and toes, knees and shoulders, have got near him, he often dismisses you with shaking you by the hand, and saying—My dear Mr.——how do you do? and then continues a conversation with a person whose ear is three inches nearer. At one o'clock, however, the crowd diminishes; and if you are not tired by the five or six hours of playing at company, which you have already had, you may be very comfortable for the rest of the evening. This however is the round of fashionable company. But I begin to be tired even of the description.”

“A very luminous and comprehensive view of fashionable society however,” said Tom, “sketched by a natural hand in glowing colours, though not exactly in the usual style. I shall not venture to assert whether the subjects are well chosen, but the figures are well grouped, and display considerable ability and lively imagination in the painter, though a little confused.”

“It appears to be a study from nature,” said Mortimer.

“At least,” continued Sparkle, “it is a study from Real Life, and delineates the London manners; for although I have been a mingler in the gaieties and varieties of a London Life, I have always held the same opinions with respect to the propriety of the manners and customs adopted, and have endeavoured to read as I ran; and it cannot be denied, that, in the eye of fashion, nothing can be more amiable than to deviate, or at least to affect a deviation, from nature, for to speak or act according to her dictates, would be considered vulgar and common-place in the last degree; to hear a story and not express an emotion you do not feel, perfectly rude and unmannerly, and among the ladies particularly. To move and think as the heart feels inclined, are offences against politeness that no person can ever in honour or delicacy forgive.”

“Come, come,” said Tom, “don't you be so hard on the blessings of Life—

“For who, that knows the thrilling touch

Which Woman's love can give,

Would wish to live for aught so much,

As bid those beauties live?

For what is life, which all so prize,

And all who live approve,

Without the fire of Woman's eyes,

To bid man live and love?”

Sparkle affected to laugh, appeared confused, and look'd down for a few moments, and they walk'd on in silence.

“I perceive,” said Tom, “how the matter stands—well, I shall not be a tormentor—but remember I expect an introduction to the fair enslaver. I thought you 'defy'd the mighty conqueror of hearts,' and resolved to be free.”

“Resolutions, as well as promises, are easily made,” said Sparkle, “but not always so easily accomplished or performed—nor are you always accurate in your conceptions of circumstances; but no matter, your voyages are always made in search of discoveries, and, in spite of your resolutions, you may perchance be entrapp'd. But no more of this; I perceive your raillery is directed to me, and I hope you enjoy it.”

“Faith,” replied Tom, “you know I always enjoy your company, but I don't recollect to have found you in so prosing a humour before—Pray, which way are you directing your coursel?”

During the latter part of this conversation, Bob and young Mortimer were employed in admiring the fine piece of water which presented itself to their notice in the Serpentine River.

“Merely for a ride,” was the reply; “any way you please, to pass away the time.”

“Mighty cavalier, truly,” said Tom; “but come, here we are at Kensington, let us mount, and away.”

“Remember, I expect you and Mr. Tallyho to accompany me in the evening to a family-party. I have already stated my intention, and you are both expected.”

“Upon these terms then, I am your man, and I think I may answer for my Cousin.”

By this time they were at the gate, where, finding the curricle and the nags all in readiness, Sparkle and Mortimer were soon horsed, and Tom and Bob seated in the curricle. They proceeded to Richmond, taking surveys of the scenery on the road, and discoursing on the usual topics of such a journey, which being foreign to the professed intention of this work, are omitted. Suffice it to say they returned refreshed from the excursion, and parted with a promise to meet again at nine o'clock, in Grosvenor Square.

“Egad!” said Dashall, as they entered the diningroom, “there is something very mysterious in all this. Sparkle has hitherto been the life and soul of society: he seems to be deeply smitten with this young Lady, Miss Mortimer, and promises fairly, by his manner, to prove a deserter from our standard, and to inlist under the banners of Hymen.”

“Not unlikely,” replied Tallyho, “if what we are told be true—that it is what we must all come to.”

“Be that as it may, it ought not to interfere with our pursuits, Real Life in London, though, to be sure, the Ladies, dear creatures, ought not to be forgotten: they are so nearly and dearly interwoven with our existence, that, without them, Life would be insupportable.”

After dinner, they prepared for the evening party, and made their appearance in Grosvenor Squire at the appointed hour. But as this will introduce new characters to the Reader, we shall defer our account of them till the next Chapter.