Читать книгу Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II - Egan Pierce - Страница 9

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“Round, round, and round-about, they whiz, they fly,

With eager worrying, whirling here and there,

They know, nor whence, nor whither, where, nor why.

In utter hurry-scurry, going, coming,

Maddening the summer air with ceaseless humming.”

OUR travellers now approached at a rapid rate, the desideratim of their eager hopes and wishes: to one all was novel, wonderful, and fascinating; to the other, it was the welcome return to an old and beloved friend, the separation from whom had but increased the ardour of attachment.—“We, now,” says Dashall, “are approaching Hyde-Park, and being Sunday, a scene will at once burst upon you, far surpassing in reality any thing I have been able to pourtray, notwithstanding the flattering compliments you have so often paid to my talents for description.”

They had scarcely entered the Park-gate, when Lady Jane Townley's carriage crossed them, and Tom immediately approached it, to pay his respects to an old acquaintance. Her lady-ship congratulated him on his return to town, lamented the serious loss the beau-monde had sustained by his absence, and smiling archly at his young friend, was happy to find he had not returned empty-handed, but with a recruit, whose appearance promised a valuable accession to their select circle. “You would not have seen me here,” continued her ladyship, “but I vow and protest it is utterly impossible to make a prisoner of one's self, such a day as this, merely because it is Sunday—for my own part, I wish there was no such thing as a Sunday in the whole year—there's no knowing what to do with one's self. When fine, it draws out as many insects as a hot sun and a shower of rain can produce in the middle of June. The vulgar plebeians flock so, that you can scarcely get into your barouche without being hustled by the men-milliners, linen-drapers, and shop-boys, who have been serving you all the previous part of the week; and wet, or dry, there's no bearing it. For my part, I am ennuyée, beyond measure, on that day, and find no little difficulty in getting through it without a fit of the horrors.

“What a legion of counter-coxcombs!” exclaimed she, as we passed Grosvenor-gate. “Upon the plunder of the till, or by overcharging some particular article sold on the previous day, it is easy for these once-a-week beaux to hire a tilbury, and an awkward groom in a pepper and salt, or drab coat, like the incog. of the royal family, to mix with their betters and sport their persons in the drive of fashion: some of the monsters, too, have the impudence of bowing to ladies whom they do not know, merely to give them an air, or pass off their customers for their acquaintance: its very distressing. There!” continued she, “there goes my plumassier, with gilt spurs like a field-officer, and riding as importantly as if he were one of the Lords of the Treasury; or—ah! there, again, is my banker's clerk, so stiff and so laced up, that he might pass for an Egyptian mummy—the self-importance of these puppies is insufferable! What impudence! he has picked up some groom out of place, with a cockade in his hat, by way of imposing on the world for a beau militaire. What will the world come to! I really have not common patience with these creatures. I have long since left off going to the play on a Saturday night, because, independently of my preference for the Opera, these insects from Cornhill or Whitechapel, shut up their shops, cheat their masters, and commence their airs of importance about nine o'clock. Then again you have the same party crowding the Park on a Sunday; but on the following day, return, like school boys, to their work, and you see them with their pen behind their ear, calculating how to make up for their late extravagances, pestering you with lies, and urging you to buy twice as much as you want, then officiously offering their arm at your carriage-door.”

Capt. Bergamotte at this moment came up to the carriage, perfumed like a milliner, his colour much heightened by some vegetable dye, and resolved neither to “blush unseen,” nor “waste his sweetness on the desert air.” Two false teeth in front, shamed the others a little in their ivory polish, and his breath savoured of myrrh like a heathen sacrifice, or the incense burned in one of their temples. He thrust his horse's head into the carriage, rather abruptly and indecorously, (as one not accustomed to the haut-ton might suppose) but it gave no offence. He smiled affectedly, adjusted his hat, pulled a lock of hair across his forehead, with a view of shewing the whiteness of the latter, and next, that the glossiness of the former must have owed its lustre to at least two hours brushing, arranging, and perfuming; used his quizzing-glass, and took snuff with a flourish. Lady Townley condescended to caress the horse, and to display her lovely white arm ungloved, with which she patted the horse's neck, and drew a hundred admiring eyes.

The exquisite all this time brushed the animal gently with a highly-scented silk handkerchief, after which he displayed a cambric one, and went through a thousand little playful airs and affectations, which Bob thought would have suited a fine lady better than a lieutenant in his Majesty's brigade of guards. Applying the lines of an inimitable satire, (The Age of Frivolity) to the figure before him, he concluded:

“That gaudy dress and decorations gay,

The tinsel-trappings of a vain array.

The spruce trimm'd jacket, and the waving plume,

The powder'd head emitting soft perfume;

These may make fops, but never can impart

The soldier's hardy frame, or daring heart;

May in Hyde-Park present a splendid train,

But are not weapons for a dread campaign;

May please the fair, who like a tawdry beau,

But are not fit to check an active foe;

Such heroes may acquire sufficient skill

To march erect, and labour through a drill;

In some sham-fight may manfully hold out,

But must not hope an enemy to rout.”

Although he talked a great deal, the whole amount of his discourse was to inform her Ladyship that (Stilletto) meaning his horse, (who in truth appeared to possess more fire and spirit than his rider could either boast of or command,) had cost him only 700 guineas, and was prime blood; that the horse his groom rode, was nothing but a good one, and had run at the Craven—that he had been prodigiously fortunate that season on the turf—that he was a bold rider, and could not bear himself without a fine high spirited animal—and, that being engaged to dine at three places that day, he was desperately at a loss to know how he should act; but that if her Ladyship dined at any one of the three, he would certainly join that party, and cut the other two.

At this moment, a mad-brained ruffian of quality, with a splendid equipage, came driving by with four in hand, and exclaimed as he flew past, in an affected tone—“All! Tom, my dear fellow—why where the devil have you hid yourself of late?” The speed of his cattle prevented the possibility of reply. “Although you see him in such excellent trim,” observed Tom to Lady Jane, “though his cattle and equipage are so well appointed, would you suppose, it, he has but just made his appearance from the Bench after white-washing? But he is a noble spirited fellow,” remarked the exquisite, “drives the best horses, and is one of the first whips in town; always gallant and gay, full of life and good humour; and, I am happy to say, he has now a dozen of as fine horses as any in Christendom, bien entendu, kept in my name.” After this explanation of the characters of his friend and his horses, he kissed his hand to her Ladyship, and was out of sight in an instant, “Adieu, adieu, thou dear, delightful sprig of fashion!” said Lady Jane, as he left the side of the carriage.—“Fashion and folly,” said Tom, half whispering, and recalling to his mind the following lines:—

“Oh! Fashion, to thy wiles, thy votaries owe

Unnumber'd pangs of sharp domestic woe.

What broken tradesmen and abandon'd wives

Curse thy delusion through their wretched lives;

What pale-faced spinsters vent on thee their rage,

And youths decrepid e're they come of age.”

His moralizing reverie was however interrupted by her Ladyship, who perceiving a group of females decked in the extreme of Parisian fashions, “there,” said she, “there is all that taffeta, feathers, flowers, and lace can do; and yet you see by their loud talking, their being unattended by a servant, and by the bit of straw adhering to the pettycoat of one of them, that they come all the way from Fish Street Hill, or the Borough, in a hackney-coach, and are now trying to play off the airs of women of fashion.”

Mrs. Marvellous now drew up close to the party. “My dear Lady Jane,” said she, “1 am positively suffocated with dust, and sickened with vulgarity; but to be sure we have every thing in London here, from the House of Peers to Waterloo House. I must tell you about the trial, and Lady Barbara's mortification, and about poor Mr. R.'s being arrested, and the midnight flight to the Continent of our poor friend W——.”

With this brief, but at the same time comprehensive introduction, she lacerated the reputation of almost all her acquaintance, and excited great attention from the party, which had been joined by several during her truly interesting intelligence. Every other topic in a moment gave way to this delightful amusement, and each with volubility contributed his or her share to the general stock of slander.

Scandal is at all times the sauce piquante that currys incident in every situation; and where is the fashionable circle that can sit down to table without made dishes?—Character is the good old-fashioned roast beef of the table, which no one touches but to mangle and destroy.

“Lord! who'd have thought our cousin D

Could think of marrying Mrs. E.

True I don't like such things to tell;

But, faith, I pity Mrs. L,

And was I her, the bride to vex,

I would engage with Mrs. X.

But they do say that Charlotte U,

With Fanny M, and we know who,

Occasioned all, for you must know

They set their caps at Mr. O.

And as he courted Mrs. E,

They thought, if she'd have cousin D,

That things might be by Colonel A

Just brought about in their own way.”

Our heroes now took leave, and proceeded through the Park. “Who is that fat, fair, and forty-looking dame, in the landau?” says Bob.—“Your description shews,” rejoined his friend, “you are but a novice in the world of fashion—you are deceived, that lady is as much made up as a wax-doll. She has been such as she now appears to be for these last five and twenty years; her figure as you see, rather en-bon point, is friendly to the ravages of time, and every lineament of age is artfully filled up by an expert fille de chambre, whose time has been employed at the toilette of a celebrated devotee in Paris. She drives through the Park as a matter of course, merely to furnish an opportunity for saying that she has been there: but the more important business of the morning will be transacted at her boudoir, in the King's Road, where every luxury is provided to influence the senses; and where, by daily appointment, she is expected to meet a sturdy gallant. She is a perfect Messalina in her enjoyments; but her rank in society protects her from sustaining any injury by her sentimental wanderings.

“Do you see that tall handsome man on horseback, who has just taken off his hat to her, he is a knight of the … ribbon; and a well-known flutterer among the ladies, as well as a vast composer of pretty little nothings.”—“Indeed! and pray, cousin, do you see that lady of quality, just driving in at the gate in a superb yellow vis-à-vis—as you seem to know every body, who is she?”

“Ha! ha! ha!” replied Tom, almost bursting with laughter, yet endeavouring to conceal it, “that Lady of Quality, as you are inclined to think her, a very few years since, was nothing more than a pot-girl to a publican in Marj'-le-bone; but an old debauchee (upon the look out for defenceless beauty) admiring the fineness of her form, the brilliancy of her eye, and the symmetry of her features, became the possessor of her person, and took her into keeping, as one of the indispensable appendages of fashionable life, after a month's ablution at Margate, where he gave her masters of every description. Her understanding was ready, and at his death, which happened, luckily for her, before satiety had extinguished appetite, she was left with an annuity of twelve hundred pounds—improved beauty—superficial accomplishments—and an immoderate share of caprice, insolence, and vanity. As a proof of this, I must tell you that at an elegant entertainment lately given by this dashing cyprian, she demolished a desert service of glass and china that cost five hundred guineas, in a fit of passionate ill-humour; and when her paramour intreated her to be more composed, she became indignant—called for her writing-desk in a rage—committed a settlement of four hundred a year, which he had made but a short time previously, to the flames, and asked him, with, a self-important air, whether he dared to suppose that paltry parchment gave him an authority to direct her actions?”

“And what said the lover to this severe remonstrance?”

“Say—why he very sensibly made her a low bow, thanked her for her kindness, in releasing him from his bond, and took his leave of her, determined to return no more.”

"Turn to the right,” says Tom, “and yonder you will see on horseback, that staunch patriot, and friend of the people, Sir——, of whom you must have heard so much.”

“He has just come out of the K——B——, having completed last week the term of imprisonment, to which he was sentenced for a libel on Government, contained in his address to his constituents on the subject of the memorable Manchester Meeting.”

“Ah! indeed, and is that the red-hot patriot?—well, I must say I have often regretted he should have gone to such extremes in one or two instances, although I ever admired his general character for firmness, manly intrepidity, and disinterested conduct.”

“You are right, Bob, perfectly right; but you know, 'to err is human, to forgive divine,' and however he may err, he does so from principle. In his private character, as father, husband, friend, and polished gentleman, he has very few equals—no superior.

“He is a branch of one of the most ancient families in the kingdom, and can trace his ancestors without interruption, from the days of William the Conqueror. His political career has been eventful, and perhaps has cost him more, both in pocket and person, than any Member of Parliament now existing. He took his seat in the House of Commons at an early age, and first rendered himself popular by his strenuous opposition to a bill purporting to regulate the publication of newspapers.

“The next object of his determined reprehension, was the Cold-Bath-Fields Prison, and the treatment of the unfortunates therein confined. The uniformly bold and energetic language made use of by the honourable Baronet upon that occasion, breathed the true spirit of British liberty. He reprobated the unconstitutional measure of erecting what he termed a Bastile in the very heart of a free country, as one that could neither have its foundation in national policy, nor eventually be productive of private good. He remarked that prisons, at which private punishments, cruel as they were illegal, were exercised, at the mercy of an unprincipled gaoler—cells in which human beings were exposed to the horrors of heart-sickening solitude, and depressed in spirit by their restriction to a scanty and exclusive allowance of bread and water, were not only incompatible with the spirit of the constitution, but were likely to prove injurious to the spirit of the people of this happy country; for as Goldsmith admirably remarks,

“Princes and Lords may nourish or may fade,

A breath can make them as a breath hath made,

But a bold peasantry their country's pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.”

“And if this be not tyranny” continued the philanthropic orator, “it is impossible to define the term. I promise you here that I will persevere to the last in unmasking this wanton abuse of justice and humanity.” His invincible fortitude in favour of the people, has rendered him a distinguished favourite among them: and though by some he is termed a visionary, an enthusiast, and a tool of party, his adherence to the rights of the subject, and his perseverance to uphold the principles of the constitution, are deserving the admiration of every Englishman; and although his fortune is princely, and has been at his command ever since an early age, he has never had his name registered among the fashionable gamesters at the clubs in St. James's-street, Newmarket, or elsewhere. He labours in the vineyard of utility rather than in the more luxuriant garden of folly; and, according to general conception, may emphatically be called an honest man. “But come,” said Tom, “it is time for us to move homeward—the company are drawing off I see, we must shape our course towards Piccadilly.”

They dashed through the Park, not however without being saluted by many of his fashionable friends, who rejoiced to see that the Honourable Tom Dashall was again to be numbered among the votaries of Real Life in London; while the young squire, whose visionary orbs appeared to be in perpetual motion, dazzled with the splendid equipages of the moving panorama, was absorbed in reflections somewhat similar to the following:

“No spot on earth to me is half so fair

As Hyde-Park Corner, or St. James's Square;

And Happiness has surely fix'd her seat

In Palace Yard, Pall Mall, or Downing Street:

Are hills, and dales, and valleys half so gay

As bright St. James's on a levee day?

What fierce ecstatic transports fire my soul,

To hear the drivers swear, the coaches roll;

The Courtier's compliment, the Ladies' clack,

The satins rustle, and the whalebone crack!”