PARIS LIONS
AND
LONDON
TIGERS.
BY
HARRIETTE
WILSON.
Illustrated with Twelve Colored Plates.
London:
PRINTED
AND PUBLISHED BY
J.
J. STOCKDALE, 24, OPERA COLONNADE.
1825.
ADVERTISEMENT.
BY
THE EDITOR.
HERE’S a piece of pork and
greens, as exclaimed a good-humoured countryman, who got into some dilemma,
with his cart and horses, one day. Here’s a piece of pork and greens! This
comes of notoriety. No sooner had the following little volume, got wind, than
all the world was on the qui vive, to learn what characters, it was to contain.
One got at one, and another at another, and then the last proof-sheet was
dropped on its way to the printers. Thus, by degrees, several of the persons
which it introduces, acquired publicity, and all the world was agog to give, to
airy nothings, a local habitation and a name.
The
London news-papers duly announced the meeting of Harriette, with her publisher,
at Calais. They give every movement of his majesty to and from Carlton palace
to Windsor, or Brighton, or elsewhere, and, of course, for consistency’s sake,
they must have a no less vigilant eye, on Harriette and her publisher!!
The
latter had scarcely betaken himself, once again to his harness, and, seising
his pen, in manful guise, at his bookselling-desk, than he received an
anonymous letter, franc de port, from Paris, apprising him that its sagacious
writer had developed many of the characters, which figure in the following
pages.
Poor
Harriette, tenderly sympathizing with her unhappy publisher, who had not
forgotten, that most extraordinary verdict which had been given against him, in
Blore’s case, and resolving to be secure against such a recurrence, in future,
drew on her imagination for her modern romance, of Paris Lions and London
Tigers: but neither may she, nor her publisher be at rest! His anonymous
correspondent, assisted as he says by many other persons, no less comme il
faut, than himself, avows that the list, hereto subjoined, is a true key to the
characters of this romance, as far as it goes, and Stockdale, thinking the joke
too good to be altogether lost, has handed the elegant epistle, to me, to turn
to the best possible account. Ecce signum!
THOMAS
LITTLE.
Sir Violet Sigh-away Sir Henry Mildmay
Mr. Soso Captain
Gronow
Mr. Satirical Harmless Sir Frank Hall Standish
Mr. Fox Mr.
Reynolds
The Armenian General
Armenteros
Lord Chatterbox Earl of
Clanricarde
Mr. Squibb Mr.
Stawb
Three Clock-cases The Lygons
Mr. Bellfield Col.
Rochfort
Prince Stroll-about Prince Esterhazy
Mac Griffin Prince
Mac Gregor
Mr. Boot-jack Mr.
Livius
Mrs. Brawney Be-at-them Mrs. Brereton
Mrs. Teaze-all Mrs.
Dun
Lady Sin-enough Lady Bolingbroke
Lady Top-knot Lady Hyde
Parker
The Brussels Heroine Mrs.
Lewis, alias Tom-
kins,
alias, La Presidente.
O
Fly-away, the Callams, Harry Hairbrain, Geo. Frolic, Beau Militaire, Comtesse
de Bienpassé, Mrs. Beaumont, Mrs. Pemberton, are names which appear to be still
in want of owners.
Editor
of Harriette Wilson’s Memoirs, Beauty, Marriage-Ceremonies, and Intercourse of
the Sexes, in all Nations; Systems of Physiognomy, &c.
London, 22, Opera Colonnade,
1st
September, 1825.
LIST
OF PLATES
To face Page.
Chasseur 39
Suitors 124
and others 200
PARIS
LIONS
AND
LONDON
TIGERS.
LIONS
and Tigers just arrived for the coronation. Walk in ladies and gentlemen. Don’t
be frait nothing. Only six francs, to see all these wild beasts.
The
first was Mr. Callam, with Mrs., and the three Misses Callam, and Master
Callam. They arrived, at half past four o’clock, aux Messageries Royales, Rue
Notre Dame des Victoires, by the diligence, which comes safe to Paris, every
day, token it does not overturn, between seven in the morning, and seven in the
evening. Frenchmen are not a bit particular for an hour or two.
The
Callams, I mean the females of that family, had been raving mad, to see Paris,
ever since the proclamation of peace, between our blessed island, and that
delightful country.
Surely,
would Mrs. Callam often say to her better half, surely, my dear, ve have been
an industrious couple, and have toiled hard to heddicate our family, and bring
them up genteelly, and now that ve are before-hand vith the vorld, I don’t see
no hobstacle against a trip to Paris, to finish our daughters’ heddication, and
give them the proper French hacksent, vich is, indeed, all, our Eliza vants,
after the sight of money ve have paid to her French master.
To
all these broad hints, Mr. Callam had been, for years, in the habit of answering
just nothing, or what amounted to nothing, since it was but an extra puff of
the pipe, or a hem! or a pooh! pooh! or my eye in a bandbox!!! or some other
ejaculations, which mean nothing.
Apropos!
It is here necessary to give my readers some little description of the Callams;
so, not to prose, because this atmosphere is a lazy one, and more learned books
are gone abroad than folks will read, more shame for them. Be it known, then,
that Mr. Callam was a fat man, in the soap-boiling line, and wore large
buttons, to his, nearly, sky-blue, best coat, as big as five franc pieces.
Those
buttons are out of fashion, my dear, would Mrs. Callam often exclaim, to which
Mr. Callam uniformly answered, by a significant shrug of the shoulders.
The
Callams were good sort of people, nevertheless. Mr. Callam was, as I have said,
a soap-boiler, as was his father, before him, and both father and son had been,
from the beginning, what is vulgarly called, well to do, in the world. Mr.
Callam, who has just arrived, in Paris, to perform a part in my menagerie, lost
his father, at the age of five and twenty, and, by his death, he became
commander in chief, or rather sole commander of the soap-trade.
After
duly mourning, and wearing a crape hat-band, till it was rusty, my Tiger began
to think, seriously, of matrimony. I will choose my wife, said he, to himself,
for such qualities as shall wear well; not for her beauty, nor for her money.
Thank God, I have a trade, which will lead on to fortune: a useful trade too,
soap being all in all to a dirty face. Mine is none of your rich, showy trades,
which pass away with the fashions. Give me a wife, who will love me, darn my
stockings, and stay at home. Ye kind gods, I ask no more!
He
found a wife to his mind, in Shropshire, while he was on a visit to his uncle
John, and, in the person of his uncle John’s housemaid, a clean, neat, pretty,
virtuous, industrious, young woman.
The
soap-boiler was touched, the very first moment he set his eyes upon her.
But
that she is a maid, I would marry her, said he to himself, while his charmer
was warming his bed. A maid-servant, he meant, of course.
The
next morning, his uncle’s maid servant brought him the best cup of chocolate,
he had ever tasted, and she blushed deeply when she presented it to him;
because he happened to be in his bed!!
The
soap-boiler was overcome! just like Mrs. Hannah Moore’s hero, whose hardened
libertinism was not proof against the delicious flavour of a ragout, à la sauce
piquante.
Oh!
my love!! exclaimed he, clasping the ragout-chronicler to his breast. I am now,
alluding to Hannah Moore’s hero. However, my soap-boiler was just as short
taken, by dint of chocolate, and therefore, to be brief, since you all, like
myself, no doubt, hate to play second fiddle, in a love-scene, the soap-boiler
married his uncle’s maid.
* * * *
* * * *
Nearly
six and twenty years had witnessed the harmony of this union, and, during that
period, Mrs. Callam had become the mother of her hopeful heir, Mr. Peter
Callam, as well as of three daughters, who, by sheer pertinacity, having gained
their grand object, of a visit to the French capital, now stepped out of the
Paris diligence.
Eliza,
the eldest, was in her twenty-first year, a pretty, fair girl, with soft blue
eyes, and a turn-up nose. She had been educated at a second-rate-school, where
she had carried it, with a very high hand.
Mr.
Callam’s daughter ought to be distinguished from the common herd of school
girls, said the fond mother, who looked up to her husband as a paragon: and, in
consequence, Miss Eliza’s wardrobe was the gayest of the gay. She likewise had
a gold watch and chain, and a silver goblet, and various delicacies were sent
to her, in a basket, every Monday morning.
Miss
Eliza, being of a delicate constitution, mamma desired she might not be teazed
to learn more than was agreeable. The result of this education may be gleaned
from the young lady’s letters, to her friend in London. At all events, it will
not do to keep a whole family waiting, at the Messagerie de Paris, after the
fatigues of a long journey; the said Messagerie being just about the most
comfortless spot, which can, reasonably, be imagined.
Well!
only think of our being in Paris at last, said the good natured Mrs. Callam,
arranging her habit. But Peter, my dear boy, take care to see after our desk.
God bless you, don’t lose sight o’ that, or its all dickey with us!
Peter
was a dandy, and belonged to a company of private, theatrical performers. He
proposed cutting the soap-boiling line, on the very earliest opportunity.
Voulez
vous un fiacre, mes dames? asked a commissionaire.
Monsieur,
vous avez trente francs à payer pour votre baggage, said a Frenchman, in black.
Messieurs
et mes dames, vite! vite! les clefs de vos malles! called out another.
Veut on bien faire entendre, à
cette grosse dame Anglaise, que son fiacre l’attend? Fiacre à la porte!
reiterated the commissionaire.
These
remarks were all unintelligible to the soap-boiler. D——n it, said he, at last,
I wish I had staid in England! What the devil does all this mean! This dirty
fellow haunts me, pointing to the ragged commissioner, with his feeharkur ally
pot. What the devil is feeharkur ally pot. Look how they are thumping and
bumping our boxes about.
Vos
clefs! vos clefs! said another Frenchman, holding out his hand, towards them,
impatiently.
Eliza,
my love, said Mrs. Callam, to her eldest daughter, what can this man mean, by
calling out for clay? We have got no clay to give him! How should we?
He
wants our keys, said Miss Eliza, with much dignity! My readers must bear in
mind, that Miss Eliza had learned French.
The
devil he does! What for, pray? He must be a highway-robber! Has’nt our baggage
been hauled and mauled about enough, already?
Lord,
Pa! no! observed his second daughter, a fine, dark, sparkling, black-eyed,
bold, romp, just turned of seventeen. Never mind! let’s give up the keys. We
must expect to be robbed and murdered too, over and over again, with many other
inconveniences, which one makes one’s mind up to, when one goes abroad; but we
shall have plenty of fun, I dare say. Give up the keys then. Don’t you see,
that gentleman has given his whole bunch, to the man, in a military looking
jacket.
Mes
dames, votre fiacre à la porte! again bawled out the ragged commissionaire.
Oh!
with a sigh, exclaimed Mr. Callam, here’s my evil genius again!
Monsieur,
veut-il payer les trente francs pour son baggage? once more enquired the
Frenchman, in black.
Oh!
dear me! what do they all want? observed Mrs. Callam? I wish Eliza would
translate for us, after all the expense we have been at, in larning her French.
Come here child. Stand by your pa, do.Ve’re tired to death of all these noisy
people. I vish ve cou’d get a hackney-coach, to drive us to an inn. Vot a queer
way this is, for to put down their passengers in such a Babylon of a
houtlandish place!
Monsieur,
je vous dis encore que tout est prêt, et votre fiacre vous attend depuis une
heure, again bawled out the shabby commissioner, in Mr. Callam’s ear.
Oh!
Christ! ejaculated Callam faintly, as he receded several paces; for he was,
naturally, a peaceable, quiet man, who hated noise or bustle, of any kind,
particularly after passing two nights, squeezed up, in a French diligence.
Hah!
hah! hah! said Mary, Mr. Callam’s second merry daughter, who had not been half
so much petted and spoiled as her sister, in consequence of her being of such a
robust constitution, Hah! hah! hah! This man is enough to make one die of
laughing, with his dirty face coming up to pa, every minute, feeharkur ally
pot. What can he mean, I wonder!
Now
might my very lips freeze to my teeth; my tongue to the roof of my mouth; my
heart in my belly, ere I could come by a fire to thaw me! exclaimed young
Peter, in a theatrical tone, as he wrapped his plaid cloak about him.
Law!
Peter, observed Mary, what a fool you are, spouting plays, instead of helping
us out of the mess. You are all the worst travellers I ever saw.
Mais,
Monsieur, donc, vous plait-il de payer votre baggage? again interrupted the
Frenchman.
Here,
Eliza, my love, what is baggage, in English? Mary asked.
Luggage,
child, to be sure.
Oh!
thank you. Well then, I know what paya is: every body can guess at that word,
and we shall know it better still, I dare say, before we have been here long.
Pay
your luggage, Sir, continued Mary, playfully, holding out her hand, to her
father.
Combien?
enquired the father, having picked up that word on his journey.
Mais
trente francs je vous dis.
Thirty
francs, reiterated Eliza, her affectation giving way, by virtue of hunger and
thirst.
Thirty
francs! said Callam, well! can’t be helped, taking out his purse; but, if ever
they catch me at this noisy, expensive place again—
Monsieur,
encore une fois, avez vous envie de vous servir du fiacre, qui est à la porte?
cried the enraged commissioner.
Oh!
answered Mary, you are our first and last tormentor. I’ll settle you.
Feeharkur! That’s a very funny word. I’m afraid feeharkur will puzzle Eliza,
herself.
Not
at all, it is—in short, it is—Jeune homme, montrez nous donc ce que c’est—
Oh!
dear me, Eliza need not pretend to be so very clever. Any of us would know it,
if we saw it, observed Frances, the youngest of this hopeful family.
She
was a little, arch-looking girl, of twelve years old, with a Chinese kind of
cap.
Come
pa, let’s make him show us what this nasty feeharkur is, that he has been
stunning us about so long, said Mary, leading the way to the grande porte
cocher of the Messageries Royales.
Entrez,
mes dames, entrez, c’est votre fiacre, bawled out the tattered commissioner,
pulling down the steps of a hackney-coach.
Oh!
dear! how stupid of us! Just the very thing we wanted most. I shall remember
feeharkur as long as I live. The man has taught us something, however, observed
Mary, as she tripped back, in great glee, to call her party to the coach.
But
where shall we drive to? asked Mrs. Callam, seating herself in the feeharkur.
Hotel
de Bourbon, answered a young man, thrusting a card into her hand.
Bless
me, how lucky! cried one of them. Hotel de Paris, said another. Hotel Meurice,
a third. Hotel d’Oxford, a fourth. Hotel de Londres, a fifth.
Ou
devrois-je vous méner? calls out the coachman.
Pardon,
exclaimed two more smart waiters, at once, handing in their cards, je vous
prie, mes dames, allez à l’hotel d’Angleterre, l’hotel d’Oxford.
Drive
to the devil! vociferated Mr. Callam, to the coachman, in pure, downright, and
unadulterated English.
Ou
donc est son hotel? enquired the coachman, believing that one had been named to
him.
I
keep the Hotel de l’Europe, said a decent, young Englishman, who had contrived
to force another card, into the hands of one of the young ladies, whose lap was
already full of them.
Hallo!
hoy! hallo! You Sir, you are English, are you? roared out Mr. Callam, eagerly,
leaning his head out of the coach window.
Hotel
Bourbon! Hotel Britannique!! Hotel d’Oxford! Hotel d’Hollande! again called out
half a dozen Frenchmen at once.
Mais,
diable Monsieur, faut-il que je reste ici toute la sainte journée? bawled out
the coachman.
Monsieur
n’oubliera pas le commissionaire? their late tormentor cried.
C’est
moi, monsieur, qui l’aidé de porter votre baggage, dans la fiacre, squeaked out
a little, filthy urchin, who seemed to fill the honourable office of the
commissioner’s commissioner.
For
God Almighty’s sake, ejaculated Mr. Callam, most energetically, and piously,
with his body more than half thrust out of the coach, addressing the English
hotel-keeper, for the love of God, Sir, get me clear of these ragamuffins, and
a five pound note shall be your reward, as soon as we are all in peace and
quietness.
Avec
de l’argent on fait tout à Paris; in short, money is no less omnipotent in the
French, than in the British, and all other capitals. Less than a quarter of an
hour found them in quiet possession of a comfortable apartment, containing
three bed-rooms, a sitting-room, and a dining-room.
This
is summat like, observed Mr. Callam.
Paris
is a divine place. I doat upon looking glasses, and yellow silk furniture,
observed Eliza, throwing herself upon the sofa.
Peter
didn’t know what the devil to make of it, wondered if there were any English,
private theatricals; was sure Talma would never do, after Kean; wanted to see
for him for all that.
Mrs. Callam voted for
retiring to rest. Mr. Callam wanted his supper; Mary, her tea, and Eliza, her
writing desk, for she declared she could not eat, drink or sleep, till she had
addressed a letter to her darling, sweet friend, and school-fellow, Charlotte
Temple.
Mary was not much tired,
wished she had’nt been tired at all, hated sleeping, it was such a loss of
time, and yet, really, she could not keep her eyes quite open, could have
slept, in the diligence, all the second night, only the French gentleman, in the
white hat, snored so.
In
order to show my readers what a different view, people take of the same things,
according to their various tone of mind, I will give them the correspondence of
this family, separately, each having a friend in London, with whom they held
communication. We will begin with papa, from the old latin proverb, seniores
priores, as I used to say to my elder sister Amy, in humble imitation of the
honourable John William Ward.
From
Mr. Callam in Paris, to his friend Mr. Evans, a haberdasher.
My dear friend Evans,
Though
I was never very fond of my pen, yet I could not refuse any reasonable request
of yours, and, therefore, according to your desire, I am set down to give you
some little account of our way of living here, for the last month.
Paris
is the rummest place I ever inhabited. I thought I never should have got to
this hotel, for want of knowing the French language, you see; at last, I had
the luck to hit upon what I was told, by the landlord of it, was an English
hotel. And who, do you think, wakes us in the morning, by coming close up to
the side of our bed, while me and Mrs. Callam are enjoying a comfortable sleep,
but a d—d, dirty commissionaire, as they call every thing that is ragamuffin,
in this country.
What
the devil do you do there sir? I asked, while poor Mrs. Callam screamed. I
thought her last hour was come. Lay Bot, or something of that kind, was all I
could get out of the rascal; so I was obliged to ring my bell, and G—d d—n them
all, not that I like to encourage the practice of swearing; but this happens to
be the only part of our language, the French understand. However a friend of
mine, Dick Simpson, whom I met here, by accident, has taught me how to be a
match, for these shoe-black intruders, so I now claps my boots on first, and
gets them blacked afterwards, at the corner of any street, where I please to
offer a penny. Then comes our dinner, har longlaze, as the landlord calls it,
which consists of one, solitary, hard joint of meat, such as you cannot
possibly get your teeth through, and all the rest is made up of ragotus, and
fricando. I can’t abide the plays here, they are so hot and makes one sweat so;
and the actors speak so quick and so natural, just as if they were at home, at
every day work.
Tivoly
is a place I am partial to. I prefer it to our Vauxhall; because there are
plenty of chairs to rest one's legs, and my children are delighted with the
Swiss mountains, an excellent speculation there for England, I should reckon.
It is astonishing to see how the franks circulate, on a grand gala night.
Persons think nothing of descending, half a dozen times, of an evening, at a
frank each. There was a precious crowd, there, in honor of the French King’s
coronation which you know has just taken place. For my part, I could not help
pitying the poor lady, who went up in the balloon, dressed in a plume of white
ostrich feathers; you would charge a guinea a piece, for such feathers, the
very lowest. Yes, poor soul! she left a gay scene to dangle, and twinkle, in
the air, till, at last, we could not distinguish the balloon, which had about
fifty large lanterns fastened to it, from a star. However, she went up, in high
spirits, seemingly, for she bowed, and bent, and curtsied, with more grace than
even, my daughter Eliza, herself, with all her dancing. Between ourselves, I
would never be at such like expense, for another daughter; for, after all, Mary
is much better company. Do you know, this trip has turned out mighty expensive?
Surely, says Mrs. Callam, surely my dear we must equip ourselves hallar
fronsays, and this equipping hallar fronsays, has cost me at least a hundred
golden guineas.
You
may dine, in Paris, at any price you like, from twenty sous to a hundred
franks, and the only difference, I see, is in the color of the table-cloth; for
its nothing else but raggoos, and fricandose, go where you will.
We
have hired a carriage; and a carriage, in Paris, is a passport into much good
society. The pretty features of my girls, gives us an additional lift.
Altogether, I hope, I shall not get puffed up with unbecoming pride. In for a
penny, in for a pound, as the vulgar saying is. I was thinking of a gold snuff
box, jewellers work being so cheap here, and gold so pure; but the Lord have
mercy upon me!
Apropos
to snuff-boxes, as the French say, I saw the most indecent snuff-box!! Oh! fie
said I, to the young man who showed it me. Paris is, indeed a most lascivious
city! I’ll tell you something, in your ear; but you mustn’t mention it. I’ve
felt very queer at times!! God send, I may not go astray in my old age: but
this high living and warm weather does wonders to a man.— — You understand me .
. .eh? and there are curious exhibitions in the palais royal. Mrs. Callam has
forgot to pack up our family-bible too, and that was very much against me! I,
however, have this day, bought another, cheap, at Galignani’s.
Would
you believe it, the public gambling houses are full of petticoats; so are the
coffee-rooms, and other places. The minister of finances has lighted his
sumptuous palace with gas. My girls are in high feather, and seldom pass an
evening at home. As for me, and Mrs. Callam, we amuse ourselves, in rambling,
from the Jardins des Plants, to the Luxembourg, from the Luxembourg to the
Invalides, and all over this splendid city, in search of lions and curiosities,
and we have been to the Port Saint Martin too, to see Jacko, who is about the
best bred ape I ever saw, although a mere man. This goes to prove that the
French have wonderful dexterity in making the most of things.
I have
seen that wicked creature, Harriette Wilson, who wrote those paw, paw memoirs,
that made such a stir, and such a to do, in London. She was’nt so flashy, as I
expected, from the prints in the caricature shops; on the contrary she looked
rather serious, than knowing or funny, as she passed us, in her very pretty
green calash. I have also seen a child, with two heads, in the Shom Elesa, very
complete, indeed, the mother forthcoming, every feature distinct, and well
formed.
There
is a rum set of English noblemen, and gentlemen established here, whom we often
meet at parties, swoirases as they call them; but my little pet, Mary, can
describe all these things much better than I could, supposing my fingers did
not ache with what I have scribbled already; so, best regards to all, and, tell
your wife I shall bring her a blue gros de Naples dress, basted up into a
domino, to please the custom house men.
Believe
me ever truly and cordially,
your friend,
JEREMIAH
PETER CALLAM.
Hotel de l’Europe.
From
Miss Mary Callam to Miss Sutton,
Montague Square, London.
Paris, June 14th, 1825.
Oh!
my dear Jemima, what a delicious place this Paris is! I have so much to say to
you, I really don’t know where to begin. Do you know, I can already understand,
and speak French, as some say, better than Eliza herself, who studied it for
years in England. This, of course, is mere flattery; but it is really
incredible how I improve. My Aunts, and the two Miss Callams have, at last,
joined us. They arrived at eleven o’clock, on monday night, such figures!!
having been upset: mais renversez bien; as dear Mlle. Mars says. Clementina
lost her wig, and Rosabella her plumpers. Poor things, it is really ill-natured
of me to mention this; but you know what quizzes they are, at all times.
Clementina
has, for the last ten years, professed to abhor Englishmen. If ever I consent
to part with dear liberty, she often says, it shall be to a foreigner. The
English are too phlegmatic, too matter of fact, too—too—indifferent she might
as well add, since, their having, all, been hitherto blind to her attractions,
is, I know, the only fault she has to find with them.
Rosabella,
who, you know, by the death of her uncle, became possessed of an excellent
income, has brought over her sister, in a dashing, light blue barouche, lined
with scarlet: and who, do you think, accompanied them? That precise, thin old
attorney, Mr. Save-all! whether in the character of cicisbeo, man of business,
or lover, I cannot learn, aunt Rosabella is so sly. They have hired handsome
apartments in the rue Richelieu. Mr. Save-All does the honors; a nasty, ugly
creature; I can’t think why they brought him here. Clementina dresses finer
than ever she did, in London, a great deal, and has become quite an altered
character, ever since she read La Nouvelle Heloise, which said work has
affected my sister Eliza too, more or too less; but, as to my aunt, she sits in
the Thuilleries all day, and sighs to the …moon, or sun, as it may happen, and
then comes home to praise the dresses, and noble military appearance of the
Gardes du Corps.
This
is very severe, you will say; but I only wish you were to be present, when my
aunt scolds me. There is nothing wicked, or sly, I am not accused of, as often
as I attract the attention of any one of the other sex. First, on our arrival
here, we were in a dreadful hobble. Mamma did not know where to go, or what to
do with herself, and we did nothing but order the coachman to drive to the
Boulevards, and when he enquired for the next place, we were obliged to say
home, for want of knowing the name of any other place; but papa bringing
letters of credit, to a large amount, on a Paris banker, we were shortly
invited to his house, and we are now become very popular. I fancy, we are
indebted to the beauty of Eliza, for much of the court that is paid us; indeed,
we are invited every where, and never pass a single evening alone.
We
meet the Spanish Duke de Lerma, almost daily, either at the soirées, the opera,
or somewhere or other; but neither myself nor Eliza can endure him, and no
wonder, for we have heard a most shocking description of him, from the Count
del Rio, who is his countryman. He is afraid of ghosts, and says he cannot, and
dare not remain alone, an instant, particularly in the dark.
His
Grace has, more than once, refused to fight. He is a most profligate,
disgusting man, and keeps an old duenna, in his employ, to hunt about for
young, innocent girls to be debauched by him. This, however, sounds too
abominable to be believed, and so, I must conclude that our gay Spaniard was
jealous of the common civility, Eliza showed him. That the Duke de Lerma is a
great gambler, I cannot doubt, having seen him handle the dice-box, in private
parties, with such zeal, and deep interest, that one would almost swear it must
have been the business of his whole life: and he has such a comical mode of
scraping up the money with the tips of his fingers!! His laugh too, is,
absolutely, expressive of idiotism.
Enough
of this vile subject. The Duke de Lerma has inspired me with the strongest
sensations of disgust, I ever experienced towards a human being, in my whole
life. Added to all these, previous stories, is one of his having been so nicely
flogged! Jemima, could you ever in the course of all your born days, forgive a
man for having been flogged?
A
truce to this disgusting creature, methought he once dared to glance his
odious, lustful, grey eyes, on my poor, dear, little sister Frances. Oh! the
monster! and not a monster only; for he is the greatest fool in nature, and
does not possess three ideas in the world. Apropos, I must tell you about a
certain French countess, if only to put this nasty contemptible character out
of my head.
Last
Wednesday, we received a gay card of invitation, to a soirée, in our own hotel,
from Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé.
Who
is Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé? enquired papa, of the porter, by means of
my aunt’s chasseur, who is his interpreter; for, would you believe it, Jemima,
aunt Clementina has hired a regular, downright chasseur, with a green coat and
cocked hat, and such a feather! At first, these fair ladies had a very dirty
fellow to show them about Paris; but this man coming to offer his services
himself, en grande costume, both my aunts declared that he was irresistible.
You
are making terrible fools of yourselves, said papa to them; but all his
objections were overruled, Rosabella declaring that, since papa had condemned
the excursion to Paris, as folly, from first to last, they might as well have
the chasseur, since the folly of it would fall into the general lump, instead
of forming separate foolery. His name is Julien, which, Clementina maintains to
be a very ancient name in France. On the whole, she cannot divest herself of
the idea that he is a gentleman, and Rosabella, who was always such a tyrant to
her English servants, is afraid to command the most trifling service from this
flashy hero, in green. C’est une bien belle chose d’être courier, ma foi! on
devient bientôt chambellan.
Prince
Stroll-about has, lately, arrived in Paris. I have been presented to him. He
said, Ha! and dowsed his head downwards, a movement, which he intended for a
bow. He is the most absent, rude creature, I ever met with; for he draws one
into conversation, and then, just as one fancies oneself rather eloquent, he
gives a second downward jerk of his head, begs pardon, in bad English, or worse
French, and disappears. I have observed his highness more than once, lately,
lounging about, among the maid servants, either in the Champs Elysées or in the
Jardins des Thuilleries.
I had
almost forgotten to continue my account of Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé, who
sent us the invitation to her soirée. Mamma declared, point blank, she could
not presume to accept it, the French were such polite, accomplished people, and
a countess too!! She had not been brought up in such society, never pretended
to any thing of the kind, and really should be less afraid of facing a host of
English nobility, than one of these French countesses; but we were obstinate, assuring
her that the French were the easiest people in the world to live with, and, at
last, we prevailed.
Fancy
us then, at eight o’clock, in the evening, assembled, in our drawing-room, full
dressed in our very best, wishing to do honor to the French countess’s soirée.
Eliza wore a beautiful, white gauze, over pink satin, and the new ear-rings
Papa has given her: in short, we had taken no small pains in ornamenting, and
having hummed and coughed ourselves into something like courage for the
enterprise, after duly studying the most polite expressions, in French, my
brother led the way, in gay, embroidered, silk stockings, down to the porter’s
lodge. Mamma looked very nice; indeed, I never saw her so becomingly dressed
before.
Ou
donc demeure Madame la Comtesse? said Eliza, addressing the porter.
Mais
montez toujours l’escalier à gauche, Mes dames, jusqu’à ce que vous verrez le
nom de Madame la Comtesse sur la porte.
Remercie
bien, Monsieur, and we all began to ascend. There was no such name as Madame la
Comtesse, on the premier étage. It is on the second, no doubt, said my brother.
Indeed, added he, I have heard say, people of high rank generally prefer the
second story, as being less noisy. These stairs are very steep, mamma observed,
when we had climbed up another étage. By that time we all began to puff and
blow, but we searched in vain, for Madame la Comtesse’s abode. The same
happened to us in the third and fourth story.
I’ll
go no further, said papa, seating himself, on the stairs. I can’t stand it.
It’s
all a hoax, exclaimed Peter, why should a lady of such high rank, single us
out, from so many foreigners, who are now in Paris, to invite us to her rout?
Come down stairs you fools!
I
wish I could discover who has had the impudence to put such a joke on an honest
family like our’s, my poor father murmured, in an under tone of voice,
reddening with anger.
I
will make a point of being satisfied, though, said Peter, descending the
stairs, three at a time, till he arrived at the porter’s lodge. Are we to wait
for you, here, Peter? mamma called out, over the balustrade. Peter begged we
would, and he soon returned to us, with the good news that it was no hoax.
Madame la Comtesse did give a soirée, and she lived au cinquieme étage.
Bless
me, said mamma; how ignorant we are of French manners. We should never dream of
these great folks sticking themselves up in the garret, in this sort of way. Courage, mes dames! il n’y a qu’une
étage de plus, I remarked, gaily leading the way. It was, now, quite dark; for
the staircase was only lighted jusqu’au quatrième.
How are we to grope our way here? enquired Eliza, horror-struck at finding herself so dismally situated, on the fifth landing place.
How
are we to find the countess’s door, among six or seven? said mamma. French
stairs too, are so often, wet and dirty, added Eliza. We shall spoil our
dresses, I remarked. A variety of bad and unwholesome smells assailed our noses
as we poked about, from one door to another.
I
have found a door of somebody’s, said papa, and it being on a latch, we opened
it. Being the most enterprising of the family, I entered, at once. It will be a
lesson to me not to thrust my nose into unexplored, private places, for this
time. All our noses, instantaneously warned us, that we had made a woeful
mistake, and the door was closed.
Come
home, said mamma, for heaven’s sake. What should we do groping about, here,
into every dirty hole and corner, as if it were possible that any one, much
less a countess, would give a party, without hanging out a single lamp!
I
have found a bell, said Peter, and he rang it, violently, without waiting for
permission.
Qui
est là ? squeaked out a shrill, trembling voice, from within.
Madame
la Comtesse de Bienpassé? Peter inquired.
Pas-ici,
cried the voice. Madame la Comtesse demeure au fond de la galérie à gauche. Je
suis couché, moi. A dirty-looking, old creature, now issued forth from a door,
at the opposite corner of the corridor, holding up a miserable, little,
twinkling lamp, which, every instant, threatened to serve her, as the lamps of
fair heroines of romances are wont to do; namely, to be extinguished, by the
first breath of air.
Demande-t-on,
la bas, Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé? called out the lamp-bearer: and, being
answered in the affirmative, by five anxious voices, together, we were beckoned
forwards, and invited, with much ceremony, into a very small room, by Madame la
Comtesse, elle-meme!!!
Let
me describe her. She was a tall, thin, old lady of, at least, sixty years of
age. Her features, perhaps, had, once, been handsome; her skin, was completely,
daubed, with red and white paint, contrasted with a due proportion of snuff,
which disfigured her upper lip and chin; her grey hairs were ill-concealed,
beneath a flaxen wig, around which, were turned two rows of large white beads,
and a wreath of rose-coloured flowers, which were as faded as herself. Her
gauze dress had, once, been yellow; her neck and arms were uncovered; and she
wore an immense clasp-bracelet, and ear-rings, and necklace of green stones.
Having
saluted us, with infinite ease, and French grace, she presented us to her
company, separately, according to their rank, beginning with the Marquis de
Casse-Noisette, a little gentleman of the ancien regime, such as you have seen
in old French pictures, and I often meet, toddling about the Jardin des
Plantes, here. It would require a more able pen than mine to do justice to
Monsieur le Marquis’s extreme politeness.
The
next person, to whom our attention was directed, was le confesseur de Madame la
Comtesse, a pious, hungry-looking priest; but I have not time to describe them
all, a round dozen of them, I should think, besides ourselves. They sat, all of
a row, round the room. Nobody could advance or recede an inch. There were two
merry-faced young ladies, accompanied by their brother, and a fat, old woman,
with a bloated, red face, and a turban to match.
The
protégée of Madame la Comtesse, who sat at as humble a distance, as limits
would permit, wore a plain, white, calico blouse, without ornament, and there
was a gay militaire, in his regimentals, who seemed to be rather on an intimate
footing, chez Madame la Comtesse. A small sofa was in the room, covered with
thin, rose-coloured silk; tallow candles were burning on the chimney-piece,
gaily ornamented with coloured papers, and some china-jars were filled with
large bouquets. There was, also, an old-fashioned table, a picture of a paire
de France, another of Cupid and Psyche, a third of the Virgin Mary, and a
portrait of a lady, in the court-dress of Louis Quatorze. Next to Mary Magdalen
was a shepherdess, in tapestry; a little stuffed dog under a glass-case; a live
poll-parrot; two French, female puppies, on a dirty, scarlet, satin pillow; a
crucifix in ivory; a painted snuff-box; and old clock; a piece of carpet-work,
half-finished; a fat abbot, painted in oil; and Monsieur le Duc de Guiche in
water; a martyr, and a satyr.
I
think I have, now, described all worthy attention. The vieille cour-beau, in
green silk stockings, was indefatigable, in his endeavours to amuse us girls,
and he certainly succeeded admirably, possessing an inexhaustible fund of
amusing anecdotes. He had been in London, and spoke the language excellently,
for a French man.
We
missed Madame la Comtesse, all at once, and Monsieur le militaire happened to
disappear at about the same moment.
Où
est, donc, le beau militaire? some one asked, and my brother, out of pure
malice, answered, in a very respectful tone, Il vient de se rétirer dans la
chamber à coucher, à coté, avec Madame la Comtesse. My brother has the best
memory in the world. Indeed I may say that both of us, sans me flatter, have
done wonders in acquiring the French language.
There
was no harm done. Madame la Comtesse, having called her protégée, who left the
bed-room-door open for half a second, for which crime, she was severely
reprimanded, by her fair patroness, I espied Monsieur le Militaire, very busy,
assisting madame to make punch, and eau sucré. It was very good of Monsieur le
Militaire, and one good turn deserves another; so it is natural, and
benevolent, to suppose that Madame la Comtesse was occasionally, very kind, and
good-natured, to Monsieur le Militaire: ça coute si peu! Upon the whole we
spent a very pleasant evening, much more so than the one we passed at the
Messrs. Lockfast, our bankers, in spite of the princely magnificence with which
they entertained us.
I,
really, cannot hold my pen any longer; but will resume it very soon. Dieu m’en
garde, I think I hear you cry, if all your letters are to be of this length. In
the mean time however, believe me, my dear Jemima,
Most
truly yours,
MARY CALLAM.
Let us now enquire what the two Miss Callams are about? Rosabella’s reputed fortune had brought round her, a swarm of needy, young men, who had all, in a fit of desperation, made up their minds to swallow the bitter pill, if sufficiently gilt; avec le consentement de Madame, bien entendu. Among the most forward of these adventurers was one Mr. Walkup, a tall, raw-boned, ill made, but gay, and somewhat elegantly dressed, young man, of not ungentlemanly appearance. His temper was mild, and conciliatory; and his countenance rather interesting; yet this was one of the most consummate rogues in grain, perhaps, in all Europe. He was a dragoon on half, or no pay, and his father was a gentleman. This, with plenty of new, French kid-gloves, is quite enough, and all which is required, for Parisian soirées.
Mr. Walkup obtained
admission every where, and was, at all times, le bien venu, chez les dames
Callam. As to Clementina, she was in love with him. Clementina, however, was
not what he wanted; but, although Rosabella was his first object, yet Walkup
hoped to make something of Clementina, who was, by no means, in bad
circumstances. He had, already, contrived that many hundred francs should
glide, gently, from the fair Clementina’s purse, to his own. He was now the
most unlucky fellow in the world at écarté: he had offended his papa…, was in
debt to a friend, a debt of honor! lost all his money, last night, and must go
to Versailles; and the fair Clementina’s hand was open, as melting charity,
whenever her too susceptible heart was touched; and she loved a man, who
dressed well!
That
Mr. Bellfield is a fine man, she would often say, with a sigh, for, with all
her vanity, long experience had put it beyond a doubt, that such first rate
beauties as Bellfield, were passed praying for. A fine creature, indeed; but
then he does not get his shoe-strings ironed, and this is the second time he
has been to my soirée, with only one glove, having lost the other, on his way
hither, not to mention the hole in his hat, which, he declares, is so
convenient to know it by. What is the use of a smart carriage, if a man goes
about, with a little hole in his hat? It is, really, quite indecent! Now that
dear Walkup…by the bye I, seriously, wonder he does not return me some of the
money I have lent him; but he is, always very elegantly dressed. With regard to
Miss Rosabella, the gay Walkup was but losing time. It was not new gloves,
diamond-pins, nor any kind of fopery, which would meet her high-flown ideas of
perfection…..she had fixed her mind on a hero….if moustached, so much the
better. Would’st thou have the fair Rosabella for thy friend, thou must cut
kids, and lavender water, with embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs to boot, to
grasp a sword, and do something glorious!!
Rosabella
often dreamed of
MacGruffin, the first,
The
great MacGruffin, as great in person as in deeds! but how to get introduced?
Due enquiry had been made. MacGruffin, the first, visited no one, not even
ladies, it being contrary to the etiquette of kings: but ladies might visit
him, in his palace, à la villate, be ushered into his anti-room, by his
highness’s secretary, for the home department, the Count de Break-nose!! Bellfield,
was his highness’s confidential friend, and prime minister.
Rosabella
was afraid to encounter this gentleman, of the home department; for her mind
ran strongly on foreign affairs, and Bellfield declared he would introduce no
ladies. He did not think his Royal Highness liked ladies: the rooms were too
full of smoke, and ladies interrupted the momentous calculations of armies, and
navies, and flags, and signals, and bonds, and crosses, and ribbons.
Rosabella
had had the honor of being once in the society of the Duc de Guiche….There was
a man !! …only he happened to be….married….
People
might say, what they pleased. Prejudice might run as high, as it pleased fools
to let it; but there was something noble, and truly heroic, about the manners
and expression of Monsieur Julien her chasseur which she had never remarked, in
any one before.
At
about this time of my little sketch or novel, or romance of the present day, or
whatever people like to call it, a handsome, eccentric, young man, of large
fortune, arrived in Paris. Nobody knew him, and very few cared to know more
than that he was rich; and, therefore, of course, an excellent match for any
woman. He lived in a very expensive style, paid every body, went every where,
and fell in love, at first sight, with Miss Mary Callam.
Mary
is a soap-boiler's daughter, observed one of his acquaintances!
She
is the most natural girl, I ever saw, answered the young man, whose name was
Villers. I don’t mind about the soap-trade; but I will never marry, till I feel
convinced, in my own mind, of being loved by such an unsophisticated, dear,
young creature, for myself alone. I happen to be well-looking, and I know it,
besides being rich; but I must study this girl’s principles, and my way to
manage it, shall be this, I’ll make myself appear an empty, silly fop, in her
society, and then propose marriage to her.
What
then, suppose she consents?
If
she consents to make a partner for life of such a contemptible blockhead as I
will seem to her, I shall sham having lost every sixpence of my fortune, at
play, or by failure of a banker, and no fear but that I shall get rid of her,
easily enough. His friend, laughingly, declared that it was a capital plan;
longed to see how a man of such winning-ways and gentlemanly manners, would
play the part of a vapid, insipid, silly, flattering, heartless unprincipled
beau; candidly confessed his belief, that Mary would refuse him, and, further,
that the soap-boiler's second daughter, Mary, was certainly the highest,
natural-bred girl, and, apparently, the most amiable and clever, he had seen in
Paris, and, on this, the friends parted.
The
Duc de Lerma, whom every body knows, and whom Mary Callam has made such free
mention of, in her letter, left Paris, some ten years ago, in debt, and, there
were reasons why he did not go to England. At that time, he was followed, and
hunted, up and down the Paris streets, by one Mrs. Teaze-all, whom he declared
he hated worse than even being alone in the dark, and, when he was asked why
this woman happened to be always hanging on his arm, he asserted that it was
beyond the power of mortal-man, to get rid of her. She had so haunted, and
hunted a poor tailor, in London, that he had been induced to offer her an
annuity of two hundred a year for her life, on the single condition of never
again returning to England, and which said offer was accepted, therefore,
continued the duke, with a dismal sigh, there is no remedy, for I can’t afford
to buy her out of France, neither is it convenient for me to live any where
else, at present. But he was not, then, Duc de Lerma, having succeeded, to that
title, and large estates, rather unexpectedly, some years ago. Money, as I have
said before does much in Paris, and rank does something too: but rank and
riches were not enough to obtain, for the Duc de Lerma, a place in good
society; and he, therefore, professed to be in ill health, lived at home, took
hot baths, and kept a seraglio, besides tigers in abundance.
There
was one of these animals, which he particularly, distinguished; placing him,
daily, on the driving seat of his barouche, or, next to him in the interior of
it, paid for his dinner, and gave him free ingress and egress to and from his
seraglio.
It
should, however, be borne in mind, that a tiger is a fierce, rapacious, and
most uncertain beast, and like a cat, so sly, (at least according to the great
historian Buffon,) and so little to be confided in, that it will, often, turn
round, on the hand which feeds it. The said tiger too, was an old one, and grey
into the bargain, and the ladies of the seraglio, who had much interest,
prevailed on his grace de Lerma to make him over to the rich Mr. Satirical
Harmless, in the Rue Pelletier, and send an advertisement to Galignani, for a
coachman. The exchange was made; but how the said rough-headed tiger liked it,
I know not. There was, unquestionably, a due proportion of dirty work to be
performed, in both places, and his late, as well as his present master were,
both, mean men, who never, willingly, gave away more money than was necessary.
On the other hand, any body might, with ever so little wit, over-reach the
duke, and cheat his hind leg off; while, quite the reverse, Mr. Satirical
Harmless was a shrewd fellow, in all things, save horse-flesh. He had the
disposition, also, to have been a seducer; but he always failed when he came to
the point. In like manner, he would have been a hard rider…only he was afraid,
and he would run in debt, if alas! he could have obtained any credit. He,
likewise, wrote a satirical poem, in which he meant to tickle up the great, and
break many a heart; but, nobody would publish it. He, once wanted, to prosecute
a man in Italy; but he had the misfortune to speak such execrable Italian, that
neither judge nor jury could understand him. Another time, he wished to commit
a rape, but.....it was not accomplished. One thing, however, I believe, he did
accomplish, which was to put the Duc de Lerma’s tiger upon half pay, whereas
the tiger, in his last place, kept his tiger, and, what is more, the under-tiger
kept a mistress!! The golden age is no more present amongst us. The tiger,
notwithstanding, still managed to hold up his head.
Miss
Rosabella Callam, having issued cards for a party, we will fancy them all
assembled, in, rather small, but very elegant apartments. Mr. Satirical
Harmless came, shuffling in, in a pair of slip-shod shoes, and nankeen
trowsers, accompanied by Robin Rough, his grey tiger. By the bye, the latter
haunts one everywhere. I wish to heaven, some good tailor would buy him into banishment.
It would be a great relief to the public eye.
Mr.
Villers, whom Mary Callam, on this eventful night, met, for the second time in
her life, had equipped himself in the most ridiculous, and conceited manner,
possible. I will try how far money will carry a man, had he said to himself, a
few days previous to this night's entertainment, just as he was entering the
porte-cocher of the residence of Mr. Squib, who is the Stultze of Paris.
The
said Mr. Squib, at the young gentleman’s desire, though much against the grain
of his own inclination, equipped him for Rosabella’s soirée, in a pair of
broad-ribbed, yellow, silk small-clothes, with gold bell-buttons; silk
embroidered stockings, immodestly transparent; a pale, pink, satin waistcoat,
under a white one of gros de Naples; a coat, made quite tight, of such a very
light shade of purple, that it was scarcely purple at all; his hair oiled, and
twisted into various ringlets; but separated, on the forehead, á la Madona;
and, to complete this charming costume, he wore three large diamond-rings, a
variety of gay seals, a gold chain, of curious workmanship; and the pin, which
fastened his embroidered French cambric shirt, was headed, with a fair lady’s
miniature set with brilliants!
Ha!
ha! ha. Excellent! said his young friend Harry Hairbrain, who had attended his
toilet.
Mais
sera-t-il permis de se presenter comme céla? enquiredVillers, almost ashamed of
himself.
Nonsense,
reiterated Hairbrain, what’s the use of being rich and independent, if you may
not wear what you like?
Ah! true, answered Villers, and I
have, so lately, returned from India, that nobody knows or cares about me.
And
then the Miss Callams will doat upon you, thus adorned.
Why,
yes, returned Villers, as he surveyed himself. I think I shall unsettle my fair
hostess’s heart, a little.
Villers
was an eccentric young man; of such versatile talents, that he could be any
thing, he pleased.
Above,
all, he shone at masquerades. In whatever character he appeared, he was sure to
be the best mask in the room. Whether he represented a French postillion, an
English coachman, Don Quixotte, Sancho Panza, a Spanish grandee, a strolling
player, a Yorkshireman, or a poet, he was sure to seem naturalized, in the
character, as if by long habit; even when he assumed it, for the first time. He
knew well that he possessed the sort of talents which charm women out of their
better judgment, and, with that refinement of vanity, which is natural enough,
to a spoiled man, he determined to find a woman, who, despising all besides,
should appreciate his talents, and love him only for himself, good, bad, or
indifferent, such as he really was. Villers was not given to the melting mood;
but the sentiments, Mary Callam had inspired, were the first, of that nature,
he had ever experienced, and he felt no inclination to curb his passion; on the
contrary it was, to him, a new and most exquisite sensation, which inspired all
the glowing ardour of his character, and he delighted to give it the fullest
play.
Now
Hairbrain, said Villers to his young companion, as they stepped into his
elegant little chariot, I have treated you as a friend. You are quite old
enough to be a man’s friend, and must not fancy yourself a child; therefore
mind, if you giggle, or titter, so as to induce any of the party to smell a
rat, I shall never forgive you.
Hair-brain,
proud of hearing himself called a grown up gentleman’s friend, determined to
prove that he was not the silly, mere boy, who could not duly command his
countenance, let what would occur.
Well,
then! Depend on me! Very good.... Ha! ha! ha! ha! let me have my laugh out,
first, though, at all events. Those d–––d broad-striped, yellow breeches are so
absurd, and that little peaked hat!! Where the devil did Squib get that stuff
for the breeches?
Come,
now, hold your tongue; will you? I foresee you will get me into a scrape, and
spoil all.
If I
do, never trust me again, said Hairbrain, just as the carriage stopped at Miss
Callam’s hotel.
Villers’s
entrance produced a great sensation. Clementina, in audible whispers, professed
herself charmed; and there was a lady, from Brussels, absolutely ravished! but
that was always the case, with this fair lady. Oh, mercy on me, what a god is
that! she had exclaimed, some six months before, when young Bellfield was
presented to her, and she sent him card after card; and invitations, without
end. It was most provoking of Bellfield! He eternally made excuses!! However,
he will come tonight, said she to a certain gentleman of my acquaintance, who
is, or has been concerned in the editorial department, and, with whom, because
he knew her in Brussels, she had no disguise. Yes! He certainly will come
tonight; he has passed his word and honor. I cannot attempt to describe him.
You will see him. Judge for yourself. He is an angel, on earth!!
Her
daughter, a very amiable young lady, began to blush for her mother’s folly;
and, in good truth, not without reason, for the old lady made a great fool of
herself, as is usually the case. At last the conqueror came!
What
do you think of him? said the lady from Brussels, her heart panting and
palpitating in an agony of expectation.
The
lady bore two names, one for Paris the other for Brussels; but which of them,
or whether both, were des noms de guerre, I cannot say. She was affectation
personified, sans cheveux, sans dens, sans every thing which constitute charms.
In all probability, the poet must have alluded to this identical lady, when he,
thus expresses, his disappointment:
Instead of woman, heavenly woman’s charms,
To clasp paint, cork, wool, varnish in your
arms.
However, she dressed as youthfully as her daughter.
Bellfield, whom her editorial friend admitted, was very handsome, having made
his bow to her, went lounging, about the room, in search of more attractive metal.
The Brussels heroine, had like to have died of sheer vexation.
Well!
Your new friend is, remarkably, handsome, indeed! observed the gentleman, as if
on purpose to add fuel to her wrath.
Yes!
but that..........that coat of his, is very ugly, answered the lady, not
knowing what else to vent her spleen, against...Did you ever see such a coat in
all your born days? Oh! continued the fair one, stamping her foot, in a phrenzy
of disappointment, oh! that a man should make such an ass! such a fool! such a
monkey, of himself.
Young
Bellfield, finding the silly, old, vain woman a bore, never repeated his visit;
by which means, he converted into a most bitter enemy, the Brussels
adventuress, with her alaises, tacked to her name, and she, now, presumes, upon
her petticoats, to assert the grossest and most illiberal falsehoods of him,
simply, because one of the finest young men, in Europe, thought that he might
do better, than intrigue with a disgusting old woman, who possessed not a
single point of attraction.
To
proceed with my narrative: the Brussels heroine, was inflamed, in an instant,
at the sight of young Villers’s party-coloured, and gaudy equipments. What a
contrast to Bellfield’s vile, short coat, said she, in a fit of rapture,
addressing Clementina, as Villers, and his young friend, passed on, amidst the
titters, ill suppressed laughter, and whispers of who is he? Don’t you know
him? He is the rich man, from India, whom nobody knows. I have met him twice;
but never saw him such a figure before.
During
all these audible whispers, Villers, accustomed to command the muscles of his
countenance, and give them just what expression he pleased, having, like a good
actor, identified himself with the part he proposed playing, steadily, for the
next week, smiled, nodded, and sent kisses, by dozens, across the room, from
the tips of his white fingers, with infinite grace, and complacency, as though
in pity to the havoc, his wonderful attractions were making among the hearts of
all the females in the room. In fact, absurdly outré, as was his costume, it
did not detract much from his personal figure. Villers wanted the necessary
philosophy to render himself ugly, in the presence of the first woman, who had
made an impression on his heart; but mimicry was his forte. He excelled in it
from a boy, and would have made one of the first comic actors of the age. Can
we wonder if he was delighted in the exercise and display of his great talent?
His natural character was the most manly, and furthest removed from a coxcomb,
of any which could well be imagined; yet the effeminate arrangement of his
luxurious, auburn hair, un peu á la madonna, was exactly that, which set off
the greek contour of his fine countenance, to the best advantage. Thus then
love, all potent love, had made of Villers, the thing he most abhorred, at the
very moment when he believed he was holding up that character, to ridicule.
Mr.
Satirical Harmless, who was entertaining an Irish gentleman, an honorary tiger
of Lord Chatterbox, whom his lordship left behind him, in Paris, to superintend
the packing of some jewellery, which he had ordered in the palais royal; his
lordship, like Serjeant Whittaker of the tenth hussars, being suddenly seized
with the desire to get married, Mr. Satirical Harmless, I say, paused in the
egotistical remark he was about to make, as usual, to fix his eyes on the
phenomenon, which had just entered the room; but, Mr. Harmless being nearly
blind, Villers’s pink waistcoat and filigree buttons only confused and dazzled
him.
Let
us go and see what that is, said Harmless, tugging his rough tiger by the
sleeve.
When
they came in close contact with the object, which had excited their curiosity,
he was paying his respects to Rosabella.
The
slovenly poet stared at him, with his mouth wide open, till Villers, happening,
while throwing a hasty glance around the room to fix his bright eyes, for an
instant, on Harmless’s face, the would-be poet slunk back, to where he came
from; like a snail, into its shell; not but our young author would have been more
bold and impudent, only he dared not, therefore, placing his back against the
wall, where he had left Lord Chatterbox’s tiger, in waiting, he continued his
conversation. He did not want the inclination to make satirical remarks on
Villers's costume, tout comme un autre, only he, wisely, thought it might be
safer to ascertain, before hand, how such remarks might be taken.
He
now resumed, where he had left off. A man is really a great ass, I mean, il a
tort, as the French have it, to commence author, particularly one, like me,
possessing large, independent fortune! Why should I court the impertinence of
Edinburgh reviewers, and expose myself, like an humble servant of the public,
to their mercy?
Very
true! indeed, said Roughhead.
Most
true! echoed the lord’s tiger, in waiting.
Oh
Lord!! said young Hairbrain, who cared for nobody, and who happened to join
them, precisely in time to overhear Mr. Harmless’s last wise remark. Lord bless
my soul, you need not be a bit afraid of the Edinburgh reviewers. I’ll bet you
twenty guineas, to one, that they never, once, trouble themselves, to name you,
or your work.
Harmless
was all attention. Having paused, to consider the matter, he, in a decided
tone, somewhat touched with melancholy, said, That is possible. I don’t know
that it is not very likely to happen.
Harmless
was not a fool; but really felt doubtful, and shy, of his own abilities.
Whose
style think you is most worthy of imitation, among modern poets? enquired one
of the tigers.
Lord Byron’s, said Hairbrain.
Pope’s,
decidedly, answered Harmless. We want a correct school for study, although
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare.
Music resembles poetry; in each,
Are harmless graces, which, no methods teach,
And which a master’s hand, alone, can reach.
Yet,
continued Harmless, just as if this quotation was all in his speech, for he had
so familiarized himself with his favourite Pope, as scarcely to be aware when
he quoted the language of that poet; and yet a certain method may be acquired,
and the ear improved, by the constant study of correct, harmonious
versification, particularly of the narrative kind, in which Pope stands
unrivalled by, either ancients, or moderns.
A man
may conclude his studies with Byron, who is full of brilliant errors; but, to begin
with him, is the very way to make the imagination take the lead of judgment.
Lord Byron spoils a man for harder study.
Do
not you read Lord Byron, then? enquired one of the tigers; but Harmless was in
the constant habit of shamming absence of mind, whenever people asked him
stupid questions.
I
want to consult you, said Harmless to Hairbrain, who instantly declared himself
all attention.