O, cousin, you know him--the fine gentleman they
talk of so much in town.
--Wycherly's Dancing Master.
By the bright days of my youth, there is something truly delightful in
the quick motion of four post-horses. In France, where one's steeds are
none of the swiftest, the pleasures of travelling are not quite so great
as in England; still, however, to a man who is tired of one scene--
panting for another--in love with excitement, and not yet wearied of its
pursuit--the turnpike road is more grateful than the easiest chair ever
invented, and the little prison we entitle a carriage, more cheerful than
the state-rooms of Devonshire House.
We reached Calais in safety, and in good time, the next day.
"Will Monsieur dine in his rooms, or at the table d'hote?"
"In his rooms, of course," said Bedos, indignantly deciding the question.
A French valet's dignity is always involved in his master's.
"You are too good, Bedos," said I, "I shall dine at the table d'hote--who
have you there in general?"
"Really," said the garcon, "we have such a swift succession of guests,
that we seldom see the same faces two days running. We have as many
changes as an English administration."
"You are facetious," said I.
"No," returned the garcon, who was a philosopher as well as a wit; "no,
my digestive organs are very weak, and par consequence, I am naturally
melancholy--Ah, ma fois tres triste!" and with these words the
sentimental plate-changer placed his hand--I can scarcely say, whether on
his heart, or his stomach, and sighed bitterly!
"How long," said I, "does it want to dinner?" My question restored the
garcon to himself.
"Two, hours, Monsieur, two hours," and twirling his serviette with an air
of exceeding importance, off went my melancholy acquaintance to
compliment new customers, and complain of his digestion.
After I had arranged myself and my whiskers--two very distinct affairs--
yawned three times, and drank two bottles of soda water, I strolled into
the town. As I was sauntering along leisurely enough, I heard my name
pronounced behind me. I turned, and saw Sir Willoughby Townshend, an old
baronet of an antediluvian age--a fossil witness of the wonders of
England, before the deluge of French manners swept away ancient customs,
and created, out of the wrecks of what had been, a new order of things,
and a new race of mankind.
"Ah! my dear Mr. Pelham, how are you? and the worthy Lady Frances, your
mother, and your excellent father, all well?--I'm delighted to hear it.
Russelton," continued Sir Willoughby, turning to a middle-aged man, whose
arm he held, "you remember Pelham--true Whig--great friend of
Sheridan's?--let me introduce his son to you. Mr. Russelton, Mr. Pelham;
Mr. Pelham, Mr. Russelton."
At the name of the person thus introduced to me, a thousand recollections
crowded upon my mind; the contemporary and rival of Napoleon--the
autocrat of the great world of fashion and cravats--the mighty genius
before whom aristocracy had been humbled and ton abashed--at whose nod
the haughtiest noblesse of Europe had quailed--who had introduced, by a
single example, starch into neckcloths, and had fed the pampered appetite
of his boot-tops on champagne--whose coat and whose friend were cut with
an equal grace--and whose name was connected with every triumph that the
world's great virtue of audacity could achieve--the illustrious, the
immortal Russelton, stood before me. I recognised in him a congenial,
though a superior spirit, and I bowed with a profundity of veneration,
with which no other human being has ever inspired me.
Mr. Russelton seemed pleased with my evident respect, and returned my
salutation with a mock dignity which enchanted me. He offered me his
disengaged arm; I took it with transport, and we all three proceeded up
the street.
"So," said Sir Willoughby--"so, Russelton, you like your quarters here;
plenty of sport among the English, I should think: you have not forgot
the art of quizzing; eh, old fellow?"
"Even if I had," said Mr. Russelton, speaking very slowly, "the sight of
Sir Willoughby Townshend would be quite sufficient to refresh my memory.
Yes," continued the venerable wreck, after a short pause,--"yes, I like
my residence pretty well; I enjoy a calm conscience, and a clean shirt:
what more can man desire? I have made acquaintance with a tame parrot,
and I have taught it to say, whenever an English fool with a stiff neck
and a loose swagger passes him--'True Briton--true Briton.' I take care
of my health, and reflect upon old age. I have read Gil Blas, and the
Whole Duty of Man; and, in short, what with instructing my parrot, and
improving myself, I think I pass my time as creditably and decorously as
the Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A--v--ly himself. So you have
just come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham?"
"I left it yesterday!"
"Full of those horrid English, I suppose; thrusting their broad hats and
narrow minds into every shop in the Palais Royal--winking their dull eyes
at the damsels of the counter, and manufacturing their notions of French
into a higgle for sous. Oh! the monsters!--they bring on a bilious attack
whenever I think of them: the other day one of them accosted me, and
talked me into a nervous fever about patriotism and roast pigs: luckily I
was near my own house, and reached it before the thing became fatal; but
only think, had I wandered too far when he met me! at my time of life,
the shock would have been too great; I should certainly have perished in
a fit. I hope, at least, they would have put the cause of my death in my
epitaph--'Died, of an Englishman, John Russelton, Esq., aged,' Pah! You
are not engaged, Mr. Pelham; dine with me to-day; Willoughby and his
umbrella are coming."
"Volontiers," said I, "though I was going to make observations on men and
manners at the table d'hote of my hotel."
"I am most truly grieved," replied Mr. Russelton, "at depriving you of so
much amusement. With me you will only find some tolerable Lafitte, and an
anomalous dish my cuisiniere calls a mutton chop. It will be curious to
see what variation in the monotony of mutton she will adopt to-day. The
first time I ordered "a chop," I thought I had amply explained every
necessary particular; a certain portion of flesh, and a gridiron: at
seven o'clock, up came a cotelette panee, faute de mieux. I swallowed the
composition, drowned as it was, in a most pernicious sauce. I had one
hour's sleep, and the nightmare, in consequence. The next day, I imagined
no mistake could be made: sauce was strictly prohibited; all extra
ingredients laid under a most special veto, and a natural gravy gently
recommended: the cover was removed, and lo! a breast of mutton, all bone
and gristle, like the dying gladiator! This time my heart was too full
for wrath; I sat down and wept! To-day will be the third time I shall
make the experiment, if French cooks will consent to let one starve upon
nature. For my part, I have no stomach left now for art: I wore out my
digestion in youth, swallowing Jack St. Leger's suppers, and Sheridan's
promises to pay. Pray, Mr. Pelham, did you try Staub when you were at
Paris?"
"Yes; and thought him one degree better than Stultz, whom, indeed, I have
long condemned, as fit only for minors at Oxford, and majors in the
infantry."
"True," said Russelton, with a very faint smile at a pun, somewhat in his
own way, and levelled at a tradesman, of whom he was, perhaps, a little
jealous--"True; Stultz aims at making gentlemen, not coats; there is a
degree of aristocratic pretension in his stitches, which is vulgar to an
appalling degree. You can tell a Stultz coat any where, which is quite
enough to damn it: the moment a man's known by an invariable cut, and
that not original, it ought to be all over with him. Give me the man who
makes the tailor, not the tailor who makes the man."
"Right, by G--!" cried Sir Willoughby, who was as badly dressed as one of
Sir E--'s dinners. "Right; just my opinion. I have always told my
Schneiders to make my clothes neither in the fashion nor out of it; to
copy no other man's coat, and to cut their cloth according to my natural
body, not according to an isosceles triangle. Look at this coat, for
instance," and Sir Willoughby Townshend made a dead halt, that we might
admire his garment the more accurately.
"Coat!" said Russelton, with an appearance of the most naive surprise,
and taking hold of the collar, suspiciously, by the finger and thumb;
"coat, Sir Willoughby! do you call this thing a coat?"