I am a bit of every thing; but somehow all my accomplishments are
so jumbled, and each is so minute in itself, that they are patched
together in my mind like the squares of a harlequin's jacket, only
to make their master ridiculous. Here, however, comes Sir Timothy
himself. You are my clerk--keep the staff and the joke up, and you
shall be repaid with some of Tim's very best Lafitte, or I'm an ass."
"Good-day, sir," said Sir Timothy, somewhat warmed with the
intelligence given him by the butler, and the exertion of trotting
him across his lawn. "My servant tells me that you are here for
the purpose of deciding upon the line of some new branch of the
Paddington Canal;--it is very extraordinary I never should have heard
of it!"
"You ought, Sir Timothy," said Daly, "to have been apprised of it. Do
you understand much of ground-plans, Sir Timothy?"
"No, sir; very little indeed," replied the worthy knight.
"So much the better," I heard Daly distinctly say, for he could not
resist an impulse. "If you will just cast your eye over this paper, I
will endeavour to explain, sir. A, there you see;--A is your house,
Sir Timothy; B is the conservatory; C is the river,--that perhaps you
will think strange?"
"No, sir," said Sir Timothy, "not at all."
"Then, sir, D, E, F, and G are the points, from which I take the
direct line from the bridge at Brentford; and thus you perceive, by
continuing that line to the corner of Twickenham churchyard, where
the _embouchure_ is to be----"
"The what, sir?" said Sir Timothy.
"The mouth, sir,--the entrance to the new branch, the canal will clip
your conservatory diagonally to the extent of about eighteen feet six
inches, and leave it deprived of its original dimensions somewhat in
the shape of a cocked-hat box. You see--so, sir,--H, I, K."
"I give you my honour, sir," said Sir Timothy, "such a thing would
drive Lady Dod mad!"
"I admit it would be a dreadful cut," said Daly; "and then the
noise of the bargemen and the barge-horses close under the
windows,--clanking chains,--horrible oaths,--disgusting language----"
"My daughters' bed-rooms are at that end of the house," said Sir
Timothy. "What am I to do, sir? What interest can I make? Are the
magistrates--are the----"
"No, sir," said Daly, with a face of the most imperturbable gravity;
"all that would be perfectly unavailing. The decision as to the
line rests entirely with me; and, as I said to Mr. Higgins, my
assistant,--Higgins," continued he, calling me to him, "let me
present you to Sir Timothy Dod,--I said to Higgins, what a pity it
would be to disturb the Dods,--what a cut at their comforts;--it goes
against my heart to send in the plan, but the line is so decidedly
the shortest. 'Ah, sir!' says Higgins to me, with a deep sigh, I
assure you,--'but _do_ consider the conservatory.'"
"I'm sure, sir," said Sir Timothy, extending his hand to me, "I feel
very grateful for your kindness. It would indeed be a sad thing; and
must the decision be made so soon?"
"Immediately, sir," said Daly; "but we are keeping you out here in
the open air without your hat. I am afraid, sir, you may catch cold."
"Oh no, sir," said Sir Timothy; "don't mind that. Perhaps, gentlemen,
you will do me the kindness to walk in. The servants shall take care
of your boat. I will introduce you to Lady Dod, she must try what
_her_ influence can effect, and I am sure you have the disposition
to serve us. Here, Philip, James, George, some of you, come and make
this boat fast, and stay down by her while the gentlemen stop. Let me
show you the way, gentlemen."
I never shall forget the look which Daly gave me as we followed the
respectable knight to his lady and family,--the triumphant chuckle
of his countenance, the daring laugh in his eyes; while I, who only
saw in the success of the design the beginning of a signal defeat,
scarce knew whether I was walking on my head or my heels: resistance
or remonstrance was equally vain under the circumstances, and in a
few minutes we found ourselves in the presence of Lady Dod and her
daughters, breathing an atmosphere redolent with the fumes of the
departed dinner, and the still remaining fruit and wine. I never was
so abashed in my life. My friend, on the contrary, seemed perfectly
at home; and, placing himself beside her ladyship, made a sign for me
to occupy a vacant seat between the young ladies. Never did I see two
more lovely girls.
The courtesy of Sir Timothy, the sweetness of my lady, and the
constrained fun of the girls, were, I admit, when I recovered my
composure in some degree, a good treat; while Daly, "helping himself
and passing the bottle" to _me_, kept up a fire of conversation,
which, if the senior Dods had known anything of the world, would
have convinced them in ten minutes that the part of acting
deputy-assistant measurer was an assumed one. It certainly was a
sight to see the respectable lady of the house pleading the cause of
her conservatory, and piling the choicest fruits upon the plate of
the arbiter of her destinies, while Fanny's civilities to me were
displayed with equal zeal and far superior grace. I would have given
the world to have owned the truth; and I am sure, if we had done
so, we should not have been the worse received; for, independently
of the excellence of the joke and the impudence of the proceeding,
the relief which would have been afforded to the minds of the whole
Doddery would have ensured us their eternal favour and affection.
Daly having finished the claret, and taken a last "stopper over all"
(as the sailors say) of sherry, gave me the signal for departure. I,
too, gladly took the hint, and drew back my chair. Fanny looked as if
she thought we were in a hurry; however, it was getting late, and my
master had some distance to pull. We accordingly rose and prepared
to take leave. I bowed my adieu to the girls, and shook hands with
Fanny, at which I saw Augusta toss back her head and throw up her
sparkling eyes, as much as to say, "Well, Fanny," meaning exactly the
reverse. I bowed low to my Lady Dod, and Sir Timothy attended us to
our boat. I stepped in; Daly was at the bow; Sir Timothy desired the
man who had been left in charge of the funny to go away; and then
I saw, with doubt and trepidation, the respectable dupe of Daly's
consummate impudence shake him by the hand with a peculiarity of
manner which particularly attracted my attention. I saw him in the
execution of this manœuvre press upon his palm a bank-note, with a
flourish in the corner like the top of a raspberry tartlet.
I never was more agitated. If Daly took this bribe for saving
the corner of the conservatory, it was an act of swindling. The
strawberries, grapes, and claret, were fit matters of joke, although
I admit that it was carrying the joke a little too far; but
money,--if he took _that_, I was resolved to avow the whole affair
to Sir Timothy, show up my companion, and leave him to the fate
he deserved. Judge my mingled delight and horror when I heard him
say,----
"Sir! what I have done in your house or in your society to induce
you to believe me capable of taking a bribe to compromise my duty,
I really don't know. Mr. Higgins, I call you to witness that this
person has had the insolence to put a fifty-pound bank-note into my
hand. Witness, too, the manner in which I throw it back to him." Here
he suited the word to the action. "Learn, old gentleman," continued
he, with an anger so well feigned that I almost believed him in
earnest, "that neither fifty nor fifty thousand pounds will warp
an honest man from the duty he owes to his employers; and so, sir,
good-night, and rely upon it, your conservatory goes,--rely upon it,
Sir Timothy;--it comes in the right line, and the short line, and
down it goes--and I feel it incumbent on me not only to tell the
history of your petty bribe, but to prove my unimpeachable integrity
by running the canal right under your dining-room windows; and so,
sir, good-night."
Saying which he jumped into the boat, and, pulling away manfully,
left his unfortunate victim in all the horrors of defeated
corruption, and the certainty of the destruction of his most
favourite object, for the preservation of which he had actually
crammed his betrayers, and committed himself to a perfect stranger.
THE BALLET.
Not being at this present writing in love with any opera dancer, we
can see with "eyes unprejudiced," that the performances to which we
allude (_ballets_) are in the highest possible degree objectionable
as referring to taste, and disgusting as relating to decency.
First, then, as to taste--nobody upon earth, we should think, can be
bold enough to assert that the horizontal elevation of the female
leg, and the rapid twisting of the body--the subsequent attitude and
expansion of the arms--are graceful--we mean merely as to dancing. No
man certainly, except those whose intellects and appetites are more
debased than those of men in general, can feel either amusement or
gratification in such an exhibition.
Woman is so charming, so fascinating, so winning, and so ruling by
the attractions which properly belong to her--by her delicacy--her
gentleness--and her modesty--that we honestly confess, whenever we
see a lovely girl doing that which degrades her, which must lower her
even in her own estimation, we feel a pang of regret, and lament to
find conduct applauded to the very echo which reduces the beautiful
creatures before us to a mere animal in a state of exhibition.
But if there really be men who take delight in the "_Ionici motus_"
of the Italian Opera, surely _our own_ women should be spared the
sight of such indelicacies: nothing which the Roman satirist mentions
as tending to destroy the delicate feelings of the female sex could
possibly be worse than those which week after week may be seen in the
Haymarket.
We have strenuously attacked, for its unnatural indecency, the custom
of dressing actresses in men's attire upon the English stage, but a
lady in small clothes is better on a public theatre than a lady with
no clothes at all.
We are quite ready to admit, without in the smallest degree
lamenting, the superiority of foreigners over the natives of England
in the art and mystery of cutting capers, and if the ladies and
gentlemen annually imported jumped as high as the volteurs in
Potier's "Danaides" at the Porte St. Martin, neither would our envy
nor our grief be excited; but we certainly do eye with mistrust and
jealousy the avidity with which "foreign manners," "foreign customs,"
and "foreign morality," are received into our dear and much-loved
country.
While custom sanctions the nightly commission of waltzing in our best
society, it perhaps is only matter of consolation to the matrons who
permit their daughters to be operated upon in the mysteries of that
dance, to see that women can be found to commit grosser indelicacies
even on a public stage.
A correspondent of the _Spectator_, in the 67th Number, Vol. I.,
describes accurately under another name the mechanical part of the
foreign waltz of these days, and says:--"I suppose this diversion was
first invented to keep up a good understanding between young men and
women; but I am sure, had you been here, you would have seen great
matter for speculation."
We say so now; but the waltz has proved a bad speculation to the
very dowagers who allow it to be committed; for, as can be proved
by reference to fashionable parish registers, there have been fewer
marriages in good society by one half, annually upon the average,
since the introduction of this irritating indecency into England.
If, therefore, the public dances at the King's Theatre are looked at,
merely as authorities for the conduct of private balls, the matter is
still worse; but we have too high an opinion of our countrywomen in
general to think this of them, and we are sure that we are speaking
the sentiment of the most amiable and the most charming when we raise
the voice of rebuke against the dress and deportment of the Italian
_Corps de Ballet_.
One advocate we are certain to have in the person of an old
gentlewoman next to whom we sat last Saturday se'nnight, who clearly
had never been at the Opera during the whole course of her long and
doubtlessly respectable life, till that very evening.
When the ballet commenced, she appeared delighted; but when one of
the principal females began to elevate her leg beyond the horizontal,
she began evidently to fidget, and make a sort of see-saw motion with
her head and body, in pure agitation; at every lofty jump I heard
her ejaculate a little "Oh!" at a somewhat lengthened _pirouette_
she exclaimed, _sotte voce_, "Ah!" with a sigh; but at length, when
a tremendous whirl had divested the greater part of the performer's
figure of drapery--the band ceasing at the moment to give time to the
twirl--the poor old lady screamed out, "Oh, la!"--which was heard all
over the house, and caused a shout of laughter at the expense of a
poor, sober-minded Englishwoman, whose nerves had not been screwed
up to a sufficiently fashionable pitch to witness what she saw was a
perfect, but thought must have been an accidental exposure, of more
of a woman's person than is usually given to the gaze of the million.
Whitlings and whipsters, dandies, demireps, and dancers may rank us
with our fat friend in the tabby silk, to whom we have just referred,
if they please; but we will always run the risk of being counted
unfashionable rather than immoral.
So few people moving in the world take the trouble of thinking for
themselves, that it is necessary to open their eyes to their own
improprieties; the natural answer to a question, "How can you suffer
your daughters to witness such exhibitions?" is, "Why, everybody
else goes, why should not they?" And then, the numerous avocations
of an Opera-house evening divert the attention from the stage. True;
but there is a class of women differently situated, who are subject
to the nuisance, merely because those who do not care about it are
indifferent to its correction; we mean the daughters and wives of
respectable aldermen and drysalters, and tradesmen of a superior
class, who are rattled and shaken to the Opera once or twice in the
season, in a hackney-coach, and come into the pit all over finery,
with long straws abstracted from "their carriage," sticking in their
flounces.
Who is there that does not know that the Lady Patronesses of Almack's
have interdicted pantaloons, tight or loose, at their assemblies?
We have seen a MS. instruction (which, alas! never was printed)
from this mighty conclave, announcing their fiat in these words:
"_Gentlemen will not be admitted without breeches and stockings!_"
No sooner was this mandate, in whatever terms the published one was
couched, fulminated from King Street, than the "lean and slippered
pantaloon" was exterminated, and, as the Directresses directed,
"short hose" were the order of the day.
If the same lovely and honourable ladies were to take the Opera House
under their purifying control, and issue, in the same spirit at
least, an order that "Ladies will not be permitted to appear without
----" (whatever may be the proper names for the drapery of females)
we are quite convinced that they would render a great service to
society, and extricate the national character from a reproach which
the tacit endurance of such grossnesses has, in the minds of all
moderate people, unfortunately cast upon it at present.--_John Bull_,
1823.
TOLL-GATES AND THEIR KEEPERS.
Few persons can have passed through life, or London, without having
experienced more or less insult from the authoritative manner and
coarse language of the fellows who keep the different toll-bars round
the metropolis; but even were those persons uniformly civil and
well-behaved, the innumerable demands which they are authorised to
make, and the necessary frequency of their conversation and appeals
to the traveller, are of themselves enough to provoke the impatience
of the most placid passenger in Christendom.
[Illustration: AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.
Hook, in his letter to Broderip (facsimile given elsewhere) suggests
that as they are going to Ascot races _tête-à-tête_, it might be as
well to speak of it as _neck-and-neck_. A rough sketch is enclosed of
the Zoological Gardens, Hook pointing with pride to the _necks_ of
the giraffes.]
We will select one line of about three or four miles, which will
answer by way of an example of what we mean: A man, driving himself
(without a servant), starts from Bishopsgate-street for Kilburn. The
day is cold and rainy--his fingers are benumbed; his two coats
buttoned up; his money in tight pantaloon-pockets; his horse restive,
apt to kick if the reins touch his tail; his gloves soaked with wet;
and himself half-an-hour too late for dinner. He has to pull up in
the middle of the street in Shoreditch, and pay a toll;--he means to
return, therefore he takes a ticket, letter A. On reaching Shoreditch
Church, he turns into the Curtain Road, pulls up again, drags off
his wet glove with his teeth, his other hand being fully occupied in
holding up the reins and the whip; pays again; gets another ticket,
number 482; drags on his glove; buttons up his coats, and rattles
away into Old Street Road; another gate; more pulling and poking, and
unbuttoning and squeezing. He pays, and takes another ticket, letter
L. The operation of getting all to rights takes place once more, nor
is it repeated until he reaches Goswell Street Road; here he performs
all the ceremonies we have already described, for a fourth time, and
gets a fourth ticket, 732, which is to clear him through the gates in
the New Road, as far as the bottom of Pentonville;--arrived there,
he performs once more all the same evolutions, and procures a fifth
ticket, letter X, which, unless some sinister accident occur, is to
carry him clear to the Paddington Road; but opening the fine space of
the Regent's Park, at the top of Portland Street, the north breeze
blowing fresh from Hampstead, bursts upon his buggy, and all the
tickets which he had received from all the gates which he has paid,
and which he had stuffed _seriatim_ between the cushion and lining
of his dennet, suddenly rise, like a covey of partridges, from the
corner, and he sees the dingy vouchers for his expenditure proceeding
down Portland Street at full speed. They are rescued, however,
muddy and filthy as they are, by the sweeper of the crossing, who
is, of course, rewarded by the driver for his attention with a
larger sum than he had originally disbursed for all the gates; and
when deposited again in the vehicle, not in their former order of
arrangement, the unfortunate traveller spends at least ten minutes
at the next gate in selecting the particular ticket which is there
required to insure his free passage.
Conquering all these difficulties, he reaches Paddington Gate, where
he pays afresh, and obtains a ticket, 691, with which he proceeds
swimmingly until stopped again at Kilburn, to pay a toll, which would
clear him all the way to Stanmore, if he were not going to dine at
a house three doors beyond the very turnpike, where he pays for the
seventh time, and where he obtains a seventh ticket, letter G.
He dines and "wines;" and the bee's-wing from the citizen's port
gives new velocity to Time. The dennet was ordered at eleven;
and, although neither tides nor the old gentleman just mentioned,
wait for any man, except Tom Hill, horses and dennets will. It is
nearer midnight than eleven when the visitor departs, even better
buttoned up than in the morning, his lamps giving cheerfulness to the
equipage, and light to the road; and his horse whisking along (his
nostrils pouring forth breath like smoke from safety-valves), and the
whole affair actually in motion at the rate of ten miles per hour.
Stopped at Paddington. "Pay here?"--"L."--"Won't do."--"G?"--(The
horse fidgety all this time, and the driver trying to read the dirty
tickets by the little light which is emitted through the _tops_ of
his lamps,)--"X?"--"It's no letter, I tell you?"--"482,"--"No." At
this juncture the clock strikes twelve--the driver is told that
his reading and rummaging are alike useless, for that a new day
has begun. The coats are, therefore, unbuttoned--the gloves pulled
off--the money to be fished out--the driver discovers that his last
shilling was paid to the ostler at the inn where his horse was fed
and that he must change a sovereign to pay the gate. This operation
the toll-keeper performs; nor does the driver discover, until the
morning, that one of the half-crowns and four of the shillings which
he has received, are bad. Satisfied, however, with what has occurred,
he determines at all hazards to drive home over the stones,
and avoid all further importunities from the turnpike-keepers.
Accordingly, away he goes along Oxford Street, over the pavement,
working into one hole and tumbling into another, like a ball on a
_trou madame_ table, until, at the end of George Street, St. Giles's,
snap goes his axle-tree; away goes his horse, dashing the dennet
against a post at the corner of Plumtree Street, leaving the driver,
with his collar-bone and left arm broken, on the pavement, at the
mercy of two or three popish bricklayers and a couple of women of the
town, who humanely lift him to the coach-stand, and deposit him in
a hackney-chariot, having previously cut off the skirts of both his
coats, and relieved him, not only of his loose change, but of a gold
repeater, a snuff-box, and a pocket-book full of notes and memoranda,
of no use but to the owner.
The unhappy victim at length reaches home, in agonies from the
continued roughness of the pre-adamite pavement, is put to
bed--doctors are sent for, the fractures are reduced, and in seven
weeks he is able to crawl into his counting-house to write a cheque
for a new dennet, and give his people orders to shoot his valuable
horse, who has so dreadfully injured himself on the fatal night as to
be past recovery.
TOM SHERIDAN'S ADVENTURE.[66]
Tom Sheridan was staying at Lord Craven's at Benham (or rather
Hampstead), and one day proceeded on a shooting excursion, like
Hawthorn, with only "his dog and his gun," on foot, and unattended by
companion or keeper; the sport was bad--the birds few and shy--and he
walked and walked in search of game, until, unconsciously, he entered
the domain of some neighbouring squire.
A very short time after, he perceived advancing towards him, at the
top of his speed, a jolly, comfortable-looking gentleman, followed
by a servant, armed, as it appeared, for conflict. Tom took up a
position, and waited the approach of the enemy.
"Hallo! you sir," said the squire, when within half-earshot, "what
are you doing here, sir, eh?"
"I'm shooting, sir," said Tom.
"Do you know where you are, sir?" said the squire.
"I'm here, sir," said Tom.
"Here, sir," said the squire, growing angry; "and do you know where
here _is_, sir? These, sir, are _my_ manors; what d'ye think of that,
sir, eh?"
"Why, sir, as to your manners," said Tom, "I can't say they seem over
agreeable."
"I don't want any jokes, sir," said the squire, "I hate jokes. Who
are you, sir?--what are you?"
"Why, sir," said Tom, "my name is Sheridan--I am staying at Lord
Craven's--I have come out for some sport--I have not had any, and I
am not aware that I am trespassing."
"Sheridan!" said the squire, cooling a little; "oh, from Lord
Craven's, eh? Well, sir, I could not know _that_, sir--I----'
"No, sir," said Tom, "but you need not have been in a passion."
"Not in a passion! Mr. Sheridan," said the squire, "you don't know,
sir, what these preserves have cost me, and the pains and trouble I
have been at with them; it's all very well for _you_ to talk, but if
you were in _my_ place I should like to know what _you_ would say
upon such an occasion."
"Why, sir," said Tom, "if I were in _your_ place, under all the
circumstances, I should say--'I am convinced, Mr. Sheridan, you did
not mean to annoy me; and, as you look a good deal tired, perhaps
you'll come up to my house and take some refreshment?'"
The squire was hit hard by this nonchalance, and (as the newspapers
say), "it is needless to add," acted upon Sheridan's suggestion.