I am a country Gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a
Parliament-man for a certain borough; having had the offer of as many
votes as General T. at the general election in 1812. [1] But I was all
for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I
married a middle-aged Maid of Honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall
till last Season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of
Waltzaway (a distant relation of my Spouse) to pass the winter in town.
Thinking no harm, and our Girls being come to a marriageable (or, as
they call it, 'marketable') age, and having besides a Chancery suit
inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old
chariot,--of which, by the bye, my wife grew so ashamed in less than a
week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might
mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the
inside--that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe,
her partner-general and Opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s
dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the
last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's,
expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, Cotillons, reels, and all
the old paces to the newest tunes, But, judge of my surprise, on
arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the
loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and
his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round,
and round, to a d----d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded
me of the "Black Joke," only more "'affettuoso'"[1] till it made me
quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By and by they stopped a
bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down:--but no; with Mrs. H.'s
hand on his shoulder, "'Quam familiariter'"[2] (as Terence said, when I
was at school,) they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like
two cock-chafers spitted on the same bodkin. I asked what all this
meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a
name I never heard but in the 'Vicar of Wakefield', though her mother
would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach,) said, "L--d! Mr.
Hornem, can't you see they're valtzing?" or waltzing (I forget which);
and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and
round-abouted it till supper-time. Now that I know what it is, I like it
of all things, and so does Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and
four times overturned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary
steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, that having a turn
for rhyme, tastily displayed in some election ballads, and songs in
honour of all the victories (but till lately I have had little practice
in that way), I sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq.,
and a few hints from Dr. Busby, (whose recitations I attend, and am
monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of delivering his father's late
successful "Drury Lane Address,")[1] I composed the following hymn,
wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the Public; whom,
nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics.