Jusqu’au revoir le ciel vous tienne tous en joie.--Moliere.
I was now pretty well tired of Garrett Park. Lady Roseville was going
to H--t--d, where I also had an invitation. Lord Vincent meditated an
excursion to Paris. Mr. Davison had already departed. Miss Trafford had
been gone, God knows how long, and I was not at all disposed to be left,
like “the last rose of summer,” in single blessedness at Garrett Park.
Vincent, Wormwood, and myself, all agreed to leave on the same day.
The morning of our departure arrived. We sat down to breakfast as usual.
Lord Vincent’s carriage was at the door; his groom was walking about his
favourite saddle horse.
“A beautiful mare that is of your’s,” said I, carelessly looking at it,
and reaching across the table to help myself to the pate de foie gras.
“Mare!” exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted with my mistake:
“I thought that you would have been better acquainted with your propria
quoe maribus.”
“Humph!” said Wormwood, “when I look at you I am always at least
reminded of the as in praoesenti!”
Lord Vincent drew up and looked unutterable anger. Wormwood went on with
his dry toast, and Lady Roseville, who that morning had, for a wonder,
come down to breakfast, good naturedly took off the bear. Whether or not
his ascetic nature was somewhat mollified by the soft smiles and
softer voice of the beautiful countess, I cannot pretend to say; but he
certainly entered into a conversation with her, not much rougher
than that of a less gifted individual might have been. They talked of
literature, Lord Byron, converzaziones, and Lydia White. [Note: Written
before the death of that lady.]
“Miss White,” said Lady Roseville, “has not only the best command
of language herself, but she gives language to other people. Dinner
parties, usually so stupid, are, at her house, quite delightful. I have
actually seen English people look happy, and one or two even almost
natural.”
“Ah!” said Wormwood, “that is indeed rare. With us every thing is
assumption. We are still exactly like the English suitor to Portia, in
the Merchant of Venice. We take our doublet from one country, our hose
from another, and our behaviour every where. Fashion with us is like
the man in one of Le Sage’s novels, who was constantly changing his
servants, and yet had but one suit of livery, which every new comer,
whether he was tall or short, fat or thin, was obliged to wear. We adopt
manners, however incongruous and ill suited to our nature, and thus
we always seem awkward and constrained. But Lydia White’s soirees are
indeed agreeable. I remember the last time I dined there we were six in
number, and though we were not blessed with the company of Lord Vincent,
the conversation was without ‘let or flaw.’ Every one, even S----, said
good things.”
“Indeed!” cried Lord Vincent; “and pray, Mr. Wormwood, what did you
say!”
“Why,” answered the poet, glancing with a significant sneer over
Vincent’s somewhat inelegant person, “I thought of your lordship’s
figure, and said--grace!”
“Hem--hem!--‘Gratia malorum tam infida est quam ipsi,’ as Pliny says,”
muttered Lord Vincent, getting up hastily, and buttoning his coat.
I took the opportunity of the ensuing pause to approach Lady Roseville,
and whisper my adieus. She was kind and even warm to me in returning
them; and pressed me, with something marvellously like sincerity, to
be sure to come and see her directly she returned to London. I soon
discharged the duties of my remaining farewells, and in less than
half an hour, was more than a mile distant from Garrett Park and its
inhabitants. I can’t say that for one, who, like me, is fond of being
made a great deal of, that there is any thing very delightful in those
visits into the country. It may be all well enough for married people,
who, from the mere fact of being married, are always entitled to certain
consideration, put--par exemple--into a bed-room, a little larger than a
dog kennel, and accommodated with a looking-glass, that does not distort
one’s features like a paralytic stroke. But we single men suffer a
plurality of evils and hard-ships, in entrusting ourselves to the
casualties of rural hospitality. We are thrust up into any attic
repository--exposed to the mercy of rats, and the incursions of
swallows. Our lavations are performed in a cracked basin, and we are so
far removed from human assistance, that our very bells sink into silence
before they reach half way down the stairs. But two days before I left
Garrett Park, I myself saw an enormous mouse run away with my almond
paste, without any possible means of resisting the aggression. Oh! the
hardships of a single man are beyond conception; and what is worse, the
very misfortune of being single deprives one of all sympathy. “A single
man can do this, and a single man ought to do that, and a single man may
be put here, and a single man may be sent there,” are maxims that I have
been in the habit of hearing constantly inculcated and never disputed
during my whole life; and so, from our fare and treatment being coarse
in all matters, they have at last grown to be all matters in course.