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?”