It appears to be a law of natural history that every generation
produces and throws out from the mob of society a few conspicuous men,
that pass under the general appellation of "men about town." Michael
Angelo Taylor was one of those remarkable individuals whom everyone was
glad to know; and those who had not that privilege were ever talking
about him, although he was considered by many a bit of a bore. Michael
Angelo was a Member of Parliament for many years, and generally sat in
one of the most important committees of the House of Commons; for he
was a man of authority and an attractive speaker. In appearance he was
one of that sort of persons whom you could not pass in the streets
without exclaiming, "Who can that be?" His face blushed with port
wine, the purple tints of which, by contrast, caused his white hair to
glitter with silvery brightness; he wore leather breeches, top boots,
blue coat, white waistcoat, and an unstarched and exquisitely white
neckcloth, the whole surmounted by a very broad-brimmed beaver;--such
was the dress of the universally known Michael Angelo Taylor. If you
met him in society, or at the clubs, he was never known to salute you
but with the invariable phrase, "What news have you?" Upon one
occasion, riding through St. James's Park, he met the great Minister,
Mr. Pitt, coming from Wimbledon, where he resided. He asked Mr. Pitt
the usual question, upon which the Premier replied, "I have not yet
seen the morning papers."
"Oh, that won't do, Mr. Pitt. I am Sure that you know something, and
will not tell me." Mr. Pitt good-humouredly replied: "Well, then, I am
going to a Cabinet Council, and I will consult my colleagues whether I
can divulge State secrets to you or not." Upon another occasion, on
entering Boodle's, of which he was a member, he observed the celebrated
Lord Westmoreland at table, where the noble lord was doing justice to a
roast fowl. Taylor, of course, asked him the news of the day, and Lord
Westmoreland coolly told the little newsmonger to go into the other
room and leave him to finish his dinner, promising to join him after he
had done. The noble Lord kept his word, and the first thing he heard
from Mr. Taylor was, "Well, my lord, what news? what had you for
dinner?"
His lordship replied, "A Welsh leg of mutton." "What then--what then?"
"Don't you think a leg of mutton enough for any man?" "Yes, my lord,
but you did not eat it all." "Yes, Taylor, I did." "Well, I think you
have placed the leg of mutton in some mysterious place, for I see no
trace of it in your lean person."
Lord Westmoreland was remarkable for an appetite which made nothing of
a respectable joint, or a couple of fowls.
I know not whether Mr. Poole, the author of Paul Pry, had Michael
Angelo in his head when he wrote that well-known comedy; but certainly
he might have sat for a character whose intrusive and inquisitive
habits were so notorious, that people on seeing him approach always
prepared for a string of almost impertinent interrogations.
Another remarkable man about town was Colonel Cooke, commonly called
Kangaroo Cooke, who was for many years the private aide-de-camp and
secretary of H. R. H. the Duke of York. He was the brother of
General Sir George Cooke and of the beautiful Countess of Cardigan,
mother of the gallant Lord Cardigan, and the Ladies Howe, Baring, and
Lucan. During his career he had been employed in diplomatic
negotiations with the French, previous to the peace of Paris. He was
in the best society, and always attracted attention by his dandified
mode of dress.
Colonel Armstrong, another pet of the Duke of York, was known, when in
the Coldstream Guards, to be a thorough hard-working soldier, and his
non-commissioned officers were so perfect, that nearly all the
adjutants of the different regiments of the line were educated by him.
He was a strict disciplinarian, but strongly opposed to corporal
punishment, and used to boast that during the whole time that he
commanded the regiment only two men had been flogged.
Colonel Mackinnon, commonly called "Dan," was an exceedingly well-made
man, and remarkable for his physical powers in running, jumping,
climbing, and such bodily exercises as demanded agility and muscular
strength. He used to amuse his friends by creeping over the furniture
of a room like a monkey. It was very common for his companions to make
bets with him: for example, that he would not be able to climb up the
ceiling of a room, or scramble over a certain house-top. Grimaldi, the
famous clown, used to say, "Colonel Mackinnon has only to put on the
motley costume, and he would totally eclipse me."
Mackinnon was famous for practical jokes; which were, however, always
played in a gentlemanly way. Before landing at St. Andero's, with some
other officers who had been on leave in England, he agreed to personate
the Duke of York, and make the Spaniards believe that his Royal
Highness was amongst them. On nearing the shore, a royal standard was
hoisted at the masthead, and Mackinnon disembarked, wearing the star of
his shako on his left breast, and accompanied by his friends, who
agreed to play the part of aides-de-camp to royalty. The Spanish
authorities were soon informed of the arrival of the Royal
Commander-in-Chief of the British army; so they received Mackinnon with
the usual pomp and circumstance attending such occasions. The mayor of
the place, in honour of the illustrious arrival, gave a grand banquet,
which terminated with the appearance of a huge bowl of punch. Whereupon
Dan, thinking that the joke had gone far enough, suddenly dived his
head into the porcelain vase, and threw his heels into the air. The
surprise and indignation of the solemn Spaniards was such, that they
made a most intemperate report of the hoax that had been played on them
to Lord Wellington; Dan, however, was ultimately forgiven, after a
severe reprimand.
Another of his freaks very nearly brought him to a court-martial. Lord
Wellington was curious about visiting a convent near Lisbon, and the
lady abbess made no difficulty; Mackinnon, hearing this, contrived to
get clandestinely within the sacred walls, and it was generally
supposed that it was neither his first nor his second visit. At all
events, when Lord Wellington arrived, Dan Mackinnon was to be seen
among the nuns, dressed out in their sacred costume, with his head and
whiskers shaved, and as he possessed good features, he was declared to
be one of the best-looking amongst those chaste dames. It was supposed
that this adventure, which was known to Lord Byron, suggested a similar
episode in Don Juan, the scene being laid in the East. I might say
more about Dan's adventures in the convent, but have no wish to be
scandalous.
Another dandy of the day was Sir Lumley Skeffington, who used to paint
his face, so that he looked like a French toy; he dressed a la
Robespierre, and practised other follies, although the consummate old
fop was a man of literary attainments, and a great admirer and patron
of the drama. Skeffington was remarkable for his politeness and courtly
manners; in fact, he was invited everywhere, and was very popular with
the ladies. You always knew of his approach by an avant-courier of
sweet smells; and when he advanced a little nearer, you might suppose
yourself in the atmosphere of a perfumer's shop. He is thus
immortalized by Byron, in the English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,
alluding to the play written by Skeffington, The Sleeping Beauty:--
"In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise,
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize:
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise,
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays
Renowned alike; whose genius ne'er confines
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs,
Nor sleeps with 'sleeping beauties' but anon
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,
While poor John Bull, bewildered with the scene,
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean;
But as some hands applaud--a venal few--
Rather than sleep, John Bull applauds it too."
Long Wellesley Pole was a fashionable who distinguished himself by
giving sumptuous dinners at Wanstead, where he owned one of the finest
mansions in England. He used to ask his friends to dine with him after
the opera at midnight; the drive from London being considered
appetisant. Every luxury that money could command was placed before
his guests at this unusual hour of the night. He married Miss Tylney
Pole, an heiress of fifty thousand a-year, yet died quite a beggar: in
fact, he would have starved, had it not been for the charity of his
cousin, the present Duke of Wellington, who allowed him three hundred
a-year.