What do you think of Elliston the actor? I will tell you my opinion.
He is one of the most mercenary, selfish creatures I ever met with.
I once thought better of him; that was at the very beginning of our
acquaintance. I had absolutely been in love with the man ever since I
accompanied my mother to witness his performance in the comedy of _The
Honeymoon_. Elliston, in the character of the duke, appeared so very
manly, so very gentlemanlike, so everything which a man ought to be to
win a fair lady's heart, that I did not recover myself for more than a
fortnight.
One day, little Livius, of some Dragoon regiment which I have forgotten,
having only a sort of bowing, nodding acquaintance with him, met me in
Great Portland-street. He touched his hat and begged pardon for running
after me; but knowing my talent, he was anxious to obtain my opinion of
a little farce he was about to bring out at Drury-lane Theatre, under
the title of _Maid and Wife._
"Will you appoint a time to call on me, and read your piece?" said I.
"Yes, provided you promise to give me your frank and most candid opinion
of it, whether good or bad."
I promised to do this on my word, and nine o'clock on the next evening
was fixed for his reading the farce to me.
Livius was punctual; he read his little piece with spirit, and played
and sung the songs. They were borrowed from the French, as was the
farce, but Livius had adapted it with some taste to the English stage.
It was _un assez joli petit rien_, and I doubted not would have its run
for a fortnight at least. I expressed my approbation, at which Livius
did me the honour to appear very proud.
"Elliston himself is kind enough to play one of my characters, and the
others he has given to his very best performers."
"What a charming actor is Elliston," I remarked.
"Would you like to be acquainted with him?" said Livius.
"Of all things in the world," I replied. "The impression he made on me
when I was only thirteen years of age, I have not forgotten yet."
"If then," added Livius, "you will allow me to make up your party for
the play to-morrow, I have a private box at your service, and I will
invite the Honourable George Lamb to join us. Elliston plays in _Wild
Oats_, but he will come to us between the acts, or after the play,
I have no doubt. At any rate with your permission, we will all sup
together at my hotel in Dover Street. I have very good rooms there and
three pianofortes, on either of which I shall be delighted to hear you
play."
I assured him that I would hold myself in readiness at any hour he would
appoint to call for me.
"Will you be offended if I venture to introduce a young lady to you?"
Livius asked.
"Not at all, provided you permit me to cut her dead, in case her society
should not be to my taste."
"Certainly," said Livius; and after begging me to expect him in his own
carriage, at seven on the following evening, he left me.
Livius's little farce of _Maid and Wife_ was advertised for the
approaching Monday. On that day, Livius and I and a pretty, weak,
childish young lady found our way to a private box at Drury Lane
Theatre, just at the close of the first of _Wild Oats_. We were soon
joined by my own faithful Frederick's brother, the honourable George
Lamb, to whom I was presented by Livius. I immediately began to discuss
the merits and demerits of Frederick with my usual and abrupt frankness.
"Can anything be more ridiculous," I exclaimed, "than the rage which is
caused alone by your not returning a man's passion! Why blame one for
what really cannot be helped?"
"Very fine talking," retorted George Lamb, "but, in fact, love is the
most arbitrary passion we are susceptible of. If you torture a man he
must naturally hate you."
"Do you believe in God?" I asked.
"_Et vous, Madame?_" said George Lamb.
"I do indeed," I replied, "believe in his goodness, but not in his
vengeance. I dread and abhor the idea of offending him because I believe
he would forgive all my faults."
George Lamb looked incredulous.
"If I do really believe in a God, and a hereafter, would you have me
affect to be a disbeliever? Because there is an ironical smile on your
countenance."
"Not at all," replied George Lamb, with honest truth, or the resemblance
of it at least: "not at all; those who do believe in God are mean and
contemptible, when they feel ashamed of confessing their faith."
Take him all in all I rather like George Lamb, notwithstanding they say
he does eat too much dinner, which occasions him to drink too much wine
in order to wash too much dinner down. This does not however prevent his
being one of the frankest men I ever met with.
I did not altogether like Elliston in _Wild Oats._ He made too many
faces, and reminded me of the minor theatres, where grimace is in
considerable request. Perhaps also, since the time I fell in love with
him in _The Honeymoon_, he was all the worse for having presided over
a small theatre as manager for several years. He joined us after the
play, and being tipsy, which is generally the case with him, I thought
him very pleasant, although as I have since discovered there is not a
heavier, more matter-of-fact, stupid companion on earth than Elliston,
when he is sober.
I asked George Lamb if he had heard Mr. Livius's new piece.
"Part of it only; but, from what I saw, I think it must be a very lively
_petite comédie,_" answered Lamb.
Elliston made very free with us all, and especially with George Lamb.
As soon as the curtain dropped and we were all seated in the carriage,
Elliston got in a passion with Livius's coachman for not immediately
moving on.
"What the devil is the matter?" said he, "what detains your man? All
this fuss about a rascally three hundred pound-house and not twenty
carriages!"
"I told you Munden's day was over, and that he would not fill the house,
before you engaged him for to-night," said George Lamb.
"I say," answered Elliston, "Munden would have filled the house if it
had been a fine night."
"Not he," said George Lamb, "your crownation might, but not Munden!"
"Hold your tongue, you are a Whig," said Elliston; and George Lamb was
silent, after a grunt.
"But what in the name of the devil is your ass of a coachman keeping us
here for?" said Elliston.
"Why, Livius, I thought you piqued yourself on being at all times
remarkably well appointed."
Livius confessed he knew not what to make of it; and put out his head to
inquire of his footman what was the reason of being kept stationary.
The footman's voice was drowned by the vociferation of Elliston from the
opposite window.
"Where's Townsend, or any of the constables?"
A constable approached the carriage.
"Why the devil don't you manage better?" roared out Elliston; "why is
the road blocked up in this manner?"
"It is not blocked up at all, Mr. Elliston," answered the constable,
"it's nothing in the world but the coachman as is so drunk, he can't sit
on his box."
"God bless my soul!" said Livius, and then he called out again to his
footman to know what was the matter.
The footman either could not or did not choose to explain.
"Get you then on the box and drive us home, Jem," said Livius.
No sooner said than done. Jem, having mounted the box, entreated his
fellow servant to give up the reins.
"Touch my honour, touch my life," said the coachman, who absolutely
refused to part with the whip.
"D--n his rascally drunken soul!" said Elliston, trying to force open
the carriage-door. "I'll settle him! Trust me for having him off his
perch in half a second. Of all things I abhor a drunkard!"
"For God's sake, Elliston, be quiet," said George Lamb.
"You seem to take it perfectly easy," said I, to Lamb, "seeing that all
our precious necks are in danger!"
"We must take our chance," answered Lamb quietly. "The only thing I
particularly dread is the idea of Elliston attempting to drive us home
himself. I can bear anything but that."
The coachman and footman now appeared to be fighting on the box, Livius
was scolding and bawling out of one window, Elliston _faisant un bruit
tel qu'il n'y en eut jamais en enfer_, at the other, because he could
not get the coach door open, and nobody would come to his assistance.
At last he succeeded; the footman made room for him on the box, and
Elliston quietly threw the drunken coachman off on to the pavement,
box-coat and all, in spite of his swearing and kicking.
Livius got out of the carriage, and picked the man up, to ascertain that
he was alive, as he fell without uttering a groan.
"Oh! for shame, you cowardly wretch, to treat an honest poor coachman
in that brutal way! Why you've killed him, poor dear soul!" said an old
hag, who happened to pass at the instant.
Elliston, still smarting with the knocks, kicks and scratches he had got
in his scuffle with the obstinate coachman, was not in a very gentle
humour. The woman forced herself in his way, and he, I presume, pushed
her rather ungallantly aside.
"Oh you coward! oh you coward!" screamed out the woman; "strike a woman,
hay! here's a coward for you!"
"Oh! Mr. Elliston," said I, shaking my head at him, as he stood at the
carriage window.
"I only touched her just so," said Elliston, tapping me on the head.
"Just so!" repeated his fair antagonist, "why he has half kill'd me;
here, watchman! watchman!"
The rattle was sprung, and behold Elliston and Livius surrounded by the
guardians of the night.
What became of the coachman I know not; but, in about five minutes more,
Elliston jumped into the carriage and ordered the footman to drive to
Mr. Livius's Hotel in Dover Street.
"Where is Livius?" asked we all three in a breath.
"Gone to the watch-house," said Elliston, with the most perfect
composure.
"How so?" asked George Lamb.
"What has he done?" inquired the young lady in a pet, declaring that no
one had been to blame but Mr. Elliston; therefore she would not stir
till Mr. Livius was safe.
"Nonsense, nonsense! fair lady. Let him use my name at the watch-house!"
"Where, I presume, you are well known, Mr. Mountebank," added I.
"One of us must have gone," said Elliston, laughing, "and I tell you he
will join us before we have finished our supper. It serves him right for
having a drunken coachman. Why all our necks would have been broken by
this time, but for me."
"To hear that man talk," said George Lamb, "one might almost be led to
believe he was a very fine fellow!"
On our arrival at Livius's lodgings in Dover Street, we found an
elegant, cold supper laid out, with plenty of champagne on the
side-board.
"Your master is gone to the watch-house," said Elliston, "and has
requested me to do the honours. Ah! ah!" continued he, taking up one of
the soup plates, "we have white soup, I presume. I am very fond of white
soup, and am very hungry. Pray, bring it up directly."
The young lady and I declare that it was a shame and a sin to sit down
without Livius.
George Lamb begged leave to differ in opinion; because he wanted his
supper.
Elliston insisted, and the white soup made its appearance. In about a
quarter of an hour after we were seated, Livius entered the room quite
out of breath.
"Did not I tell you he would soon join us?" said Elliston. "Sit down, my
dear Livius. Your white soup was so excellent, that there is none left.
You used my name, of course, at the watch-house?"
"If he had, he would have been kept there for a week," observed George
Lamb, and Elliston laughed heartily, though very slily.
"This," said Elliston, drawing out a small unbound volume from his
pocket, "this is the French farce from which Kemble has taken the new
piece he is to bring out next Thursday. What think you of our getting it
up the same evening?"
"Let me see it," said Livius. Elliston desired that he would translate a
few lines.
George Lamb and Elliston together, after they had listened to a page or
two, with one voice exclaimed, "Very stupid."
"Mine is but mere literal translation," said Livius. "Harriette, no
doubt, could make something of it."
"Will you oblige me by undertaking it, madam?" inquired Elliston, "and
completing it in two days?"
"If anybody can be found to accomplish the songs," I observed, "I won't
be behindhand."
"I will rhyme them in English," said George Lamb, "if you really wish
it."
"And I will set them to music," added Livius, "provided Mr. Lamb will
sit up all night to get them done in time for me."
"I think it wont answer," said George, "and be only tiring the poor
performers, as well as ourselves, to no purpose; but, if you really have
fixed your heart upon the thing, I will devote a night, and finish the
songs."
Elliston waxed more generous as he waxed more drunk, and suddenly
throwing the farce behind the fire, exclaimed, "This competition with
the other house is paltry and ungentlemanlike. I will have none of it.
It is in too bad a taste; besides," said he, half in mockery, "Mr.
Livius's piece is to have such a run, we shall want nothing else all the
season!"
"Apropos of that little piece," said I, "I wish Livius would play the
songs, and sing them to us."
Livius was immediately seated at the pianoforte. When he got to the last
chorus-song Elliston jumped up, declaring he was to sing that with the
rest, and had not yet heard a word of it. He then began, with a serious
face, accompanying Livius.
"Oh 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love."
"Elliston!" bawled out George Lamb, "why the deuce don't you come and
finish your supper? I want to speak to you."
Elliston took no notice; but continued his "_Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love,
'tis love._"
"Livius," then said George Lamb, "I want to ask you whether you have
places to spare for your night?"
"Elliston won't allow me to leave off," replied Livius, still continuing
to play, to Elliston's "_Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love, 'tis love!_"
"Leave off, you blockhead!" said George Lamb to Elliston. "I will lay
you fifty guineas that you do not repeat one line as Livius has written
it, either in your song or your speech."
Elliston appeared to agree, and give up the matter as hopeless, for,
darting from the pianoforte towards Livius's young, female friend, who
still continued at table, he gave her such an ardent embrace that she
was quite frightened, and then, as I sat next, he conferred the same
honour on me.
"Good heavens! what a mountebank is here!" said I, pushing him from me.
George Lamb sat next; for he had not half finished his supper. Elliston
placed himself in a theatrical attitude ready to embrace him.
"And, as to you, my George!" said he, with much pathos.
"For God's sake," exclaimed George Lamb, with his mouth full of dried
cherries, "for God's sake, do not play the fool with me!"
Elliston now seated himself by my side, and said, in a whisper, "Don't
you want tea?"
"No, but you do, I see," answered I, and I had the charity to request
Livius to give me some tea.
Elliston did the honours of the tea-table. The tea had a surprising
effect in making him stupid; because it made him sober. He politely
offered me his private box for Livius's night, and regretted that it
was not a better one. It was a large box, on the stage; but rather too
high up. Livius had a private box to himself, and tickets for a host of
friends.
"It is three o'clock," said I, at last, "and I dare not risk my _petite
santé_, another instant."
"Good people are so scarce!" added George Lamb.
"No," I added, "I am good for very little. You will find better people
every day, and wiser; but nobody at all like me."
George Lamb expressed himself quite of this opinion.
It was past four o'clock in the morning when I got home.
The Duke of Leinster, Harry De Roos, and Sophia dined with me on
the following day. Just as we were about to sit down to dinner Lord
Deerhurst was announced.
"Dear me, how tiresome," said Sophia.
"Do not send him here, pray," said Leinster and de Roos in the same
breath. I went down to ask him what he wanted, and informed him of my
dinner-party, with whom I knew he was unacquainted.
"Oh, I wish much to know the Duke of Leinster, so pray do introduce me,"
said Deerhurst.
"No," I answered, "I shall do no such thing. That's frank and flat.
If you don't like Sophia to dine here you may, with her consent, take
her away with you, but I will never present you to any friend of mine.
Sophia told you this morning that she was to meet the Duke of Leinster
and his cousin."
"Certainly," answered Deerhurst, "I have not the slightest objection;
but do, there's a dear good creature, present me to the Duke of
Leinster."
"You are, in all and everything, the meanest man on earth," was my civil
remark.
"You refuse then?" said Deerhurst.
"I do," repeated I impatiently, "and you must now allow me to wish you a
good morning, as we were going to dinner immediately."
"Then," said Deerhurst, "I must introduce myself, that's all:" and,
disregarding all I could say or do to prevent him, he ran into the
drawing-room, took off his hat with a low bow, and said,
"Duke, allow me to introduce, and earnestly recommend to your notice,
Viscount Deerhurst."
The Duke had no pride, and was very mean and stingy, nobody more so; but
he paid his bills, and was what the world calls an honourable man. To
do him common justice, I do not think he would like to break his word,
however much it might be to his interest, and well as he loved money. He
disliked Deerhurst's character, and was too natural and not half polite
enough to conceal his displeasure at being so unceremoniously intruded
upon. He bowed very slightly without speaking, and the smile with which
he greeted his lordship was scarcely perceptible.
Harry De Roos was as proud as he was shy, and took no sort of notice of
Deerhurst, beyond rising from his chair when his lordship turned from
His Grace to his cousin.
Deerhurst's stock of assurance was not to be diminished by two mere
boys. He seated himself near Sophia, ever certain of her unqualified
approbation at all events.
"Well, Soph, my love, are you glad to see me?"
"Yes, I am very glad indeed," replied Sophia.
"I'll tell you something, Lord Deerhurst," said I. "I do not like
quarrelling with people and especially in my own house; but, seriously,
I must tell you that these gentlemen expected to meet Sophia and me
only, and your intrusion is really a little cool."
Sophia said I was quite right, it really was very cool indeed, and she
had heard His Grace request that we would fix on a day when nobody else
was coming.
"If His Grace will say he wishes to get rid of me I am off," remarked
his lordship.
What could the easy tempered Leinster do less than declare his happiness
to see him?
Deerhurst possesses talents and can be very agreeable. He was growing
tired of being cut by so many respectable people; therefore he set about
winning the friendship of the Duke of Leinster. He talked of sailing and
boats, big fiddles and Irish watchmen; praised to the skies such of the
Irish nobility as lived on their estates, and imitated the Irish brogue
as though he had been practising it all the days of his life. Leinster
was delighted with him.
After dinner, Luttrell called to say that Amy gave her first party
since her confinement, on this evening, and had permitted him to say
that, as it was a mutual convenience that we should meet civilly at
parties, and neither friendship nor intimacy was necessary for that
purpose, she was ready to ratify the engagement made between us a few
years back, to offer me no insult and desired I would go to her in the
course of the evening, and bring as many of my male friends as I pleased.
I asked Leinster and De Roos if they would like to take me to Amy's with
them.
"Most willingly," was their answer.
"Make no apologies for not asking me," said Deerhurst, "for, with all my
impudence, I do not think I could face that tartar of a sister of yours
without a special invitation."
"Are you fond of looking at jewellery?" I asked Luttrell.
"Very," answered Luttrell, "and I believe I am rather a good judge too."
"Then," said I, "Sophia, my dear, if you have brought your jewels with
you, pray ask Mr. Luttrell's opinion of their value."
Sophia drew from her reticule two smart jewel-boxes, of Love the
jeweller.
"These are the jewels which were presented to my sister by Viscount
Deerhurst," said I, as I handed them to Mr. Luttrell.
The box contained a necklace of large green glass-beads, set in yellow
metal. There was a leaden ring, with a blue bead in it, a small
Tunbridge-ware tooth-pick case, with "When this you see, remember me,"
superscribed on it, and two brass seals, one with the name of Sophia
on it, the other, with a little winged figure, evidently meant for a
cupid or a parrot; but it was very difficult to decide which it most
resembled. Everybody laughed heartily, but the loudest laugher of our
party was Viscount Deerhurst.
"And then," said Deerhurst, trying to recover himself, "and then, having
won the young lady by dint of these valuable jewels, Robinson, the
attorney of Bolton street, first draws up an agreement to secure to
her an annuity of three hundred a year, and the next day tells you his
agreement is not worth six-pence!"
There was only one of our society who carried politeness so far as to
seem amused at such disgusting profligacy.
Luttrell looked with unqualified contempt on his lordship. Leinster and
De Roos, considering themselves too young to set an example, or reform
the age, fixed their eyes steadily on the carpet, while De Roos's fair
cheek was tinged with a deep blush. Sophia alone joined Lord Deerhurst
in his laugh; declaring that it was very funny to be sure.
"Lord Deerhurst," said I, "Sophia is my sister, and if she chooses to
submit to insult and ill-usage from you, it shall not be in my house,
where you were not invited."
Sophia immediately worked herself up into a passion of tears, declaring
that she did not want to be insulted, and would much rather not return
to Lord Deerhurst, who, she was sure, was a very nasty man indeed, and
hardly ever washed his head.
Deerhurst carelessly declared himself quite ready to support the dire
calamity, and wished, of all things, Sophia would live with her sister
Harriette.
"The man is not worth a thought, much less a tear," said I to Sophia.
"You are welcome to my house as long as I have one to share with you; in
the meantime let us drive to Amy's."
Sophia did not accompany us; but retired with Lord Deerhurst, who had
remarked in her ear that I was jealous and wanted him myself.
"I think Harriette is a little jealous really, so I'll go home with you,
to make her mad," said Sophia.
And off they went.
Amy's drawing-room was quite full. She looked very well, and fairer,
as well as less fierce, than before her confinement. Fanny appeared
unusually lovely, dressed in a pale pink crape dress, which set off
her rosy, white, delicate skin, to the greatest advantage; and with her
unadorned bright auburn curls, waving carelessly around her laughing,
dark blue eyes and beautiful throat, she seemed the most desirable
object in the room. Julia was very fair too; perhaps her skin was whiter
than Fanny's and of quite as delicate a texture; but it had not the
vermillion tinge, and the blue veins were less defined. Both were of the
highest order of fine forms. They were also of the same height, which
was that best adapted to perfect symmetry; their feet and ancles were
alike models for the statuary's art, and Fanny's shoes fitted Julia as
well as her own; but Fanny's hair was dark and more glossy than Julia's.
Fanny's teeth were beautiful, while Julia's, though strong, were uneven;
and Fanny's smile was infinitely more attractive than Julia's, whose
countenance was in fact, as I think I have before mentioned, rather
harsh than pleasing. Yet there was such a decided resemblance in their
_tout ensemble_, that everybody mistook Julia for Fanny's elder sister.
This evening Julia, I suppose with a view to outshine us all, wore a
dress of white silvered lama on gauze, and a Turkish turban of bright
blue, fringed with gold. There was a voluptuous and purely effeminate
languor about Julia's character, which was well adapted to the eastern
style of dress. The large, strait, gauze sleeve did not at all conceal
the symmetry of her beautiful arm. Fanny's dimpled arms were quite
uncovered, and encircled with elegant but simple bracelets, composed of
plaited hair, clasped with a magnificently brilliant ruby. They were
both infinitely graceful. Fanny would lay her laughing face on her
folded arms, reclining on a table, while she made some odd reflections,
or she would fasten her pocket-handkerchief or her shawl across her head
and ears, when she felt the air affect her head, without inquiring of
her glass whether she had thus added to or diminished her attractions:
yet everything became her; or rather all were determined to think
faultless, her in whose beautiful eyes shone the warmest philanthropy,
whose every word and action proved the desire she ever felt to make
others appear to advantage.
Julia's attitudes, though graceful, were studied and luxurious; but
always modest and effeminate.
Amy wore a yellow satin dress, fastened round the waist with a gold
band. Her profuse raven locks were entirely unadorned, and her neck,
arms and fingers were covered with glittering jewels of every colour.
My own evening dresses were invariably composed of rich, figured, white
French gauze over white satin; and I never wore any ornaments in my
hair, of which I was not a little proud; but my earrings were of unusual
length, and consisted of diamonds, rubies and turquoise stones. A Mrs.
Armstrong, whom Amy had lately patronised, was of the party. She was the
_chère amie_ Colonel Armstrong, an aide-de-camp of the Duke of York. It
was said of the duchess, that she carried her charity so far as to send
yearly presents to the mistress of her royal husband's aide-de-camp,
but if this were really true, I have always heard that, in all but
the ceremony of marriage, the mother of Colonel Armstrong's children,
from her steady adherence to her protector during seven years, and her
resistance of temptation, which assailed her in every shape, deserved
the encouragement of the great and the good.
In spite of the strict economy which she invariably practised, the
colonel had lately decided that his circumstances would not, in common
prudence, admit of his running the slightest risk of increasing his
family.
"We will be excellent friends, my love," said he, to his better half,
"but friends only."
This may be very easy at the age of fifty, but his Lucy was still in the
prime of youth, and old as he was she loved her Tommy dearly, and was
very melancholy at his determination.
"We cannot have separate beds you know, my dear," said Lucy; "because
there is not a spare bed in the house."
"That is true, my love," answered her Tommy, "but it really must be all
the same."
Lucy sighed heavily.
"Go and visit your friend Amy, my dear," said the kind colonel, "it will
enliven you; and since our family is not to be increased, I can afford
to put my last dozen of shirts out to be made. Now that our boy William
can run alone, there is no necessity for my poor Lucy making such a
slave of herself."
"Alas!" thought poor Lucy, "I am terribly afraid of being tempted in
Amy's gay society;" but she did not say so.
Lucy was a very neat, lady-like little creature, who used to wear
very fine muslin gowns, ornamented with her own beautiful embroidery.
Her teeth were extremely white and regular, and her lips of bright
vermilion; but I could not discern any other beauty in her. Nevertheless
she was a great favourite with the men, and would make fifty conquests
while Julia was bungling with one. Lucy had a way of disarming the
most impudent, when they attempted to take the slightest liberty with
her: not by her dignified deportment, nor by her wit; but by the mere
simplicity of her truly modest carriage, which was so far removed from
prudery that nobody knew how to offend her.
This evening was set apart for dancing, and Fanny and Julia being the
very best dancers in the room were in their glory.
All the world were, or wished they were there, but many could not get
further than the passage, the whole house being so crammed. Among others
was the man they call the dancing Montgomery, although perhaps I do him
too much honour by putting him in print; he was such a slovenly unlicked
cub, of what particular family I am ignorant; but it was clear this man
had originally been designed by nature for a lout, only he went to
Paris and came home a dancer, every inch of him below the girdle. As
for his shoulders and arms they continued as before; Frenchmen cannot
work miracles like German princes! but they converted into a fop this
ready-made clown, to the utter discomfiture of our gauzes and Indian
muslins, which were sure to suffer, as often as we ventured to employ
him to hand us tea, negus, or orgeat.
"Would you like to dance?" said George Brummell, to Mrs. Armstrong, _en
passant._
"I have only just left off," answered she, rising, and curtseying with
much politeness; "but I am never tired of dancing."
"You have a dancing face," Brummell quietly observed, fixing his eyes
steadily on her countenance for a second or two, and then passing on.
Poor Lucy, she afterwards declared to us, was never so ashamed and
humbled since she had been born.
All this time, Montgomery's thick straight locks were steadily beating
time on his watery forehead, as he trod the mazy dance with all his
might, footing it away most scholastically. He did indeed dance
famously; but then he was always out at the elbows, which appeared to
have no connection whatever with his feet, particularly on this eventful
night, when one of his elbows came in such neighbourly contact with the
eye of the poor Duc de Berri, who was just entering the room, while
Montgomery was swinging short corners near the door, as sent his Royal
Highness reeling backwards.
_Tout le monde fût au désespoir!_
"_Mon Dieu! Quel malheur, monsieur le duc!_" said Amy.
"_Rien, rien du tout_," answered the good-natured Duc de Berri, holding
his handkerchief to his eye.
"_Il y a tant de monde ici, ce soir, et la salle n'est pas grande,
comme vous voyez, monsieur_," said Fanny, to His Highness; as usual
endeavouring to excuse and conciliate all parties.
"_Ma fois! je n'y vois goutte!_" said the duke, laughing, with his
handkerchief still before his eyes.
Montgomery came forward to express his regrets; but it was plain, from
his manner, that he did not at all attribute the accident to anything
like awkwardness on the part of himself or his elbows, of which he
seemed not a part. However, I do not mean to depreciate Mr. Montgomery's
dancing in the least; only do but give him elbow-room and he will
astonish you!
Mr. Quintin Dick of Curzon Street Mayfair was now announced, and
contrived to make his way towards Amy.
Quintin Dick is a man of fifteen or twenty thousand a year; at least,
so I guess; for there is no subject on which people are more likely
to be mistaken in than that of private finances. However, in spite of
his fortune, Quintin Dick is and has been one of the most unpopular
men within the United Kingdom. By birth an Irishman, by trade a
linen-draper, no, by-the-bye, I am wrong, it was his father, who, they
say, dealt in linen, not Quintin himself, carroty Quintin, of whom
I cannot say I ever knew any particular harm. I however took it for
granted that he was mean and vilely shabby, having never heard two
opinions on that point.
I remember Colonel Armstrong telling me one day at Brighton, that the
woman who ever got a shilling or a shilling's worth out of Mr. Quintin
Dick, ought to be immortalised. I immediately resolved to make the
attempt. Meeting Dick the next morning on the Steyne, I told him that I
had taken a fancy to an article of millinery, which I was at that moment
too poor to purchase, though the price of it was under five pounds. Can
it be credited! he actually requested permission to send it home!
Armstrong would not believe me till I showed him the receipt. _Au
reste_, Quintin is the man to whom somebody is said to have remarked,
observing that he wore the wrist-bands of his shirt-sleeves so
fashionably low as to pass his knuckles, "I am sorry, Mr. Dick, to see
that you have so much linen on hand." It strikes me however, that this
must be a joke of a hundred years old. No matter. He came this evening
to ask us three sisters, as well as Julia and Mrs. Armstrong, to dine
with him on the approaching Saturday.
"Who are your men?" I asked.
"Lords Hertford and Alvanly, the Hon. J. Ward, Nugent, Luttrell, and
another man or two, whose names I have forgotten," Dick replied.
We all accepted his invitation on account of his party. For himself, he
was a man of very few words. In fact, he scarcely ever spoke at all; and
when he did he attempted to be satirical; but his were the very worst
attempts I ever heard.
Montagu, the relation of the lady in Gloucester Place, of
chimney-sweeping notoriety, assisted to keep up the spirit of the dance.
Ward walked about, repeating Greek and Latin verses to himself as usual.
He made love to Amy and Fanny alternately. I once knew a mistress of
his, nay two! Perhaps I may tell you what sort of a character they gave
him some other time. Napier came sneaking and grinning into the room,
and informed us that either Lord Bath or Lord Bathurst, I forget which,
was bringing him into parliament.
"More shame for you, who ought not to have given up your independence
for millions," said I. "You cannot now vote against the man who gives
you a seat."
Napier showed his teeth, merely observing, "You have such a comical way
of talking to one."
Lord Fife now came sailing up the room, and all the women immediately
made up to him. "My lord," said one, "have you spoken to the manager
about bringing my young friend out at the opera house this season?"
"Yes, yes," said Fife, nodding his head, "I saw him to-day; he expects
her. When you take her to him, send in my card and he will receive you
well."
"Dear Lord Fife," said another, "we want to go to Elliston's masquerade."
"Certainly, certainly, to be sure," answered the good-natured Fife,
still nodding assent, "I will send you tickets to-morrow."
"And I," said Amy, "want a box at Covent Garden on Monday."
"To be sure, to be sure," still continued the promising earl.
"Lord Fife," said I, "Sir Harcourt Lees wants to shoot grouse this
season, on your estate in the North."
"To be sure, tell me when he goes, and I'll give him a letter to my
brother."
"I know an excellent old Frenchwoman," said Mrs. Armstrong, "who wants
you to buy a watch of hers."
"Let her come to me in the morning, to be sure! to be sure!"
I could not help laughing at Lord Fife. "Why what a good-natured man you
are," said I.
"Oh!" answered Fife, "I have such female _levées_ every morning, you'd
be surprised. People of the first respectability, I assure you, do me
the honour to come when they want money."
"How very condescending," said I.
"Too much so sometimes, I can tell you," answered Fife, "for one morning
last week, I gave £500 among them; but this, you know, will not quite
do every morning: besides time, time is what I regret; they take up all
my time, I can't get out. It is often past seven before I can get in my
carriage, for the life of me, and then I lose my dinner to get out at
all."
"Why don't you make your servants deny you?" said I.
"Why I tried that, but then my valet denied me one day to a charming
creature whom I wished of all things to see, and I was obliged to open
my doors to them all again, lest this sweet girl should re-visit me, and
a second time be refused."
I think it was on this evening I saw Colonel Parker for the first time.
He appeared to have seriously attached himself to my sister Fanny.
He was an officer in the Artillery, and a near relation to Lady Hyde
Parker, I believe. I was anxious to see poor Fanny comfortably settled,
and her tastes being all so quiet and her temper so amiable, I knew
that riches were by no means necessary to her felicity. Colonel Parker
possessed a comfortable independence, and was very anxious to have Fanny
entirely under his protection. "She shall bear my name, and I will show
her all the respect a wife can require, and she shall always find me a
gentleman," said he. I could not however help thinking that Fanny, with
her strictly honest principles, her modest, amiable character, and her
beauty, ought to have been Parker's wife instead of his mistress, and
therefore I did not advise her to live with him. His person was elegant;
fine teeth and fine hair were however all he had to boast of in the way
of beauty; but Fanny did not like handsome men, and appeared very much
to admire and esteem Colonel Parker. I do not exactly know what age man
he was; but I should think him under thirty.
I could not but observe the gay Montagu and his wonderful luck in
addressing himself to witty persons. He was now laughing himself almost
into hysterics at something Mr. Dick said to him at one of the windows.
Then I heard him say, "Capital! charming!" in answer to something which
the Duc de Berri had said. At last I saw him talking to Leinster.
"This will decide it," said I to myself; "for if he says anything is
excellent, or charming, or capital, that His Grace utters, I know what
I will do." I had scarcely settled the business in my own mind, when
I saw Montagu blowing his nose in an agony of laughter at something
superexcellent, which he declared the poor bog-trotter Leinster had
uttered. This was too much, well as I love a civil man; so, calling
Montagu to my side, after having placed myself close to some noisy
people, who were talking and gesticulating with all their might, I asked
him if he had heard an excellent story about Amy and Harry Mildmay.
"No, but pray tell it me directly: it must be so very excellent."
"Listen then," said I, and I began to laugh and to say "you must know
Amy met Mildmay in the park;" and then I went on with a few unconnected
words, affecting suitable action, and to be half dead, or quite choked
with laughter. So far from repeating anything like a story I did not
connect two words of common sense together; and if I had, we were in
such a noisy neighbourhood I could not have been heard, yet Montagu,
with equal reason, once more gave full play to his risible faculties,
and appeared quite as delighted with my story as he had been with
Leinster's, declaring aloud it was the very best thing he had ever heard
in his whole life.
But I am tired of this party of Amy's, therefore my kind readers will
permit me to change the subject.
The next day, I was remarking to my young admirer, the Duke of Leinster,
that life was nothing without a little love; and then begged him to say
who was best worth having.
"I think the Duchess of Beaufort's brother, Lord George Leveson Gower,
the most desirable man I ever saw," said Leinster.
"How is one to obtain a sight of your beauty?"
"I cannot assist you; and if I could I would not," His Grace replied.
"I do not care," said I to myself, after Leinster had left me, "I am not
going to sit down all my life to love this fool. I must have something
for the mind to feed on."
I was interrupted while making these wise reflections by a visit from
Wellington.
"Here is a thing in the shape of an intellectual companion," thought I.
After Wellington had left me I entirely forgot him: nay, before; for I
now recollect that he said something about my bad taste in talking on
subjects irrelevant to what was going on; such as a remark I might have
made about my rose-tree or my dinner, when I ought to have been all
soul! No matter! The soul's fire is partly kept alive by dinner; or,
whether it is or not, still dinner, or even a rose-tree, is infinitely
more interesting than the Wellington!
First love is all in all, say a great many writers, and a great many
more old maids, particularly ugly ones, who have been courted only once
for first and last, and must even make the best of it. For my own part,
if I am to credit the quiet, unimpassioned assertion of the Duke of
Argyle, who knew human nature well, after the hey-day of mere blind love
was over, I must believe myself not naturally given to change.
"Harriette," said Argyle, "is more steady in her attachments than almost
any woman of her celebrity, so surrounded with flatterers, whom I have
ever met with."
Of course, my fair readers would not have me guilty of such extreme
ill-breeding as to differ in opinion from a noble duke! Nevertheless, I
confess that I had only ceased to love one, who was bound for life to
another, and who had most cruelly trifled with my feelings, while he
took a most unfair advantage of my youth, of my warmth of heart, and of
my total lack of experience.
I now felt _le besoin d'aimer_, with almost the same ardour as when I
used to follow the handsome stranger and his large dog, which induces me
to believe, that never did a fair lady die of love for one man, whilst
others equally amiable were dying for her smiles.
In a fit of folly I wrote a letter to Lord G.L. Gower, requesting him
to come and meet me in the Regent's Park at eleven o'clock on a Sunday
morning; at the same time assuring him, that desirous as I was, from all
I had heard of his perfections, to make his acquaintance, yet, if he
expected to please me, he must show me just as much respect and humble
deference, as though I had not ordered him up to Marylebone Fields to be
looked at.
Lord G.L. Gower's reply was:
"I do not usually answer such letters; but there is something
so eccentric and uncommon in yours, that I cannot resist complying
with your request, therefore you will find me at the appointed time
and place.
"G.L. GOWER."
As the hour drew near for fulfilling my engagement in the Regent's Park,
I recollected that I did not in the least know the person of Lord G.L.
Gower, and felt much puzzled how I should contrive to distinguish him
from any handsome man who might happen to be enjoying the fresh air
towards Primrose Hill. However, trusting to chance, or sympathy, or
that instinct by which, according to Falstaff, the lion knows the true
prince, I dressed myself with unusual care and contrived to be punctual.
I observed a tall, rather handsome and gentlemanly man looking about
him; but as I felt at once that he was not in any respect cut out for
the honour of filling up the void in my heart, I prayed the God of Love
to send me a better subject.
However, there was nothing to be seen at that early hour on Sunday
morning which in the least resembled a gentleman, or even, in their
Sunday new coats and bran new yellow leather gloves, could be mistaken
for one, that came within a mile of me.
"This must be Leinster's Apollo," said I. How could I address myself to
such a booby? True, this man may perhaps have a certain indescribable
charm about him, a _je ne sais quoi_, which may not be discoverable at
the first glance! I ventured to raise my eyes to his face, and, if I did
not laugh, I looked as though I was thinking about it; and on this he
spoke and smiled, and blushed, and bowed.
I conceived that, having brought a man up to Marylebone Fields on such
a terribly hot morning, it would not have been fair or lady-like to have
dismissed him, until I had given his talents and powers of pleasing a
fair trial. I walked him up to the tip-top of Primrose Hill, and then
towards Hampstead, and then back again to Great Portland Street.
At last his lordship made a full stop, while he took off his hat to wipe
his face, declaring he could go no further, as he was quite unaccustomed
to walking and the sun was so very oppressive. He therefore entreated
that I would permit him to accompany me immediately to my house, if only
to sit down and rest, or otherwise he apprehended--fever or sudden death!
I assured him I was sorry, very sorry, and hoped such fatal consequences
would not follow our little rural bit of pleasure; at the same time I
could only express my regrets, while I frankly declared to him that he
was not in the least the sort of person I wanted.
Lord George L. Gower was too proud, too well-looking, to be deeply
wounded at my determination, so he smiled, and bowed, and wished me
good morning, declaring himself much amused with the eccentricity and
frankness of my character.
It will not do, I see, to lay one's self out for love, thought I, after
his lordship had left me. It comes, like money, when one is not thinking
about it. Reading is a much more independent amusement than loving.
Books one may cut, when one is tired of them; so I began immediately on
arriving home with Lady Mary Wortley Montagu's _Letters_. The style was
very unequal I thought: now paltry and ungraceful, now elevated. The
same observations were applicable to the sentiments she expressed. In
some letters one would accuse her of being both indecent and profligate;
in others she displayed herself as the most refined, elegant and
delicate of her sex. I read as far as this passage:--"Our vulgar notions
that Mahomet did not own women to have any souls, is a mistake. It is
true, he says they are not of so elevated a kind, and therefore must
not hope to be admitted into the paradise appointed for the men, who
are to be entertained by celestial beauties. But there is a place of
happiness destined for souls of the inferior order, where all good women
are to be in eternal bliss. Any woman that dies unmarried is looked upon
to die in a state of reprobation. To confirm this, I believe they reason
that the end of the creation of woman is to increase and multiply, and
that she is only properly employed in the works of her calling, when she
is bringing forth children, or taking care of them, which is all the
virtue God expects of her."
I threw the book down at this passage, beginning to feel very much
ashamed of myself; I rang my bell, and sent to my bookseller for the
"History of Mahomet," hoping that most prolific prophet would put me in
the way of obeying his commands in case, after duly studying his laws, I
were disposed to turn Turk.
I seriously determined to choose my own religion, instead of following
blindly that which happened to be my father's. If this determination be
sinful, I must still think it ever has been, and ever will be the sin
of all intelligent minds. The uneducated child, or the rudest clown who
earns his hard fare by the sweat of his brow, and whistles as he returns
home for want of thought, will give the same answers, when you ask why
they say their prayers, namely, "Because the parson says I ought." Will
it not occur to them that accident has had much to do with their being
Christians, or Jews, or Turks? Will not they be aware of the force of
early impressions, good or bad, and, if but to impress on their mind the
wisdom and justice, as well as the superiority of the religion they were
born in, will they not compare it steadily with that of the greater part
of the creation? It may be answered that all religions are good, and we
have but to act up to our belief of what is right, which is all that
justice can require of us: yet will the ardent mind, while suffering
under the various ills which flesh is heir to, be led to doubt and to
search eagerly into the reason why a just God, who is our father, has
created us for so much misery.
I pondered a whole night on these expressive words of Lord Byron, in his
"Childe Harold":
Our life is a false nature, 'tis not in
The harmony of things--this hard decree,
This uneradicable taint of sin,
This boundless Upas, this all blasting tree,
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches
The skies, which rain their plagues on me like dew,
Disease, death, bondage--all the woes we see not, which
throbs through
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new.
Yet, let us ponder boldly--'tis a base
Abandonment of reason, to resign
Our right of thought--our last and only place
Of refuge; this at least, shall still be mine:
Though, from our birth, the faculty divine
Is charmed and tortured--cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine
Too brightly, in the unprepared mind,
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the blind.
However all my time, and all my pondering, and all my skill, only
confirmed me the more steadily in this opinion--that I know nothing
about it.
I had long been sentimentally in love with Lord Byron, and some years
previous to the publication of the last canto of "Childe Harold," I had
written to him to solicit the honour of his acquaintance.
"If, my lord," said I, in my letter, "to have been cold and indifferent
to every other modern poet, while I have passed whole nights in studying
your productions with the eagerness of one who has discovered a new
source of enjoyment as surprising as it was delightful, deserves
gratitude from the vanity of an author, or the gallantry of a gentleman,
you will honour me with a little of your friendship."
Would you believe, reader, this eloquent epistle obtained me no answer
during three long days? I was furious, and wrote again to tell him that
he was a mere pedant; that my common sense was a match for his fine
rhymes; that the best of us poor weak mortals--and I acknowledged him to
be at the head of the list--must still be ignorant, subject to sickness,
ill-temper, and various errors in judgment, therefore was there little
excuse for his impertinence, in presuming to find fault with the whole
world, as he had done in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," at
an age when his natural judgment could not be matured. It was vulgar,
and showed the littleness which some want of philanthropy towards our
poor fellow creatures always must evince. Was he really so superior, and
would he crush the poor worms which dared not aspire to his perfections?
Or was he but a mere upstart man, of extraordinary genius, without
strength of mind to know what he would be at? Could he not, at least,
have declined the honour I wanted to confer on him, civilly?
This eloquent letter ended simply thus, after assuring him that it was
now much too late to make my acquaintance, as I had changed my mind
and no longer desired it the least in the world--like the fox and the
grapes--
"you be hang'd!
"HARRIETTE WILSON."
This, to a favourite, was tolerably severe; but when I take a liking
to a person I must and will be something to them; so if they will not
like me I always make it my business and peculiar care that they shall
dislike and quarrel with me. Let me once get them into a quarrel and I
am sure of them.
The next day I received the following answer from Lord Byron, dated
Albany, Piccadilly.
"If my silence has hurt 'your pride or your feelings,' to use
your own expressions, I am very sorry for it; be assured that such
effect was far from my intention. Business, and some little bustle
attendant on changing my residence, prevented me from thanking you
for your letter as soon as I ought to have done. If my thanks do
not displease you now, pray accept them. I could not feel otherwise
than obliged by the desire of a stranger to make my acquaintance.
"I am not unacquainted with your name or your beauty, and I
have heard much of your talents; but I am not the person whom you
would like, either as a lover or a friend. I did not, and do not
'suspect you,' to use your own words once more, of any design of
making love to me. I know myself well enough to acquit any one,
who does not know me, and still more those who do, from any such
intention. I am not of a nature to be loved, and so far, luckily
for myself, I have no wish to be so. In saying this, I do not
mean to affect any particular stoicism, and may possibly, at one
time or other, have been liable to those follies for which you
sarcastically tell me I have now no time: but these, and everything
else, are to me at present objects of indifference; and this is a
good deal to say, at six-and-twenty. You tell me that you wished
to know me better; because you liked my writing. I think you must
be aware that a writer is in general very different from his
productions, and always disappoints those who expect to find in him
qualities more agreeable than those of others; I shall certainly
not be lessened in my vanity as a scribbler, by the reflection
that a work of mine has given you pleasure; and, to preserve the
impression in its favour, I will not risk your good opinion by
inflicting my acquaintance upon you.
"Very truly your obliged servant.
"B."
This was very dry; but, I had not aspired to Lord Byron's love and I did
not despair of making his acquaintance. I am indeed surprised that I
never fell in love with his lordship; but, certain it is, that, though
I would have given anything to have been his most humble friend and
servant, his beauty was of a nature never to inspire me with warmer
sentiments.
There was nothing whatever voluptuous in the character of it; it was
wholly intellectual: and as such I honoured it; but give me for my lover
an indolent being who, while he possesses talents and genius to do
anything he pleases, pleases himself most and best in pleasing me! _Au
reste_, I admire and look up to heroes, but indolent men make the best
lovers.
I was a long while before I could convince Lord Byron that as a lover he
would never have suited me; and really did not excite any passion in my
breast; but, from the moment I had succeeded, his lordship threw off all
reserve and wrote and spoke to me with the confidence of easy friendship
and good-will, as though he had been delighted to find a woman capable
of friendship, to whose vanity it was not at all necessary to administer
by saying soft things to her.