PARIS LIONS
AND
LONDON
TIGERS.
BY
HARRIETTE
WILSON.
Illustrated with Twelve Colored Plates.
London:
PRINTED
AND PUBLISHED BY
J.
J. STOCKDALE, 24, OPERA COLONNADE.
1825.
ADVERTISEMENT.
BY
THE EDITOR.
HERE’S a piece of pork and
greens, as exclaimed a good-humoured countryman, who got into some dilemma,
with his cart and horses, one day. Here’s a piece of pork and greens! This
comes of notoriety. No sooner had the following little volume, got wind, than
all the world was on the qui vive, to learn what characters, it was to contain.
One got at one, and another at another, and then the last proof-sheet was
dropped on its way to the printers. Thus, by degrees, several of the persons
which it introduces, acquired publicity, and all the world was agog to give, to
airy nothings, a local habitation and a name.
The
London news-papers duly announced the meeting of Harriette, with her publisher,
at Calais. They give every movement of his majesty to and from Carlton palace
to Windsor, or Brighton, or elsewhere, and, of course, for consistency’s sake,
they must have a no less vigilant eye, on Harriette and her publisher!!
The
latter had scarcely betaken himself, once again to his harness, and, seising
his pen, in manful guise, at his bookselling-desk, than he received an
anonymous letter, franc de port, from Paris, apprising him that its sagacious
writer had developed many of the characters, which figure in the following
pages.
Poor
Harriette, tenderly sympathizing with her unhappy publisher, who had not
forgotten, that most extraordinary verdict which had been given against him, in
Blore’s case, and resolving to be secure against such a recurrence, in future,
drew on her imagination for her modern romance, of Paris Lions and London
Tigers: but neither may she, nor her publisher be at rest! His anonymous
correspondent, assisted as he says by many other persons, no less comme il
faut, than himself, avows that the list, hereto subjoined, is a true key to the
characters of this romance, as far as it goes, and Stockdale, thinking the joke
too good to be altogether lost, has handed the elegant epistle, to me, to turn
to the best possible account. Ecce signum!
THOMAS
LITTLE.
Sir Violet Sigh-away Sir Henry Mildmay
Mr. Soso Captain
Gronow
Mr. Satirical Harmless Sir Frank Hall Standish
Mr. Fox Mr.
Reynolds
The Armenian General
Armenteros
Lord Chatterbox Earl of
Clanricarde
Mr. Squibb Mr.
Stawb
Three Clock-cases The Lygons
Mr. Bellfield Col.
Rochfort
Prince Stroll-about Prince Esterhazy
Mac Griffin Prince
Mac Gregor
Mr. Boot-jack Mr.
Livius
Mrs. Brawney Be-at-them Mrs. Brereton
Mrs. Teaze-all Mrs.
Dun
Lady Sin-enough Lady Bolingbroke
Lady Top-knot Lady Hyde
Parker
The Brussels Heroine Mrs.
Lewis, alias Tom-
kins,
alias, La Presidente.
O
Fly-away, the Callams, Harry Hairbrain, Geo. Frolic, Beau Militaire, Comtesse
de Bienpassé, Mrs. Beaumont, Mrs. Pemberton, are names which appear to be still
in want of owners.
Editor
of Harriette Wilson’s Memoirs, Beauty, Marriage-Ceremonies, and Intercourse of
the Sexes, in all Nations; Systems of Physiognomy, &c.
London, 22, Opera Colonnade,
1st
September, 1825.
LIST
OF PLATES
To face Page.
Chasseur 39
Suitors 124
and others 200
PARIS
LIONS
AND
LONDON
TIGERS.
LIONS
and Tigers just arrived for the coronation. Walk in ladies and gentlemen. Don’t
be frait nothing. Only six francs, to see all these wild beasts.
The
first was Mr. Callam, with Mrs., and the three Misses Callam, and Master
Callam. They arrived, at half past four o’clock, aux Messageries Royales, Rue
Notre Dame des Victoires, by the diligence, which comes safe to Paris, every
day, token it does not overturn, between seven in the morning, and seven in the
evening. Frenchmen are not a bit particular for an hour or two.
The
Callams, I mean the females of that family, had been raving mad, to see Paris,
ever since the proclamation of peace, between our blessed island, and that
delightful country.
Surely,
would Mrs. Callam often say to her better half, surely, my dear, ve have been
an industrious couple, and have toiled hard to heddicate our family, and bring
them up genteelly, and now that ve are before-hand vith the vorld, I don’t see
no hobstacle against a trip to Paris, to finish our daughters’ heddication, and
give them the proper French hacksent, vich is, indeed, all, our Eliza vants,
after the sight of money ve have paid to her French master.
To
all these broad hints, Mr. Callam had been, for years, in the habit of answering
just nothing, or what amounted to nothing, since it was but an extra puff of
the pipe, or a hem! or a pooh! pooh! or my eye in a bandbox!!! or some other
ejaculations, which mean nothing.
Apropos!
It is here necessary to give my readers some little description of the Callams;
so, not to prose, because this atmosphere is a lazy one, and more learned books
are gone abroad than folks will read, more shame for them. Be it known, then,
that Mr. Callam was a fat man, in the soap-boiling line, and wore large
buttons, to his, nearly, sky-blue, best coat, as big as five franc pieces.
Those
buttons are out of fashion, my dear, would Mrs. Callam often exclaim, to which
Mr. Callam uniformly answered, by a significant shrug of the shoulders.
The
Callams were good sort of people, nevertheless. Mr. Callam was, as I have said,
a soap-boiler, as was his father, before him, and both father and son had been,
from the beginning, what is vulgarly called, well to do, in the world. Mr.
Callam, who has just arrived, in Paris, to perform a part in my menagerie, lost
his father, at the age of five and twenty, and, by his death, he became
commander in chief, or rather sole commander of the soap-trade.
After
duly mourning, and wearing a crape hat-band, till it was rusty, my Tiger began
to think, seriously, of matrimony. I will choose my wife, said he, to himself,
for such qualities as shall wear well; not for her beauty, nor for her money.
Thank God, I have a trade, which will lead on to fortune: a useful trade too,
soap being all in all to a dirty face. Mine is none of your rich, showy trades,
which pass away with the fashions. Give me a wife, who will love me, darn my
stockings, and stay at home. Ye kind gods, I ask no more!
He
found a wife to his mind, in Shropshire, while he was on a visit to his uncle
John, and, in the person of his uncle John’s housemaid, a clean, neat, pretty,
virtuous, industrious, young woman.
The
soap-boiler was touched, the very first moment he set his eyes upon her.
But
that she is a maid, I would marry her, said he to himself, while his charmer
was warming his bed. A maid-servant, he meant, of course.
The
next morning, his uncle’s maid servant brought him the best cup of chocolate,
he had ever tasted, and she blushed deeply when she presented it to him;
because he happened to be in his bed!!
The
soap-boiler was overcome! just like Mrs. Hannah Moore’s hero, whose hardened
libertinism was not proof against the delicious flavour of a ragout, à la sauce
piquante.
Oh!
my love!! exclaimed he, clasping the ragout-chronicler to his breast. I am now,
alluding to Hannah Moore’s hero. However, my soap-boiler was just as short
taken, by dint of chocolate, and therefore, to be brief, since you all, like
myself, no doubt, hate to play second fiddle, in a love-scene, the soap-boiler
married his uncle’s maid.
* * * *
* * * *
Nearly
six and twenty years had witnessed the harmony of this union, and, during that
period, Mrs. Callam had become the mother of her hopeful heir, Mr. Peter
Callam, as well as of three daughters, who, by sheer pertinacity, having gained
their grand object, of a visit to the French capital, now stepped out of the
Paris diligence.
Eliza,
the eldest, was in her twenty-first year, a pretty, fair girl, with soft blue
eyes, and a turn-up nose. She had been educated at a second-rate-school, where
she had carried it, with a very high hand.
Mr.
Callam’s daughter ought to be distinguished from the common herd of school
girls, said the fond mother, who looked up to her husband as a paragon: and, in
consequence, Miss Eliza’s wardrobe was the gayest of the gay. She likewise had
a gold watch and chain, and a silver goblet, and various delicacies were sent
to her, in a basket, every Monday morning.
Miss
Eliza, being of a delicate constitution, mamma desired she might not be teazed
to learn more than was agreeable. The result of this education may be gleaned
from the young lady’s letters, to her friend in London. At all events, it will
not do to keep a whole family waiting, at the Messagerie de Paris, after the
fatigues of a long journey; the said Messagerie being just about the most
comfortless spot, which can, reasonably, be imagined.
Well!
only think of our being in Paris at last, said the good natured Mrs. Callam,
arranging her habit. But Peter, my dear boy, take care to see after our desk.
God bless you, don’t lose sight o’ that, or its all dickey with us!
Peter
was a dandy, and belonged to a company of private, theatrical performers. He
proposed cutting the soap-boiling line, on the very earliest opportunity.
Voulez
vous un fiacre, mes dames? asked a commissionaire.
Monsieur,
vous avez trente francs à payer pour votre baggage, said a Frenchman, in black.
Messieurs
et mes dames, vite! vite! les clefs de vos malles! called out another.
Veut on bien faire entendre, à
cette grosse dame Anglaise, que son fiacre l’attend? Fiacre à la porte!
reiterated the commissionaire.
These
remarks were all unintelligible to the soap-boiler. D——n it, said he, at last,
I wish I had staid in England! What the devil does all this mean! This dirty
fellow haunts me, pointing to the ragged commissioner, with his feeharkur ally
pot. What the devil is feeharkur ally pot. Look how they are thumping and
bumping our boxes about.
Vos
clefs! vos clefs! said another Frenchman, holding out his hand, towards them,
impatiently.
Eliza,
my love, said Mrs. Callam, to her eldest daughter, what can this man mean, by
calling out for clay? We have got no clay to give him! How should we?
He
wants our keys, said Miss Eliza, with much dignity! My readers must bear in
mind, that Miss Eliza had learned French.
The
devil he does! What for, pray? He must be a highway-robber! Has’nt our baggage
been hauled and mauled about enough, already?
Lord,
Pa! no! observed his second daughter, a fine, dark, sparkling, black-eyed,
bold, romp, just turned of seventeen. Never mind! let’s give up the keys. We
must expect to be robbed and murdered too, over and over again, with many other
inconveniences, which one makes one’s mind up to, when one goes abroad; but we
shall have plenty of fun, I dare say. Give up the keys then. Don’t you see,
that gentleman has given his whole bunch, to the man, in a military looking
jacket.
Mes
dames, votre fiacre à la porte! again bawled out the ragged commissionaire.
Oh!
with a sigh, exclaimed Mr. Callam, here’s my evil genius again!
Monsieur,
veut-il payer les trente francs pour son baggage? once more enquired the
Frenchman, in black.
Oh!
dear me! what do they all want? observed Mrs. Callam? I wish Eliza would
translate for us, after all the expense we have been at, in larning her French.
Come here child. Stand by your pa, do.Ve’re tired to death of all these noisy
people. I vish ve cou’d get a hackney-coach, to drive us to an inn. Vot a queer
way this is, for to put down their passengers in such a Babylon of a
houtlandish place!
Monsieur,
je vous dis encore que tout est prêt, et votre fiacre vous attend depuis une
heure, again bawled out the shabby commissioner, in Mr. Callam’s ear.
Oh!
Christ! ejaculated Callam faintly, as he receded several paces; for he was,
naturally, a peaceable, quiet man, who hated noise or bustle, of any kind,
particularly after passing two nights, squeezed up, in a French diligence.
Hah!
hah! hah! said Mary, Mr. Callam’s second merry daughter, who had not been half
so much petted and spoiled as her sister, in consequence of her being of such a
robust constitution, Hah! hah! hah! This man is enough to make one die of
laughing, with his dirty face coming up to pa, every minute, feeharkur ally
pot. What can he mean, I wonder!
Now
might my very lips freeze to my teeth; my tongue to the roof of my mouth; my
heart in my belly, ere I could come by a fire to thaw me! exclaimed young
Peter, in a theatrical tone, as he wrapped his plaid cloak about him.
Law!
Peter, observed Mary, what a fool you are, spouting plays, instead of helping
us out of the mess. You are all the worst travellers I ever saw.
Mais,
Monsieur, donc, vous plait-il de payer votre baggage? again interrupted the
Frenchman.
Here,
Eliza, my love, what is baggage, in English? Mary asked.
Luggage,
child, to be sure.
Oh!
thank you. Well then, I know what paya is: every body can guess at that word,
and we shall know it better still, I dare say, before we have been here long.
Pay
your luggage, Sir, continued Mary, playfully, holding out her hand, to her
father.
Combien?
enquired the father, having picked up that word on his journey.
Mais
trente francs je vous dis.
Thirty
francs, reiterated Eliza, her affectation giving way, by virtue of hunger and
thirst.
Thirty
francs! said Callam, well! can’t be helped, taking out his purse; but, if ever
they catch me at this noisy, expensive place again—
Monsieur,
encore une fois, avez vous envie de vous servir du fiacre, qui est à la porte?
cried the enraged commissioner.
Oh!
answered Mary, you are our first and last tormentor. I’ll settle you.
Feeharkur! That’s a very funny word. I’m afraid feeharkur will puzzle Eliza,
herself.
Not
at all, it is—in short, it is—Jeune homme, montrez nous donc ce que c’est—
Oh!
dear me, Eliza need not pretend to be so very clever. Any of us would know it,
if we saw it, observed Frances, the youngest of this hopeful family.
She
was a little, arch-looking girl, of twelve years old, with a Chinese kind of
cap.
Come
pa, let’s make him show us what this nasty feeharkur is, that he has been
stunning us about so long, said Mary, leading the way to the grande porte
cocher of the Messageries Royales.
Entrez,
mes dames, entrez, c’est votre fiacre, bawled out the tattered commissioner,
pulling down the steps of a hackney-coach.
Oh!
dear! how stupid of us! Just the very thing we wanted most. I shall remember
feeharkur as long as I live. The man has taught us something, however, observed
Mary, as she tripped back, in great glee, to call her party to the coach.
But
where shall we drive to? asked Mrs. Callam, seating herself in the feeharkur.
Hotel
de Bourbon, answered a young man, thrusting a card into her hand.
Bless
me, how lucky! cried one of them. Hotel de Paris, said another. Hotel Meurice,
a third. Hotel d’Oxford, a fourth. Hotel de Londres, a fifth.
Ou
devrois-je vous méner? calls out the coachman.
Pardon,
exclaimed two more smart waiters, at once, handing in their cards, je vous
prie, mes dames, allez à l’hotel d’Angleterre, l’hotel d’Oxford.
Drive
to the devil! vociferated Mr. Callam, to the coachman, in pure, downright, and
unadulterated English.
Ou
donc est son hotel? enquired the coachman, believing that one had been named to
him.
I
keep the Hotel de l’Europe, said a decent, young Englishman, who had contrived
to force another card, into the hands of one of the young ladies, whose lap was
already full of them.
Hallo!
hoy! hallo! You Sir, you are English, are you? roared out Mr. Callam, eagerly,
leaning his head out of the coach window.
Hotel
Bourbon! Hotel Britannique!! Hotel d’Oxford! Hotel d’Hollande! again called out
half a dozen Frenchmen at once.
Mais,
diable Monsieur, faut-il que je reste ici toute la sainte journée? bawled out
the coachman.
Monsieur
n’oubliera pas le commissionaire? their late tormentor cried.
C’est
moi, monsieur, qui l’aidé de porter votre baggage, dans la fiacre, squeaked out
a little, filthy urchin, who seemed to fill the honourable office of the
commissioner’s commissioner.
For
God Almighty’s sake, ejaculated Mr. Callam, most energetically, and piously,
with his body more than half thrust out of the coach, addressing the English
hotel-keeper, for the love of God, Sir, get me clear of these ragamuffins, and
a five pound note shall be your reward, as soon as we are all in peace and
quietness.
Avec
de l’argent on fait tout à Paris; in short, money is no less omnipotent in the
French, than in the British, and all other capitals. Less than a quarter of an
hour found them in quiet possession of a comfortable apartment, containing
three bed-rooms, a sitting-room, and a dining-room.
This
is summat like, observed Mr. Callam.
Paris
is a divine place. I doat upon looking glasses, and yellow silk furniture,
observed Eliza, throwing herself upon the sofa.
Peter
didn’t know what the devil to make of it, wondered if there were any English,
private theatricals; was sure Talma would never do, after Kean; wanted to see
for him for all that.
Mrs. Callam voted for
retiring to rest. Mr. Callam wanted his supper; Mary, her tea, and Eliza, her
writing desk, for she declared she could not eat, drink or sleep, till she had
addressed a letter to her darling, sweet friend, and school-fellow, Charlotte
Temple.
Mary was not much tired,
wished she had’nt been tired at all, hated sleeping, it was such a loss of
time, and yet, really, she could not keep her eyes quite open, could have
slept, in the diligence, all the second night, only the French gentleman, in the
white hat, snored so.
In
order to show my readers what a different view, people take of the same things,
according to their various tone of mind, I will give them the correspondence of
this family, separately, each having a friend in London, with whom they held
communication. We will begin with papa, from the old latin proverb, seniores
priores, as I used to say to my elder sister Amy, in humble imitation of the
honourable John William Ward.
From
Mr. Callam in Paris, to his friend Mr. Evans, a haberdasher.
My dear friend Evans,
Though
I was never very fond of my pen, yet I could not refuse any reasonable request
of yours, and, therefore, according to your desire, I am set down to give you
some little account of our way of living here, for the last month.
Paris
is the rummest place I ever inhabited. I thought I never should have got to
this hotel, for want of knowing the French language, you see; at last, I had
the luck to hit upon what I was told, by the landlord of it, was an English
hotel. And who, do you think, wakes us in the morning, by coming close up to
the side of our bed, while me and Mrs. Callam are enjoying a comfortable sleep,
but a d—d, dirty commissionaire, as they call every thing that is ragamuffin,
in this country.
What
the devil do you do there sir? I asked, while poor Mrs. Callam screamed. I
thought her last hour was come. Lay Bot, or something of that kind, was all I
could get out of the rascal; so I was obliged to ring my bell, and G—d d—n them
all, not that I like to encourage the practice of swearing; but this happens to
be the only part of our language, the French understand. However a friend of
mine, Dick Simpson, whom I met here, by accident, has taught me how to be a
match, for these shoe-black intruders, so I now claps my boots on first, and
gets them blacked afterwards, at the corner of any street, where I please to
offer a penny. Then comes our dinner, har longlaze, as the landlord calls it,
which consists of one, solitary, hard joint of meat, such as you cannot
possibly get your teeth through, and all the rest is made up of ragotus, and
fricando. I can’t abide the plays here, they are so hot and makes one sweat so;
and the actors speak so quick and so natural, just as if they were at home, at
every day work.
Tivoly
is a place I am partial to. I prefer it to our Vauxhall; because there are
plenty of chairs to rest one's legs, and my children are delighted with the
Swiss mountains, an excellent speculation there for England, I should reckon.
It is astonishing to see how the franks circulate, on a grand gala night.
Persons think nothing of descending, half a dozen times, of an evening, at a
frank each. There was a precious crowd, there, in honor of the French King’s
coronation which you know has just taken place. For my part, I could not help
pitying the poor lady, who went up in the balloon, dressed in a plume of white
ostrich feathers; you would charge a guinea a piece, for such feathers, the
very lowest. Yes, poor soul! she left a gay scene to dangle, and twinkle, in
the air, till, at last, we could not distinguish the balloon, which had about
fifty large lanterns fastened to it, from a star. However, she went up, in high
spirits, seemingly, for she bowed, and bent, and curtsied, with more grace than
even, my daughter Eliza, herself, with all her dancing. Between ourselves, I
would never be at such like expense, for another daughter; for, after all, Mary
is much better company. Do you know, this trip has turned out mighty expensive?
Surely, says Mrs. Callam, surely my dear we must equip ourselves hallar
fronsays, and this equipping hallar fronsays, has cost me at least a hundred
golden guineas.
You
may dine, in Paris, at any price you like, from twenty sous to a hundred
franks, and the only difference, I see, is in the color of the table-cloth; for
its nothing else but raggoos, and fricandose, go where you will.
We
have hired a carriage; and a carriage, in Paris, is a passport into much good
society. The pretty features of my girls, gives us an additional lift.
Altogether, I hope, I shall not get puffed up with unbecoming pride. In for a
penny, in for a pound, as the vulgar saying is. I was thinking of a gold snuff
box, jewellers work being so cheap here, and gold so pure; but the Lord have
mercy upon me!
Apropos
to snuff-boxes, as the French say, I saw the most indecent snuff-box!! Oh! fie
said I, to the young man who showed it me. Paris is, indeed a most lascivious
city! I’ll tell you something, in your ear; but you mustn’t mention it. I’ve
felt very queer at times!! God send, I may not go astray in my old age: but
this high living and warm weather does wonders to a man.— — You understand me .
. .eh? and there are curious exhibitions in the palais royal. Mrs. Callam has
forgot to pack up our family-bible too, and that was very much against me! I,
however, have this day, bought another, cheap, at Galignani’s.
Would
you believe it, the public gambling houses are full of petticoats; so are the
coffee-rooms, and other places. The minister of finances has lighted his
sumptuous palace with gas. My girls are in high feather, and seldom pass an
evening at home. As for me, and Mrs. Callam, we amuse ourselves, in rambling,
from the Jardins des Plants, to the Luxembourg, from the Luxembourg to the
Invalides, and all over this splendid city, in search of lions and curiosities,
and we have been to the Port Saint Martin too, to see Jacko, who is about the
best bred ape I ever saw, although a mere man. This goes to prove that the
French have wonderful dexterity in making the most of things.
I have
seen that wicked creature, Harriette Wilson, who wrote those paw, paw memoirs,
that made such a stir, and such a to do, in London. She was’nt so flashy, as I
expected, from the prints in the caricature shops; on the contrary she looked
rather serious, than knowing or funny, as she passed us, in her very pretty
green calash. I have also seen a child, with two heads, in the Shom Elesa, very
complete, indeed, the mother forthcoming, every feature distinct, and well
formed.
There
is a rum set of English noblemen, and gentlemen established here, whom we often
meet at parties, swoirases as they call them; but my little pet, Mary, can
describe all these things much better than I could, supposing my fingers did
not ache with what I have scribbled already; so, best regards to all, and, tell
your wife I shall bring her a blue gros de Naples dress, basted up into a
domino, to please the custom house men.
Believe
me ever truly and cordially,
your friend,
JEREMIAH
PETER CALLAM.
Hotel de l’Europe.
From
Miss Mary Callam to Miss Sutton,
Montague Square, London.
Paris, June 14th, 1825.
Oh!
my dear Jemima, what a delicious place this Paris is! I have so much to say to
you, I really don’t know where to begin. Do you know, I can already understand,
and speak French, as some say, better than Eliza herself, who studied it for
years in England. This, of course, is mere flattery; but it is really
incredible how I improve. My Aunts, and the two Miss Callams have, at last,
joined us. They arrived at eleven o’clock, on monday night, such figures!!
having been upset: mais renversez bien; as dear Mlle. Mars says. Clementina
lost her wig, and Rosabella her plumpers. Poor things, it is really ill-natured
of me to mention this; but you know what quizzes they are, at all times.
Clementina
has, for the last ten years, professed to abhor Englishmen. If ever I consent
to part with dear liberty, she often says, it shall be to a foreigner. The
English are too phlegmatic, too matter of fact, too—too—indifferent she might
as well add, since, their having, all, been hitherto blind to her attractions,
is, I know, the only fault she has to find with them.
Rosabella,
who, you know, by the death of her uncle, became possessed of an excellent
income, has brought over her sister, in a dashing, light blue barouche, lined
with scarlet: and who, do you think, accompanied them? That precise, thin old
attorney, Mr. Save-all! whether in the character of cicisbeo, man of business,
or lover, I cannot learn, aunt Rosabella is so sly. They have hired handsome
apartments in the rue Richelieu. Mr. Save-All does the honors; a nasty, ugly
creature; I can’t think why they brought him here. Clementina dresses finer
than ever she did, in London, a great deal, and has become quite an altered
character, ever since she read La Nouvelle Heloise, which said work has
affected my sister Eliza too, more or too less; but, as to my aunt, she sits in
the Thuilleries all day, and sighs to the …moon, or sun, as it may happen, and
then comes home to praise the dresses, and noble military appearance of the
Gardes du Corps.
This
is very severe, you will say; but I only wish you were to be present, when my
aunt scolds me. There is nothing wicked, or sly, I am not accused of, as often
as I attract the attention of any one of the other sex. First, on our arrival
here, we were in a dreadful hobble. Mamma did not know where to go, or what to
do with herself, and we did nothing but order the coachman to drive to the
Boulevards, and when he enquired for the next place, we were obliged to say
home, for want of knowing the name of any other place; but papa bringing
letters of credit, to a large amount, on a Paris banker, we were shortly
invited to his house, and we are now become very popular. I fancy, we are
indebted to the beauty of Eliza, for much of the court that is paid us; indeed,
we are invited every where, and never pass a single evening alone.
We
meet the Spanish Duke de Lerma, almost daily, either at the soirées, the opera,
or somewhere or other; but neither myself nor Eliza can endure him, and no
wonder, for we have heard a most shocking description of him, from the Count
del Rio, who is his countryman. He is afraid of ghosts, and says he cannot, and
dare not remain alone, an instant, particularly in the dark.
His
Grace has, more than once, refused to fight. He is a most profligate,
disgusting man, and keeps an old duenna, in his employ, to hunt about for
young, innocent girls to be debauched by him. This, however, sounds too
abominable to be believed, and so, I must conclude that our gay Spaniard was
jealous of the common civility, Eliza showed him. That the Duke de Lerma is a
great gambler, I cannot doubt, having seen him handle the dice-box, in private
parties, with such zeal, and deep interest, that one would almost swear it must
have been the business of his whole life: and he has such a comical mode of
scraping up the money with the tips of his fingers!! His laugh too, is,
absolutely, expressive of idiotism.
Enough
of this vile subject. The Duke de Lerma has inspired me with the strongest
sensations of disgust, I ever experienced towards a human being, in my whole
life. Added to all these, previous stories, is one of his having been so nicely
flogged! Jemima, could you ever in the course of all your born days, forgive a
man for having been flogged?
A
truce to this disgusting creature, methought he once dared to glance his
odious, lustful, grey eyes, on my poor, dear, little sister Frances. Oh! the
monster! and not a monster only; for he is the greatest fool in nature, and
does not possess three ideas in the world. Apropos, I must tell you about a
certain French countess, if only to put this nasty contemptible character out
of my head.
Last
Wednesday, we received a gay card of invitation, to a soirée, in our own hotel,
from Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé.
Who
is Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé? enquired papa, of the porter, by means of
my aunt’s chasseur, who is his interpreter; for, would you believe it, Jemima,
aunt Clementina has hired a regular, downright chasseur, with a green coat and
cocked hat, and such a feather! At first, these fair ladies had a very dirty
fellow to show them about Paris; but this man coming to offer his services
himself, en grande costume, both my aunts declared that he was irresistible.
You
are making terrible fools of yourselves, said papa to them; but all his
objections were overruled, Rosabella declaring that, since papa had condemned
the excursion to Paris, as folly, from first to last, they might as well have
the chasseur, since the folly of it would fall into the general lump, instead
of forming separate foolery. His name is Julien, which, Clementina maintains to
be a very ancient name in France. On the whole, she cannot divest herself of
the idea that he is a gentleman, and Rosabella, who was always such a tyrant to
her English servants, is afraid to command the most trifling service from this
flashy hero, in green. C’est une bien belle chose d’être courier, ma foi! on
devient bientôt chambellan.
Prince
Stroll-about has, lately, arrived in Paris. I have been presented to him. He
said, Ha! and dowsed his head downwards, a movement, which he intended for a
bow. He is the most absent, rude creature, I ever met with; for he draws one
into conversation, and then, just as one fancies oneself rather eloquent, he
gives a second downward jerk of his head, begs pardon, in bad English, or worse
French, and disappears. I have observed his highness more than once, lately,
lounging about, among the maid servants, either in the Champs Elysées or in the
Jardins des Thuilleries.
I had
almost forgotten to continue my account of Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé, who
sent us the invitation to her soirée. Mamma declared, point blank, she could
not presume to accept it, the French were such polite, accomplished people, and
a countess too!! She had not been brought up in such society, never pretended
to any thing of the kind, and really should be less afraid of facing a host of
English nobility, than one of these French countesses; but we were obstinate, assuring
her that the French were the easiest people in the world to live with, and, at
last, we prevailed.
Fancy
us then, at eight o’clock, in the evening, assembled, in our drawing-room, full
dressed in our very best, wishing to do honor to the French countess’s soirée.
Eliza wore a beautiful, white gauze, over pink satin, and the new ear-rings
Papa has given her: in short, we had taken no small pains in ornamenting, and
having hummed and coughed ourselves into something like courage for the
enterprise, after duly studying the most polite expressions, in French, my
brother led the way, in gay, embroidered, silk stockings, down to the porter’s
lodge. Mamma looked very nice; indeed, I never saw her so becomingly dressed
before.
Ou
donc demeure Madame la Comtesse? said Eliza, addressing the porter.
Mais
montez toujours l’escalier à gauche, Mes dames, jusqu’à ce que vous verrez le
nom de Madame la Comtesse sur la porte.
Remercie
bien, Monsieur, and we all began to ascend. There was no such name as Madame la
Comtesse, on the premier étage. It is on the second, no doubt, said my brother.
Indeed, added he, I have heard say, people of high rank generally prefer the
second story, as being less noisy. These stairs are very steep, mamma observed,
when we had climbed up another étage. By that time we all began to puff and
blow, but we searched in vain, for Madame la Comtesse’s abode. The same
happened to us in the third and fourth story.
I’ll
go no further, said papa, seating himself, on the stairs. I can’t stand it.
It’s
all a hoax, exclaimed Peter, why should a lady of such high rank, single us
out, from so many foreigners, who are now in Paris, to invite us to her rout?
Come down stairs you fools!
I
wish I could discover who has had the impudence to put such a joke on an honest
family like our’s, my poor father murmured, in an under tone of voice,
reddening with anger.
I
will make a point of being satisfied, though, said Peter, descending the
stairs, three at a time, till he arrived at the porter’s lodge. Are we to wait
for you, here, Peter? mamma called out, over the balustrade. Peter begged we
would, and he soon returned to us, with the good news that it was no hoax.
Madame la Comtesse did give a soirée, and she lived au cinquieme étage.
Bless
me, said mamma; how ignorant we are of French manners. We should never dream of
these great folks sticking themselves up in the garret, in this sort of way. Courage, mes dames! il n’y a qu’une
étage de plus, I remarked, gaily leading the way. It was, now, quite dark; for
the staircase was only lighted jusqu’au quatrième.
How are we to grope our way here? enquired Eliza, horror-struck at finding herself so dismally situated, on the fifth landing place.
How
are we to find the countess’s door, among six or seven? said mamma. French
stairs too, are so often, wet and dirty, added Eliza. We shall spoil our
dresses, I remarked. A variety of bad and unwholesome smells assailed our noses
as we poked about, from one door to another.
I
have found a door of somebody’s, said papa, and it being on a latch, we opened
it. Being the most enterprising of the family, I entered, at once. It will be a
lesson to me not to thrust my nose into unexplored, private places, for this
time. All our noses, instantaneously warned us, that we had made a woeful
mistake, and the door was closed.
Come
home, said mamma, for heaven’s sake. What should we do groping about, here,
into every dirty hole and corner, as if it were possible that any one, much
less a countess, would give a party, without hanging out a single lamp!
I
have found a bell, said Peter, and he rang it, violently, without waiting for
permission.
Qui
est là ? squeaked out a shrill, trembling voice, from within.
Madame
la Comtesse de Bienpassé? Peter inquired.
Pas-ici,
cried the voice. Madame la Comtesse demeure au fond de la galérie à gauche. Je
suis couché, moi. A dirty-looking, old creature, now issued forth from a door,
at the opposite corner of the corridor, holding up a miserable, little,
twinkling lamp, which, every instant, threatened to serve her, as the lamps of
fair heroines of romances are wont to do; namely, to be extinguished, by the
first breath of air.
Demande-t-on,
la bas, Madame la Comtesse de Bienpassé? called out the lamp-bearer: and, being
answered in the affirmative, by five anxious voices, together, we were beckoned
forwards, and invited, with much ceremony, into a very small room, by Madame la
Comtesse, elle-meme!!!
Let
me describe her. She was a tall, thin, old lady of, at least, sixty years of
age. Her features, perhaps, had, once, been handsome; her skin, was completely,
daubed, with red and white paint, contrasted with a due proportion of snuff,
which disfigured her upper lip and chin; her grey hairs were ill-concealed,
beneath a flaxen wig, around which, were turned two rows of large white beads,
and a wreath of rose-coloured flowers, which were as faded as herself. Her
gauze dress had, once, been yellow; her neck and arms were uncovered; and she
wore an immense clasp-bracelet, and ear-rings, and necklace of green stones.
Having
saluted us, with infinite ease, and French grace, she presented us to her
company, separately, according to their rank, beginning with the Marquis de
Casse-Noisette, a little gentleman of the ancien regime, such as you have seen
in old French pictures, and I often meet, toddling about the Jardin des
Plantes, here. It would require a more able pen than mine to do justice to
Monsieur le Marquis’s extreme politeness.
The
next person, to whom our attention was directed, was le confesseur de Madame la
Comtesse, a pious, hungry-looking priest; but I have not time to describe them
all, a round dozen of them, I should think, besides ourselves. They sat, all of
a row, round the room. Nobody could advance or recede an inch. There were two
merry-faced young ladies, accompanied by their brother, and a fat, old woman,
with a bloated, red face, and a turban to match.
The
protégée of Madame la Comtesse, who sat at as humble a distance, as limits
would permit, wore a plain, white, calico blouse, without ornament, and there
was a gay militaire, in his regimentals, who seemed to be rather on an intimate
footing, chez Madame la Comtesse. A small sofa was in the room, covered with
thin, rose-coloured silk; tallow candles were burning on the chimney-piece,
gaily ornamented with coloured papers, and some china-jars were filled with
large bouquets. There was, also, an old-fashioned table, a picture of a paire
de France, another of Cupid and Psyche, a third of the Virgin Mary, and a
portrait of a lady, in the court-dress of Louis Quatorze. Next to Mary Magdalen
was a shepherdess, in tapestry; a little stuffed dog under a glass-case; a live
poll-parrot; two French, female puppies, on a dirty, scarlet, satin pillow; a
crucifix in ivory; a painted snuff-box; and old clock; a piece of carpet-work,
half-finished; a fat abbot, painted in oil; and Monsieur le Duc de Guiche in
water; a martyr, and a satyr.
I
think I have, now, described all worthy attention. The vieille cour-beau, in
green silk stockings, was indefatigable, in his endeavours to amuse us girls,
and he certainly succeeded admirably, possessing an inexhaustible fund of
amusing anecdotes. He had been in London, and spoke the language excellently,
for a French man.
We
missed Madame la Comtesse, all at once, and Monsieur le militaire happened to
disappear at about the same moment.
Où
est, donc, le beau militaire? some one asked, and my brother, out of pure
malice, answered, in a very respectful tone, Il vient de se rétirer dans la
chamber à coucher, à coté, avec Madame la Comtesse. My brother has the best
memory in the world. Indeed I may say that both of us, sans me flatter, have
done wonders in acquiring the French language.
There
was no harm done. Madame la Comtesse, having called her protégée, who left the
bed-room-door open for half a second, for which crime, she was severely
reprimanded, by her fair patroness, I espied Monsieur le Militaire, very busy,
assisting madame to make punch, and eau sucré. It was very good of Monsieur le
Militaire, and one good turn deserves another; so it is natural, and
benevolent, to suppose that Madame la Comtesse was occasionally, very kind, and
good-natured, to Monsieur le Militaire: ça coute si peu! Upon the whole we
spent a very pleasant evening, much more so than the one we passed at the
Messrs. Lockfast, our bankers, in spite of the princely magnificence with which
they entertained us.
I,
really, cannot hold my pen any longer; but will resume it very soon. Dieu m’en
garde, I think I hear you cry, if all your letters are to be of this length. In
the mean time however, believe me, my dear Jemima,
Most
truly yours,
MARY CALLAM.
Let us now enquire what the two Miss Callams are about? Rosabella’s reputed fortune had brought round her, a swarm of needy, young men, who had all, in a fit of desperation, made up their minds to swallow the bitter pill, if sufficiently gilt; avec le consentement de Madame, bien entendu. Among the most forward of these adventurers was one Mr. Walkup, a tall, raw-boned, ill made, but gay, and somewhat elegantly dressed, young man, of not ungentlemanly appearance. His temper was mild, and conciliatory; and his countenance rather interesting; yet this was one of the most consummate rogues in grain, perhaps, in all Europe. He was a dragoon on half, or no pay, and his father was a gentleman. This, with plenty of new, French kid-gloves, is quite enough, and all which is required, for Parisian soirées.
Mr. Walkup obtained
admission every where, and was, at all times, le bien venu, chez les dames
Callam. As to Clementina, she was in love with him. Clementina, however, was
not what he wanted; but, although Rosabella was his first object, yet Walkup
hoped to make something of Clementina, who was, by no means, in bad
circumstances. He had, already, contrived that many hundred francs should
glide, gently, from the fair Clementina’s purse, to his own. He was now the
most unlucky fellow in the world at écarté: he had offended his papa…, was in
debt to a friend, a debt of honor! lost all his money, last night, and must go
to Versailles; and the fair Clementina’s hand was open, as melting charity,
whenever her too susceptible heart was touched; and she loved a man, who
dressed well!
That
Mr. Bellfield is a fine man, she would often say, with a sigh, for, with all
her vanity, long experience had put it beyond a doubt, that such first rate
beauties as Bellfield, were passed praying for. A fine creature, indeed; but
then he does not get his shoe-strings ironed, and this is the second time he
has been to my soirée, with only one glove, having lost the other, on his way
hither, not to mention the hole in his hat, which, he declares, is so
convenient to know it by. What is the use of a smart carriage, if a man goes
about, with a little hole in his hat? It is, really, quite indecent! Now that
dear Walkup…by the bye I, seriously, wonder he does not return me some of the
money I have lent him; but he is, always very elegantly dressed. With regard to
Miss Rosabella, the gay Walkup was but losing time. It was not new gloves,
diamond-pins, nor any kind of fopery, which would meet her high-flown ideas of
perfection…..she had fixed her mind on a hero….if moustached, so much the
better. Would’st thou have the fair Rosabella for thy friend, thou must cut
kids, and lavender water, with embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs to boot, to
grasp a sword, and do something glorious!!
Rosabella
often dreamed of
MacGruffin, the first,
The
great MacGruffin, as great in person as in deeds! but how to get introduced?
Due enquiry had been made. MacGruffin, the first, visited no one, not even
ladies, it being contrary to the etiquette of kings: but ladies might visit
him, in his palace, à la villate, be ushered into his anti-room, by his
highness’s secretary, for the home department, the Count de Break-nose!! Bellfield,
was his highness’s confidential friend, and prime minister.
Rosabella
was afraid to encounter this gentleman, of the home department; for her mind
ran strongly on foreign affairs, and Bellfield declared he would introduce no
ladies. He did not think his Royal Highness liked ladies: the rooms were too
full of smoke, and ladies interrupted the momentous calculations of armies, and
navies, and flags, and signals, and bonds, and crosses, and ribbons.
Rosabella
had had the honor of being once in the society of the Duc de Guiche….There was
a man !! …only he happened to be….married….
People
might say, what they pleased. Prejudice might run as high, as it pleased fools
to let it; but there was something noble, and truly heroic, about the manners
and expression of Monsieur Julien her chasseur which she had never remarked, in
any one before.
At
about this time of my little sketch or novel, or romance of the present day, or
whatever people like to call it, a handsome, eccentric, young man, of large
fortune, arrived in Paris. Nobody knew him, and very few cared to know more
than that he was rich; and, therefore, of course, an excellent match for any
woman. He lived in a very expensive style, paid every body, went every where,
and fell in love, at first sight, with Miss Mary Callam.
Mary
is a soap-boiler's daughter, observed one of his acquaintances!
She
is the most natural girl, I ever saw, answered the young man, whose name was
Villers. I don’t mind about the soap-trade; but I will never marry, till I feel
convinced, in my own mind, of being loved by such an unsophisticated, dear,
young creature, for myself alone. I happen to be well-looking, and I know it,
besides being rich; but I must study this girl’s principles, and my way to
manage it, shall be this, I’ll make myself appear an empty, silly fop, in her
society, and then propose marriage to her.
What
then, suppose she consents?
If
she consents to make a partner for life of such a contemptible blockhead as I
will seem to her, I shall sham having lost every sixpence of my fortune, at
play, or by failure of a banker, and no fear but that I shall get rid of her,
easily enough. His friend, laughingly, declared that it was a capital plan;
longed to see how a man of such winning-ways and gentlemanly manners, would
play the part of a vapid, insipid, silly, flattering, heartless unprincipled
beau; candidly confessed his belief, that Mary would refuse him, and, further,
that the soap-boiler's second daughter, Mary, was certainly the highest,
natural-bred girl, and, apparently, the most amiable and clever, he had seen in
Paris, and, on this, the friends parted.
The
Duc de Lerma, whom every body knows, and whom Mary Callam has made such free
mention of, in her letter, left Paris, some ten years ago, in debt, and, there
were reasons why he did not go to England. At that time, he was followed, and
hunted, up and down the Paris streets, by one Mrs. Teaze-all, whom he declared
he hated worse than even being alone in the dark, and, when he was asked why
this woman happened to be always hanging on his arm, he asserted that it was
beyond the power of mortal-man, to get rid of her. She had so haunted, and
hunted a poor tailor, in London, that he had been induced to offer her an
annuity of two hundred a year for her life, on the single condition of never
again returning to England, and which said offer was accepted, therefore,
continued the duke, with a dismal sigh, there is no remedy, for I can’t afford
to buy her out of France, neither is it convenient for me to live any where
else, at present. But he was not, then, Duc de Lerma, having succeeded, to that
title, and large estates, rather unexpectedly, some years ago. Money, as I have
said before does much in Paris, and rank does something too: but rank and
riches were not enough to obtain, for the Duc de Lerma, a place in good
society; and he, therefore, professed to be in ill health, lived at home, took
hot baths, and kept a seraglio, besides tigers in abundance.
There
was one of these animals, which he particularly, distinguished; placing him,
daily, on the driving seat of his barouche, or, next to him in the interior of
it, paid for his dinner, and gave him free ingress and egress to and from his
seraglio.
It
should, however, be borne in mind, that a tiger is a fierce, rapacious, and
most uncertain beast, and like a cat, so sly, (at least according to the great
historian Buffon,) and so little to be confided in, that it will, often, turn
round, on the hand which feeds it. The said tiger too, was an old one, and grey
into the bargain, and the ladies of the seraglio, who had much interest,
prevailed on his grace de Lerma to make him over to the rich Mr. Satirical
Harmless, in the Rue Pelletier, and send an advertisement to Galignani, for a
coachman. The exchange was made; but how the said rough-headed tiger liked it,
I know not. There was, unquestionably, a due proportion of dirty work to be
performed, in both places, and his late, as well as his present master were,
both, mean men, who never, willingly, gave away more money than was necessary.
On the other hand, any body might, with ever so little wit, over-reach the
duke, and cheat his hind leg off; while, quite the reverse, Mr. Satirical
Harmless was a shrewd fellow, in all things, save horse-flesh. He had the
disposition, also, to have been a seducer; but he always failed when he came to
the point. In like manner, he would have been a hard rider…only he was afraid,
and he would run in debt, if alas! he could have obtained any credit. He,
likewise, wrote a satirical poem, in which he meant to tickle up the great, and
break many a heart; but, nobody would publish it. He, once wanted, to prosecute
a man in Italy; but he had the misfortune to speak such execrable Italian, that
neither judge nor jury could understand him. Another time, he wished to commit
a rape, but.....it was not accomplished. One thing, however, I believe, he did
accomplish, which was to put the Duc de Lerma’s tiger upon half pay, whereas
the tiger, in his last place, kept his tiger, and, what is more, the under-tiger
kept a mistress!! The golden age is no more present amongst us. The tiger,
notwithstanding, still managed to hold up his head.
Miss
Rosabella Callam, having issued cards for a party, we will fancy them all
assembled, in, rather small, but very elegant apartments. Mr. Satirical
Harmless came, shuffling in, in a pair of slip-shod shoes, and nankeen
trowsers, accompanied by Robin Rough, his grey tiger. By the bye, the latter
haunts one everywhere. I wish to heaven, some good tailor would buy him into banishment.
It would be a great relief to the public eye.
Mr.
Villers, whom Mary Callam, on this eventful night, met, for the second time in
her life, had equipped himself in the most ridiculous, and conceited manner,
possible. I will try how far money will carry a man, had he said to himself, a
few days previous to this night's entertainment, just as he was entering the
porte-cocher of the residence of Mr. Squib, who is the Stultze of Paris.
The
said Mr. Squib, at the young gentleman’s desire, though much against the grain
of his own inclination, equipped him for Rosabella’s soirée, in a pair of
broad-ribbed, yellow, silk small-clothes, with gold bell-buttons; silk
embroidered stockings, immodestly transparent; a pale, pink, satin waistcoat,
under a white one of gros de Naples; a coat, made quite tight, of such a very
light shade of purple, that it was scarcely purple at all; his hair oiled, and
twisted into various ringlets; but separated, on the forehead, á la Madona;
and, to complete this charming costume, he wore three large diamond-rings, a
variety of gay seals, a gold chain, of curious workmanship; and the pin, which
fastened his embroidered French cambric shirt, was headed, with a fair lady’s
miniature set with brilliants!
Ha!
ha! ha. Excellent! said his young friend Harry Hairbrain, who had attended his
toilet.
Mais
sera-t-il permis de se presenter comme céla? enquiredVillers, almost ashamed of
himself.
Nonsense,
reiterated Hairbrain, what’s the use of being rich and independent, if you may
not wear what you like?
Ah! true, answered Villers, and I
have, so lately, returned from India, that nobody knows or cares about me.
And
then the Miss Callams will doat upon you, thus adorned.
Why,
yes, returned Villers, as he surveyed himself. I think I shall unsettle my fair
hostess’s heart, a little.
Villers
was an eccentric young man; of such versatile talents, that he could be any
thing, he pleased.
Above,
all, he shone at masquerades. In whatever character he appeared, he was sure to
be the best mask in the room. Whether he represented a French postillion, an
English coachman, Don Quixotte, Sancho Panza, a Spanish grandee, a strolling
player, a Yorkshireman, or a poet, he was sure to seem naturalized, in the
character, as if by long habit; even when he assumed it, for the first time. He
knew well that he possessed the sort of talents which charm women out of their
better judgment, and, with that refinement of vanity, which is natural enough,
to a spoiled man, he determined to find a woman, who, despising all besides,
should appreciate his talents, and love him only for himself, good, bad, or
indifferent, such as he really was. Villers was not given to the melting mood;
but the sentiments, Mary Callam had inspired, were the first, of that nature,
he had ever experienced, and he felt no inclination to curb his passion; on the
contrary it was, to him, a new and most exquisite sensation, which inspired all
the glowing ardour of his character, and he delighted to give it the fullest
play.
Now
Hairbrain, said Villers to his young companion, as they stepped into his
elegant little chariot, I have treated you as a friend. You are quite old
enough to be a man’s friend, and must not fancy yourself a child; therefore
mind, if you giggle, or titter, so as to induce any of the party to smell a
rat, I shall never forgive you.
Hair-brain,
proud of hearing himself called a grown up gentleman’s friend, determined to
prove that he was not the silly, mere boy, who could not duly command his
countenance, let what would occur.
Well,
then! Depend on me! Very good.... Ha! ha! ha! ha! let me have my laugh out,
first, though, at all events. Those d–––d broad-striped, yellow breeches are so
absurd, and that little peaked hat!! Where the devil did Squib get that stuff
for the breeches?
Come,
now, hold your tongue; will you? I foresee you will get me into a scrape, and
spoil all.
If I
do, never trust me again, said Hairbrain, just as the carriage stopped at Miss
Callam’s hotel.
Villers’s
entrance produced a great sensation. Clementina, in audible whispers, professed
herself charmed; and there was a lady, from Brussels, absolutely ravished! but
that was always the case, with this fair lady. Oh, mercy on me, what a god is
that! she had exclaimed, some six months before, when young Bellfield was
presented to her, and she sent him card after card; and invitations, without
end. It was most provoking of Bellfield! He eternally made excuses!! However,
he will come tonight, said she to a certain gentleman of my acquaintance, who
is, or has been concerned in the editorial department, and, with whom, because
he knew her in Brussels, she had no disguise. Yes! He certainly will come
tonight; he has passed his word and honor. I cannot attempt to describe him.
You will see him. Judge for yourself. He is an angel, on earth!!
Her
daughter, a very amiable young lady, began to blush for her mother’s folly;
and, in good truth, not without reason, for the old lady made a great fool of
herself, as is usually the case. At last the conqueror came!
What
do you think of him? said the lady from Brussels, her heart panting and
palpitating in an agony of expectation.
The
lady bore two names, one for Paris the other for Brussels; but which of them,
or whether both, were des noms de guerre, I cannot say. She was affectation
personified, sans cheveux, sans dens, sans every thing which constitute charms.
In all probability, the poet must have alluded to this identical lady, when he,
thus expresses, his disappointment:
Instead of woman, heavenly woman’s charms,
To clasp paint, cork, wool, varnish in your
arms.
However, she dressed as youthfully as her daughter.
Bellfield, whom her editorial friend admitted, was very handsome, having made
his bow to her, went lounging, about the room, in search of more attractive metal.
The Brussels heroine, had like to have died of sheer vexation.
Well!
Your new friend is, remarkably, handsome, indeed! observed the gentleman, as if
on purpose to add fuel to her wrath.
Yes!
but that..........that coat of his, is very ugly, answered the lady, not
knowing what else to vent her spleen, against...Did you ever see such a coat in
all your born days? Oh! continued the fair one, stamping her foot, in a phrenzy
of disappointment, oh! that a man should make such an ass! such a fool! such a
monkey, of himself.
Young
Bellfield, finding the silly, old, vain woman a bore, never repeated his visit;
by which means, he converted into a most bitter enemy, the Brussels
adventuress, with her alaises, tacked to her name, and she, now, presumes, upon
her petticoats, to assert the grossest and most illiberal falsehoods of him,
simply, because one of the finest young men, in Europe, thought that he might
do better, than intrigue with a disgusting old woman, who possessed not a
single point of attraction.
To
proceed with my narrative: the Brussels heroine, was inflamed, in an instant,
at the sight of young Villers’s party-coloured, and gaudy equipments. What a
contrast to Bellfield’s vile, short coat, said she, in a fit of rapture,
addressing Clementina, as Villers, and his young friend, passed on, amidst the
titters, ill suppressed laughter, and whispers of who is he? Don’t you know
him? He is the rich man, from India, whom nobody knows. I have met him twice;
but never saw him such a figure before.
During
all these audible whispers, Villers, accustomed to command the muscles of his
countenance, and give them just what expression he pleased, having, like a good
actor, identified himself with the part he proposed playing, steadily, for the
next week, smiled, nodded, and sent kisses, by dozens, across the room, from
the tips of his white fingers, with infinite grace, and complacency, as though
in pity to the havoc, his wonderful attractions were making among the hearts of
all the females in the room. In fact, absurdly outré, as was his costume, it
did not detract much from his personal figure. Villers wanted the necessary
philosophy to render himself ugly, in the presence of the first woman, who had
made an impression on his heart; but mimicry was his forte. He excelled in it
from a boy, and would have made one of the first comic actors of the age. Can
we wonder if he was delighted in the exercise and display of his great talent?
His natural character was the most manly, and furthest removed from a coxcomb,
of any which could well be imagined; yet the effeminate arrangement of his
luxurious, auburn hair, un peu á la madonna, was exactly that, which set off
the greek contour of his fine countenance, to the best advantage. Thus then
love, all potent love, had made of Villers, the thing he most abhorred, at the
very moment when he believed he was holding up that character, to ridicule.
Mr.
Satirical Harmless, who was entertaining an Irish gentleman, an honorary tiger
of Lord Chatterbox, whom his lordship left behind him, in Paris, to superintend
the packing of some jewellery, which he had ordered in the palais royal; his
lordship, like Serjeant Whittaker of the tenth hussars, being suddenly seized
with the desire to get married, Mr. Satirical Harmless, I say, paused in the
egotistical remark he was about to make, as usual, to fix his eyes on the
phenomenon, which had just entered the room; but, Mr. Harmless being nearly
blind, Villers’s pink waistcoat and filigree buttons only confused and dazzled
him.
Let
us go and see what that is, said Harmless, tugging his rough tiger by the
sleeve.
When
they came in close contact with the object, which had excited their curiosity,
he was paying his respects to Rosabella.
The
slovenly poet stared at him, with his mouth wide open, till Villers, happening,
while throwing a hasty glance around the room to fix his bright eyes, for an
instant, on Harmless’s face, the would-be poet slunk back, to where he came
from; like a snail, into its shell; not but our young author would have been more
bold and impudent, only he dared not, therefore, placing his back against the
wall, where he had left Lord Chatterbox’s tiger, in waiting, he continued his
conversation. He did not want the inclination to make satirical remarks on
Villers's costume, tout comme un autre, only he, wisely, thought it might be
safer to ascertain, before hand, how such remarks might be taken.
He
now resumed, where he had left off. A man is really a great ass, I mean, il a
tort, as the French have it, to commence author, particularly one, like me,
possessing large, independent fortune! Why should I court the impertinence of
Edinburgh reviewers, and expose myself, like an humble servant of the public,
to their mercy?
Very
true! indeed, said Roughhead.
Most
true! echoed the lord’s tiger, in waiting.
Oh
Lord!! said young Hairbrain, who cared for nobody, and who happened to join
them, precisely in time to overhear Mr. Harmless’s last wise remark. Lord bless
my soul, you need not be a bit afraid of the Edinburgh reviewers. I’ll bet you
twenty guineas, to one, that they never, once, trouble themselves, to name you,
or your work.
Harmless
was all attention. Having paused, to consider the matter, he, in a decided
tone, somewhat touched with melancholy, said, That is possible. I don’t know
that it is not very likely to happen.
Harmless
was not a fool; but really felt doubtful, and shy, of his own abilities.
Whose
style think you is most worthy of imitation, among modern poets? enquired one
of the tigers.
Lord Byron’s, said Hairbrain.
Pope’s,
decidedly, answered Harmless. We want a correct school for study, although
Some beauties yet no precepts can declare.
Music resembles poetry; in each,
Are harmless graces, which, no methods teach,
And which a master’s hand, alone, can reach.
Yet,
continued Harmless, just as if this quotation was all in his speech, for he had
so familiarized himself with his favourite Pope, as scarcely to be aware when
he quoted the language of that poet; and yet a certain method may be acquired,
and the ear improved, by the constant study of correct, harmonious
versification, particularly of the narrative kind, in which Pope stands
unrivalled by, either ancients, or moderns.
A man
may conclude his studies with Byron, who is full of brilliant errors; but, to begin
with him, is the very way to make the imagination take the lead of judgment.
Lord Byron spoils a man for harder study.
Do
not you read Lord Byron, then? enquired one of the tigers; but Harmless was in
the constant habit of shamming absence of mind, whenever people asked him
stupid questions.
I
want to consult you, said Harmless to Hairbrain, who instantly declared himself
all attention.
A man
has broken my carriage, by driving on the wrong side of the road; and it will
cost me a thousand francs to put it to rights. Shall I prosecute him or not?
Don’t
prosecute him, for a mistake, poor fellow.
Oh!
he be d–––d, said Harmless. I ask you, as a friend, whether it is worth my
while to take the trouble?
What
a selfish fellow you are, observed Harry, with his usual, blunt frankness.
I
believe you may be right, observed Harmless, who was never, in the least,
offended with people, for speaking their mind about him. On the contrary, he
courted them to do so, agreeing, with his favourite Pope, that
The noblest study of mankind, is
man.
He,
really, wanted to know and appreciate himself, rightly.
I am
not warm-hearted, that is beyond the slightest doubt, said he, in a musing way,
as though, he had been talking to himself, and yet.......... I think my only
reason for not caring one straw, for any body, is the conviction, I feel, that
they all hate me, so cursedly.
And can you be surprised at it?––You who take
upon yourself to go down among a set of jolly fellows, in Leicestershire, and
hunt with them, as their companion, and brother-sportsman, and yet presume to
hunt them down, and show them all up, in rhymes, in the ill-natured way you
did, a little time since; because you happen, perhaps, to be a better scholar,
or may possess superior abilities, or rather a knack, in that satirico-poetical
way. Is it their fault? What had you to do with them.
They
called me a lout, said Harmless, sulkily.
Ha!
ha! ha! and very justly. You are the most unlicked cub, I ever saw, in my life.
And
they laughed at my riding, too, continued Harmless.
Rhymers
have no business in Leicestershire, among merry fox-hunters.
I can
ride, though, continued Harmless, with some emphasis, on the can.
Oh! I
am sure you must look cock-tail, on horseback, although I never saw you.
Well!
it was a long while ago, and I am sorry for it. I was only a lad. How is one to
get over such a thing? Shall I write them an apology?
Young
Mr. So-so, the little Frenchified demisol guardsman, who has been in Paris,
depuis long temps, interrupted them, at this moment, exclaiming,
Did
you ever, in all your born days, see such a double-distilled, exquisite,
superlatively refined dandy, as that young Villers? Do come, and let us look at
him, through our opera-glasses, all at once.
Not I
indeed, said Harmless. He will be calling me out, and I have no wish to fight.
What, the devil, should I fight for, with fifteen thousand a year? and I
could’nt stand caning, neither; so I never say a word, now, about any man,
unless I am very much provoked. You young fellows, without any money, and
nothing to lose, may do as you please.
Mr.
Villers is my friend, observed Hairbrain, and Mr. So-so begged Hairbrain’s
pardon.
Oh!
apologies are quite unnecessary, Mr. So-so. What you have said of Villers would
rather gratify, than annoy him.
It
will, now, be necessary to say something of Mary Callam, whom Villers had been
at so much trouble, to please.
She
had met him, once or twice, before, and thought him, without any exception, the
finest young man, she had ever seen; but Villers, intent on studying, deeply,
the disposition of so lovely a girl, had scarcely addressed a word to her,
desiring to see her in her natural character, unembarrassed by the conversation
of a stranger. Mary had watched him, about the room, with sly, but constant
perseverance, and, when she retired to rest, in the warmth and humility of her
heart, she had offered up a short prayer for his future happiness. May he marry
some sweet young lady, as beautiful as himself, who will love him for ever!
Love, however, scarcely ever did, or ever will exist, without a ray of hope.
Mary fell asleep, and, in the morning, had almost forgotten Mr. Villers.
More
than a week had elapsed, since Mary Callam’s brief prayer had ascended, like
grateful incense, at the shrine of Villers’s beauty, when Mary recognized him,
in his new suit, and filigree, gold buttons.
She
could scarcely refrain from laughing aloud. How could she have been so
high-flown, as to have prayed for such a thing as that?
Did
you ever see such a conceited, foolish, fellow, as Mr. Villers, my dear Eliza?
said Mary, to her sister. Look how he smiles, to show his white teeth, and
bows, like an automaton, on wires.
What
a beautiful creature! exclaimed Eliza, who had scarcely observed him, when,
with her sister, she had met him, in his every-day-suit of quiet black.
Beautiful!
repeated Mary, in surprise, looking towards him. At that moment, their eyes
met, for the first time. Nature, here, predominated over the actor, and
Villers’s fine countenance was, involuntarily, animated with a bright blush.
Well!
he is certainly handsome, after all, added Mary, turning hastily round, to
avoid his earnest glance, which, being the first attention she had recognized,
created a tremulous sensation about the regions of her heart, notwithstanding
all her prejudice against his foppery. Villers immediately joined her.
Oh!
ma belle Marie!! if thou could’st but know how many fathoms deep I am in love!
said Villers, raising her hand to his lips, with infinite assurance.
This
beau comes here to laugh at, and insult us, poor trades-people, though Mary,
reddening with anger, as she, hastily, withdrew her hand.
I
love the name of Mary, continued Villers: it is music to my heart!! I have
loved, at least, a dozen Mary’s this winter! and he, with the most ineffable
nonchalance, examined his teeth, in a small mirror, on the back of a gold
snuff-box.
Mary’s
eyes were traversing the room, in every direction, for her brother, or her
father, whose protection, she began to fancy, might be necessary, to secure her
from insults; but this last speech, was uttered, by Villers, with such
consummate sang froid, and struck her, as so perfectly ridiculous, that she
laughed outright, in spite of all her efforts, to look serious.
Charming
playfulness! continued Villers. I would live with thee, in the deserts of
barren Arabia, Mary! Thy smile is so refreshing!! Refresh me, then, again and
again, sweet one! Laugh on, for ever. That bright, dear hazel-eye haunts me by
night and day; and, in the twilight of the evening too, I love it, and think of
it. Eyes ne’er did this for me before! But there is a stony stillness in thine,
love, and yet they are stag-like, and bright, and clear as the rainbow. Pray,
look on me, love! following up Mary, who, in extreme confusion, was hastening
away towards her mother.
None
will love thee, sweetest, as I could. Nay! then, look at me again, beloved of
my heart!………He paused a moment. Well, then, look at my new filligree buttons,
and tell me what thou think’st of them? Villers added, in serious fervour, by
way of winding up his heroics, with a specimen of the art of sinking, as he
seized her hand, and forced her to turn round.
Mary’s
fears were, now, converted into wild hilarity. She was, in fact, absolutely
convulsed with laughter, and stood, wiping her eyes, and pressing one hand, on
her side. Not but this vociferous exhibition of loud mirth was, to make the
best of it, utterly adverse to every rule of fashionable etiquette; but my poor
heroine, was a soap-boiler’s daughter.
I
suppose, ma’am, you take them for silver gilt? said Villers, in apparent pique.
I wish you very good night, madam: and, bowing with much solemnity, he retired
to the furthest extremity of the room, addressed Clementina, made a desperate
attack upon that lady’s heart, then invited his fair hostess to dance the
Gavotte, and performed his part, in that graceful movement, to perfection,
while Rosabella languished and frisked about, out of all manner of time, tune,
or measure.
This
exhibition afforded infinite amusement to every individual, in the room, except
Mary, who felt out of humour, and unhappy, she knew not why. It was not
possible to suspect herself of being in love with such a piece of absurdity as
Villers, and his abominable, filigree buttons, and his ridiculous tout
ensemble.
After
the Gavotte, Villers attacked Eliza, with outré expressions of admiration.
Alas! like the frogs in the fable, what was mere sport to him, sank deep into
the heart of this weak, silly, girl: but Villers, accustomed, as he was, to
succeed, never once dreamed of being at all formidable to a lovely girl, who
must have been habituated to flattery, while making himself so perfectly
ridiculous. Of Eliza, he could never have dreamed, as a wife, and his
principles had ever made him abhor the idea of seeking a moment’s sensual
gratification, at the risk of future wretchedness, to another; so, after making
a few flourishing speeches, with such perfect apathy, as he would have found it
difficult, perhaps impossible, to evince, in the society of Mary, he bade poor
Eliza remember him in her prayers, and took his leave, little suspecting that
he had sent one of Cupid’s sharpest arrows through, and through the heart of
Miss Eliza Callam.
Come
this way, come and see this man, in the next room, said Villers, to Harry
Hairbrain, a few minutes after he had taken leave of Eliza. Do you know,
Villers continued, that a man has just entered the next room, who is playing my
own identical character, and I flattered myself, mine was such an original
fancy! That man, surely, must be doing it on purpose, too! Oh! there is no
doubt. Only look at his wadding, and then his attitude. It is the very best
acting I have seen in France. Capital!! I must try at that! and, before
Hairbrain could interfere, Villers had taken a chair, opposite the person, who
had attracted his attentions, and not only placed himself in the very
self-same, studied attitude, to a nicety, but gave a most astonishing proof of
the flexibility of his countenance, by drawing it into a very strong
resemblance to that of his neighbour.
Good
God! Do you know what you are doing? whispered Hairbrain in his ear.
To be
sure I do. What business had this man to attempt turning me into ridicule, by
taking my new character? I suppose that impudent fellow Squib, has put him up
to it.
I
tell you, continued Hairbrain, it is Sir Violet Sighaway, and in his usual
costume.
Nonsense!
Do you want to make me believe a man would take the trouble of fixing himself
thus, like a statue, in an attitude, every day of his life. No such thing. I am
determined to be a match for him, and he continued his inimitable imitations,
which were too strikingly correct not to be, immediately, recognized, by every
person in the room, save and except the original himself, who, having, taken
his attitude from an antique, and ascertained its becomingness by the most
minute study, before his looking-glass, now affected to be in deep thought, as
an excuse for continuing immoveable. Every body began to whisper, and titter,
and blow their noses, or run away, to indulge their mirth at a distance. At
last, the extreme resemblance which Villers continued to throw into his
features, was too much, not only for the politeness of the company, but it even
overcame Harmless’s dread of being called out, and he joined in the loud roar
of laughter, which became so general as, almost to shake the roof of the house.
Sir
Violet Sighaway, suddenly, turned his head, and looked about him; and every
body ran out of the room, in a fright, except Villers, who nodded at him, like
the ghost in Don Giovanni, without changing his position.
Sir
Violet did not know what to say to his nodding neighbour, who appeared to be
mimicking him. It is true, he was a sad coxcomb, and he knew it; but the
labours of his toilette, were daily encountered to please, and gratify lovely
woman! Could the sweet creatures, then, refuse to forgive him? Being, rather a
good tempered, and a mild man, he had seldom provoked such insults; and, he
was, therefore, puzzled, for an instant. However, the continued laughter of the
company, added to Villers’s repeated nods, finally succeeded in rousing him.
Pray,
Mr. Villers, said Sir Violet, jumping up, pray sir, are you nodding at me, in
that absurd way, like a mandarin figure, in a tea-shop.
Oh!
upon my honor, you ought to have sate still.
You
have deranged one of the finest attitudes, upon honor, you have! said Villers,
rising also, and speaking affectedly. It was excellent, I assure you.
Sir
Violet, who was certainly a man of very gentlemanly manners, requested that Mr.
Villers would allow him to say a few words to him, in private.
Oh!
No! said Villers, excuse me. Par ma foi! I suppose, you imagine, I wish to call
you out, for certain insults offered me; but, excuse me, I beg. Not but I have
learned to fence, with the small sword, very gracefully; but, in the month of
June, I cannot endure fighting. I am, indeed, very angry, not because you
copied me, that was natural enough, and what I am quite accustomed to; but you
did more. You beat me hollow, you cut me out, particularly in your attitudes.
I
copy you, sir!! exclaimed Sir Violet, in a passion, and with a voice, at the
very height of his powers, I would rather copy a monkey, dressed up at a fair,
or Jacko himself.
Now,
my very excellent fellow, Sir Violet, don’t be envious! I’ll tell you what.
There are not one hundred of these filigree buttons in all France. I had them
from Twabba Lam Ching Chong, himself, one of the Emperor of China’s favourite
mandarins, who lives at Ram Jam Jung, near the long wall, in Canton. They were
brought to Canton, from Pekin, from Nankin, to Nankin, from Cochin, and to
Cochin, from…..
I
cannot stand this, hastily interrupted Sir Violet, turning on his heels. Pray,
Miss Rosabella, said he, having, quickly, joined his fair hostess, is not Mr.
Villers, sometimes considered a little…..? and he touched his forehead.
Rosabella
declared she really did not know, what to make of Mr. Villers, whom she had
invited, to please her sister Clementina, and advised Sir Violet to laugh at
him, which was what every lady else did.
Sir
Violet had forgiven him, in an instant, and, from his heart, in order to have
done with him, that he might be at liberty, to amuse himself more pleasantly.
However, Villers, really was very handsome, and Sir Violet, never could pardon
a man, for his beauty. He won’t fight, that’s clear, thought Sir Violet, so I
need not alarm myself; but, I’ll be even with him, some how or other. An
opportunity of making the attempt soon presented itself.
Observing
that Villers was endeavouring to fascinate, with his foppery, Mary Callam, who
seemed, now, rather to avoid his attempts, as persecutions, he contrived to
engage that young lady in conversation. I will not say, that Mary here, did not
evince some small degree of coquetry, in her disposition; for Mary was piqued
that all the high-flown sentiments, with which Villers had began to plead his
love, should have turned out mere mockery, and end in filligree-buttons.
Sir
Violet could not have been more unfortunate than he was, in his efforts to
annoy Villers, on whom, Mary’s apparent indifference had a very exhilarating
effect.
I
knew she was a dear, sensible girl, said Villers, addressing Hairbrain. I could
have sworn she must despise a coxcomb: how I doat, upon her, for disregarding
me, rich, as she knows I am!
Alas!
Mary was very far from deserving his praise, as far, at least, as her
indifference was concerned.
Villers
had, absolutely, bewitched her! In vain, she said to herself, this can be
neither more nor less, than a mere heartless, selfish, fop; who will never
marry any woman. The thrill of pleasure, which she had experienced, the first
time their eyes had met, still vibrated in every nerve, and there was no help
for it. It was passion, love, first love! in all its glowing ardour! a passion,
which assails us all, sooner or later, once or more, in our lives, as the case
may happen to be.
Mary
had never read a novel. Her present feelings were the more ardent, from their
frankness. Not only, she had not loved before; but she had not even once
dreamed about loving. Her warmth of heart had been, widely, diffused, amongst
her friends, and favourites, whom she had loved so dearly, that there had been
No void, left aching, in her heart:
for passion to creep in at. She had, it was true,
been, often, told, she was handsome; indeed she was, by no means, unaware of
this positive, and striking, fact; but, beauty was nothing, so very uncommon,
she thought, and, when she first saw Villers, she was as likely to have dreamed
of obtaining a particular star, the brightness of which, might have attracted
her attention, as any favour, in his eyes.
Viller’s
glance, however, so expressive of tender admiration, had not been entirely
misunderstood. Ladies are very sharp-sighted to the admiration, they inspire!
Mary
had lived on the bright glance, of Viller’s love-able orbs, ever since, and no
after-failings could drive him from her memory; although she did wish, from the
bottom of her soul, that he had been the manly, unsophisticated being, she had,
at first, imagined him; but then, sighed Mary, but then, Villers would have
been, too perfect for the world we live in; and then she added, while the idea
somewhat consoled her, and then I could not have been blessed, with that sweet,
and gracious smile, the remembrance of which makes me so happy: for, would,
such a man, have taken notice of me, if it had not been that he was such
another silly, gay deceiver, as Sir Violet Sighaway, who smiles on every
well-favoured girl he meets, whether milk-maid, or duchess!
Mary
was interrupted, in these, her deep, and wise, cogitations, by the dear object
of them, in person, who had left her as soon as Sir Violet addressed her: and
Sir Violet, also, forsook the poor soap-boiler’s daughter, the moment he had
ascertained that his attentions caused trouble to nobody but to himself.
Good
night, sweet one! you and I, who are to live and die together, must not part
now, nor ever, in anger, said Villers, holding out his finger, towards Mary,
affectedly.
Mary
had the infatuation to wish, ardently, that she might have once touched his
hand; but she possessed just that due proportion of pride, without which, a
fine young woman, may be considered as unsexed; and this pride induced her to
make a strong effort, to wish her lover, good night, with somewhat of calm, and
lady-like dignity, though she avoided touching the hand, which was offered her.
Nonsense,
dear Mary! you are too shy by half! I tell you, upon, my honor, I have forgiven
you, notwithstanding these filligree-buttons were, certainly, worthy of your
attention, being curiously wrought. My valet is gone to Greenwich, to see after
another small box of them, which my friend Twabba Lam Ching Chong, the Emperor
of China’s favorite mandarin, and who was my particular friend, in Canton,
promised to send me. Will you go to India with me, and smoke a real, Persian,
filligreed hookah, and hear me call out, like a sultan, hookah burdar, whenever
I want it lighted?
Why
am I singled out, Mr. Villers, to have my ears assailed, with more nonsense,
that you bestow on any other lady in the room? Mary asked this question, with
an effort to seem indignant, and yet, strange to say, life almost hung on the
question, did he, or did he not, distinguish her from the rest? What would she
not have given to be convinced, that the former was the case.
I
single you!! just the contrary. I would not have thee single, an hour,
sweetest, to waste thy bloom, and that dear glowing beauty, which I would
cherish in my own bosom. I doat on all things beautiful, and that is what makes
me so anxious to get these butons from Greenwich. Tell me love! are they not
beautiful, and of exquisite workmanship?
Mary
possessed a very shrewd understanding, beyond, what might have been expected
from her youth, and the retired way, in which she had been brought up. There
was something outré in this man’s affectations, and his eternal reference to
his fillagree-buttons. Part of the truth darted across her mind. Viller’s real
motive for disguising his natural manner, beneath such vapid folly, did not,
however, for an instant, enter into her mind; and the new-born hope that he was
not really so silly, as he affected to be, tinged her cheek with rapture. She
was one of the most sanguine, and most natural girls, under heaven. I do not
maintain, that she had not, on some very great and particular occasions, wished
to assert a falsehood; but truth was natural to her, and nature did so
predominate in her disposition, that it was, really, out of her power, to utter
a deliberate untruth, even on subjects, where lies are mere, innocent, playful
recreation. Mary, being taken, thus suddenly, by surprise, turned her glowing
face, towards her lover, and the arch expression of her countenance, rendered
her so lovely, that Villers forgot his part, and, forcibly, seizing her hand,
imprinted about a hundred, ardent kisses on it, in half a second. Mary could
not have withdrawn it, if earth had yawned, and all the witches, in Macbeth,
had threatened her to boot, and shaken their birch-brooms, in defiance, over
her head. The witchery of Villers’s beauty, would have, completely, out-witched
them. In short, poor Mary began to give herself up for a lost wretch, who
possessed not the power to suppress impertinence.
If I
thought this little, dear hand, which you abandon, thus, without reserve, to my
kisses, had never, till now, been pressed by living man, or by man who has
lived, said Villers, love and anxiety over-topping every other consideration;
if I could only flatter myself that….
Never,
so help me Heaven, have I been thus passive, nor will I, answered Mary, in the
ardour of youthful enthusiasm…..But, alas! Villers was too deficient in vanity,
too ignorant of his own powers of pleasing, to appreciate poor Mary’s warmth,
and singleness of heart. She wants my fortune, thought he: and that idea fixed
his determination, to subject Mary, to the probationary trial, he had, at
first, proposed.
While
these reflections were passing, in his mind, Villers was silent, and, during
that interval, Mary suffered the most painful, and humiliating sensations,
which could be, well, imagined.
You
despise me, Mr. Villers, she exclaimed, at last, with an effort, bordering upon
desperation, and with the bitter tears starting to her eyes; you despise me for
what I have said; but I have not learned, nor can I, and I never shall know how
to disguise my feelings. All I can do, is to avoid you hereafter. We will meet
then no more, Sir, on earth, if I can help it; and every minor care, I feel,
will be swallowed up in this, my fixed resolution: one little boon, therefore,
I venture to ask.
They
were, now, in a retired corner of the room, and somewhat concealed from general
observation. Confess to me, continued Mary, brushing away another burning tear,
and speaking in hurried accents, confess, that, this night, you have acted a
part, which is foreign to your character, and that you are not….. their eyes
met, and Villers’s countenance was expressive of the most anxious tenderness.
Oh! I
am sure you are what I thought you, on that evening, when we first met, and I
retired, not to rest, but to pray for you, added Mary, with ungovernable
feeling, while gazing, with inquisitive eagerness, in her lover’s face. Villers
was about to clasp her in his arms; but doubts still assailed him. She shall
pass the ordeal, by which I at first intended to try her, said he, to himself;
and, now, his obedient countenance changed from that intellectual character,
which had just before distinguished it, to such mere prettiness, as is not of
the soul, and he looked the veriest, handsome fop, who was born for a pink
satin waistcoat, with filligree buttons.
Pray
for me, to night, again, beloved one, said he, affectedly: pray for the
fruition of all my wishes, and remember that I wish, just now, most of all
things, for the return of that rascal of a valet of mine, Ambrose, who is to
bring my filligree buttons up from Greenwich!!
Young
Peter Callam, at this moment, came running towards his sister, whom he seized,
somewhat roughly, by the hand, assuring her that he had been looking for her
every where, not expecting to find her in a corner, tête à tête with a
gentleman; and adding, that her parents were waiting, at the door, in the
carriage, very angry with her.
What,
in the name of wonder, did that tawdry young man, in the pink satin waist-coat,
say to you this evening child?—enquired Mrs. Callam, as soon as Mary was seated
in the carriage.
Mary,
much disturbed, assured her mother that Mr. Villers talked a great deal of
nonsense, and wanted, she believed, to make a fool of her.
Mr.
Callam declared, it served them all right, for mixing with the great, in this
sort of way.
Eliza
sighed, audibly; and Mrs. Callam scolded her good man, for being, always, too
ready to put a spoke in the girls’ wheel, when there was any chance of
establishing them, in high life. The whole party, however, were worn out, with
fatigue, and, on their arrival, at home, immediately retired to their
chambers…….
Eliza
could not obtain a wink of sleep; she had read every novel, she could lay her
hand on, and had, long been prepared for falling in love! but then the Callams
saw no good company, in London, nor ever suffered their daughters to be absent.
Le moyen de s’enflammer! However, it was done, and settled, and over, with Miss
Eliza now: so she did not attempt to recline her fair head, on her pillow, till
she had addressed a long epistle, to her dear, sweet, young friend, Miss
Temple, after the style of heroines, in books. The following is a short sketch
of it.
Charlotte,
beloved friend! I have felt his breath fan my cheek; I have read his soul,
which beamed forth, in those heavenly orbs, that were fixed on my face, for
more than a second!! I rave! Bear with me, sweet friend!! Yes, I love! wildly!
madly! adore! What will become of me? Yet I hope! Charlotte, I presume, and
dare to hope, that Villers has not seen me, with indifference, &c.
My
readers have, I presume, here, had quite enough of Miss Eliza’s rhapsody, which
ran on, over eight pages of large-sized letter-paper, exactly in the same
strain.
Young
Callam, too, had been troubled by one of the arch, little Cupid’s arrows; but,
as for the wound, it turned out to be only a slight scratch. He had found the
fair lady, at a certain celebrated gambling house, called, Frescati. Not that
Peter had ever been addicted to gambling, but then, said his new acquaintance,
George Frolic, Frescati is one of the lions of Paris, and, of course, you come
here to see the lions. It is, however, a dullish place, now, compared to what it
was eight or ten years ago, when I came over here, with my mother, continued
Frolic. At that time, a most magnificent dinner used to be prepared, by that
first rate restaurateur, Monsieur Robert, alternately, at Frescati, and the
saloon, for about forty people, who used to receive cards of invitation, each,
in their turn.
I
remember my Lord Charles Bentinck, and that stupid young man, who married the
Marquis of Wellesley’s youngest daughter—I forget his name, but fancy it might
be something Littleton. Yes, these two young men, being in Paris, together,
some years ago, had fixed their mind on dining at Frescati. However, they knew
not how to get introduced, and no one was admitted, without the regular
introduction of a gentleman, who was well known in the house. Now Lord Charles,
had heard that my Lord Ebrington, and my Lord Dudley and Ward, had been both
turned out of the said gambling house, and forced to the wrong side of the
door, notwithstanding Lord Ebrington’s soft tone, which, by the soothing system,
would have prevailed, and Lord Dudley and Ward’s abuse.
This
story greatly discouraged my Lord, and Mr. Littleton. At last, they recollected
that the famous Harriette Wilson, the memoir-woman, was in Paris, and Lord
Charles wrote her a very humble, not to say, pathetic epistle, imploring her to
forward a character forthwith; forthwith, being my Lord’s favorite expression.
For
the love of Heaven, said my lord, in his letter, do, pray, dear, little, pretty
Miss Wilson, forward me, forthwith, a couple of written characters, one for my
friend, Mr. Littleton, the other for myself: such as shall obtain us admittance
into that highly respectable establishment.
Miss
Wilson had, of course, no wish to spoil men’s preferment, in life, and,
therefore, addressed a line to the Marquis de Livré, to explain that, during
the time, she had been acquainted with the gentlemen, she had no reason to
doubt their honesty, having never lost any thing; and that they were sober,
too, very frequently, especially of a morning; and did not, therefore, think
there would be any risk incurred, by allowing them to sit at the bottom of the
table.
I
tell you this story, continued Peter Callam’s friend, just to put you up to the
gentility of the thing, although they don’t give dinners now. However, you will
meet some very elegant-looking ladies there.
What
sort of ladies? Peter asked.
Oh!
Actresses, and women of a certain fashion, answered his friend.
Peter
could no longer hold out.
At
Frescati, they found several fair ladies, gaily attired, sitting round an
immense rouge et noir table, at which a party of gentlemen were playing.
The
apartments were decorated like assembly rooms. George begged Peter to remark
the beauty of a jolie brunette, on his left.
A
perfect angel! said Peter.
She
is an actress, and sings divinely. Shall I present you?
Oh!
do, by all means, answered Peter; if she will not think me too presumptuous.
George
assured him, that the lady was very good-natured indeed, and immediately named
him, to her.
Is
she a real actress, then? whispered Peter, in his friend’s ear, astonished at
the good reception, he had met with.
Oh!
Lord, yes! and she will be delighted to receive you, at her house, I am sure.
Peter’s
heart went bump, bump, against his ribs. A real French actress, glad to see me!
he mentally exclaimed. Why, where am I? Is this paradise, instead of Paris? I
wonder if I shall be able to understand her.
George,
having explained, to the fair lady, that young Callam would be happy to pay his
respects to her, she handed him a card. Callam retired, to dream of her all
night, and, by ten in the morning, behold him, full dressed! He wore, on this
grand occasion, a new green coat, tinged with a yellow hue, a lilac silk
under-waistcoat, and his cambric, plaited shirt, was fastened with a large
green emerald-pin, in the form of a fleur-de-lis; his trowsers white, with a
broad pink stripe, and his upper waistcoat, to match. He had, been coaxing his
hair, ever since he arrived in Paris, to bring it into the true Parisian cut, par
devant; and he could now compass something, like a ringlet, on each temple,
which looked very gay, in fine weather, though they cut a rueful figure when
the rain had transformed the said ringlets into rats’ tails. The back part of
his head was scraped tight to the skin, à la Russe; his well-blacked shoes,
which only just covered the tips of his toes, that his open-worked stockings
might not be lost to the world, were tied, with a very broad black ribbon; his
ring was an antique, and his embroidered pocket handkerchief, strongly, scented
with eau de Portugal. Four, gay, French seals, dangled, from his watch-chain,
which he wore round his neck.
Thus
equipped, Peter Callam knocked at the actress’s door, while the clock was
striking eleven, his mind running on the graceful image of every thing which
was voluptuous, and lovely, in woman. The porter told him to monter, au
quatrième. Having done so, and rung the bell, he was answered by a man, without
stockings, who had a brush tied to one of his feet, and the effluvia, which he
now inhaled was not, exactly, inspiring.
Madame
Droit-pied est chez elle? asked Peter.
Ma
foi! Je ne suis que le frotteur de madame, said the man, placing his arm
a-kimbo, and flying about the room, in all sorts of
attitudes, in, what Peter thought, a very burlesque manner. Peter took out his
card, and followed the gay frotteur, up and down the room, in the faint hope of
placing it in his hand; but the man, by twirling, and capering, and
harlequinade, always eluded his pursuit.
Peter,
now, ventured to ring the bell again.
Ma
foi! said the frotteur, dancing away upon the toe, which held a brush, attached
to it, while rolling his body about, as though he had been skating over the
Serpentine River—Ma foi, Monsieur, Je crois que la bonne de madame s’est allée
à la halle.
Mais
ou est donc Madame Droit-pied?
Dans
sa chambre, answered the frotteur, nodding and dancing.
Peter
ventured, in fear and trembling, to open a door, which he observed at the
further end of the drawing-room. Let my reader judge of his surprise and
fright, at finding himself in a small cabinet or dressing room, tête à tête
with Sir Violet Sighaway!!…..
The
gay baronet was en chemise, standing before the glass, arranging a broad,
rose-coloured ribbon, in becoming bows, about his laced, bordered, night-cap.
Peter
firmly believed that he had entered the house of Sir Violet, by mistake; so,
muttering some unintelligible apology, he darted out of the room, and was in
the street, before Sir Violet had recovered his surprise!
Poor
crest-fallen Peter, was so low spirited all the rest of the day, and so sulky,
that he shut himself up, with a volume of Shakespeare, and refused to leave his
room. However, after a due portion of sleep, Peter’s anger gave way to softer
feelings. It was something of a feather, in a man’s cap, thought he, to come in
any kind of contact with a baronet; to be a baronet’s rival sounded well; and,
to cut him out, better!
I
will return to this bewitching creature, at a later hour, to-morrow. At all
events, I must not condemn her, till I have convinced myself that it was
really, her own, private boudoir, in which I discovered Sir Violet, en chemise.
This
time, Peter was more fortunate. A smart, and somewhat rouged femme de chambre
handed him into the fair Elvira’s bed-room, which was gaily, and luxuriously,
ornamented with immense mirrors, toilets of pink satin, and silver muslin,
embroidered muslin draperies, &c.
His
illusion would have been more perfect, but for having espied, amidst all this
finery, some soiled linen, a pair of slovenly pantoufles, and something else
too, was visible, near the bed; but what it was, shall be nameless.
As to
the fair Elvira, she was wrapped up, in a faded, yellow, figured satin
douillette, or wadded pelisse, though in the midst of the dog-days, and, her
hair, en papillottes, as though she were waiting for the coeffeur. She was
slip-shod, and, apparently, without garters; and, though her nails were very
dirty, she, nevertheless, wore many rings: nay, her very foremost finger was
ornamented, with three very large ones. On the sofa, was visible, an
embroidered cambric, very dirty, and somewhat snuffy handkerchief, together
with a French dog, which had, nearly, destroyed the manuscript, which the fair
Elvira was studying, for that evening’s representation.
No
matter, Elvira was rather a fine woman, and Peter was a very raw, inexperienced
youth. They were tête à tête, and the smiles of the actress were encouraging;
but the further transactions of the scene, must be left, wholly, to the
imagination of the reader.
Peter,
having, now got rid of all reserve, rated his fair mistress, about Sir Violet.
Oh!
l’imbécile! said Elvira. Oh! le fat! avec son bonnet de nuit, couleur de rose;
voilà deux mois qu’il m’a promis un cachemire…
This
was a broad hint, which made Peter serious. Unacquainted with human nature,
Peter, from setting down Elvira, for an angel, now believed her to be
completely abandoned.
I
cannot afford cachemires, said Peter. My father gives me very little money, and
I spend it all; but I do not want to go away in your debt, so, I suppose, I
must give you this gold chain.
Elvira
burst, suddenly, into a flood of tears.
Peter
possessed that sort of fair, florid, youthful complexion, which ladies, on the
continent, of a certain age, are apt to be very fond of.
Elvira
was an actress of some talent; not altogether degraded, or mercenary; a free
liver, and possessing a warmer heart, than women of her profession are
suspected of, quoi-qu’elle n’était point du tout, bonne catholique. She was
capable of acting with much generosity, towards those she liked; and she had
greatly admired the blushing, youthful appearance of Peter, when he had been
presented to her at Frescati. In short, Elvira had declared, both to her maid,
and to her old occasional ami de confiance, Monsieur le Marquis de
Casse-Noisette, qu’elle avoit un caprice pour le petit Anglais. The chief
ingredient of the said caprice, was passion; but, Elvira would have rather
walked a mile, to serve young Peter Callam, than have taken his gold chain from
him; and, when her intentions were so coarsely misinterpreted, she, really,
thought it heart-breaking: but youth is fickle! I wonder that any woman, can
love a boy! Peter would have parted with chain, watch, and pocket money. Nay,
who knows how far passion might have led him, had Elvira, only, preserved that
haughty character, which, always, has, so imposing an effect, on raw youth; but
she was too fond.
However,
Peter was not, quite, tired of her, yet, and things went on, with tolerable
smoothness, for a week or two, during which period, scarcely a day passed, that
they did not see each other. Peter, now commenced a succession of complaints:
the distance, fagged him; the extreme heat of the weather oppressed him, beyond
measure: nay, more, he began to spout Shakespeare, in the morning, when he
ought to have been attending to other matters.
Vainly
did poor Elvira exert herself, for his amusement. A whole week had, now,
elapsed, and she had not received, a single visit from him. At the end of that
period, she really, was, as she fancied herself, violently in love. She wrote,
to inform him, that she was, vraiment blessée.
No
answer! Her second letter, par la petite poste, came to say, that she was
indignée, her third, désesperée, her fourth, déchirée, her fifth, inconsolable:
but her sixth, for she wrote exactly half a dozen, was in quite another style.
In that, she requested him to make good his former offer, of the gold chain, he
wore, round his neck, on pain of being shown up to his papa.
My
readers shall now be favoured, with a specimen of Mr. Peter Callam’s,
epistolary acquirements.
From Peter Callam, to his
friend, and school-fellow, Joseph Kennedy.
Paris, June, 20th
1825.
My
dear Joe,
In
answer to your communication of the 7th inst. as to my taking the
part of Romeo, on the 20th of August next, pray tell the manager of
our little, private company, Mr. Puff-enough, that I must decline, for two very
substantial reasons. In the first place, I am not sure of arriving in time; in
the second, I am determined, that nasty, carroty, Miss White, shall not fondle
and pull me about, as she did young Sparks, all the last time, I saw her play
Juliet. There is nothing, on earth, I hate, so much, as the idea of being
fondled, and made too much of. Even in a play, it would make me sick, with such
a Juliet, and, I have had too much of it, here, in Paris. French women are very
striking, and fascinating, till one knows them; and they walk well, and make
the most of their persons, and turn out their toes; but, one soon gets tired of
them, and there is a great sameness about the shape of their bonnets, and, in
fact, their tout ensemble. The men and women, live so much together, that,
neither mystery, nor illusion, are left, after one has heard them discuss their
mals au ventres, and praise certain medicinal remedies: and certain leaden
conveniences, are stuck up in every window, without the slightest reserve…..
When the ladies are not full dressed, they wear dirty, silk douillettes,
instead of our country women’s nice, white, muslin gowns; and the very height
of female delicacy, is spitting to pocket-handkerchiefs. Altogether, they won’t
do for us English, not but what many of them, are possessed of most amiable,
obliging characters; but I look on them as mere children, and could never make
a friend of any French woman, I ever saw yet.
I have but little news to relate. Our friend Mr. Fox, is here, looking just as good natured and unmeaning, as usual, and rather cleaner, if possible. Whenever he turns out, he puts me in mind of a man, who had not only been just washed, but, absolutely, mangled too; he is all over, so very glossy. In short, one would really think, that himself, and his shirt, his neck-cloth, waistcoat, and trowsers, were all one piece, and just brought home by the laundress or blanchisseuse, as she is called here.
Papa, spends much of his
time at Versailles. Our cousins, the formidable Brawneys, are arrived. I have
met them at two parties: the first one, given a month ago, when I mentioned to
my friend, George Frolic, with whom I was conversing, that the lady in the
turban, who so unconsciously stared, avec des grands yeux, was very much like
my illustrious and most excellent relative Mrs. Brawney Be-at-them
of—celebrity.
Hush!
said another gentleman, a friend of mine, whispering in my ear, It is herself!
she arrived two days ago! London was dull. The Brawney’s couldn’t get into any
tip-top society there; so they voted it stupid, not half such a place as Paris,
and a decided bore. Posters were ordered, and over they came, in the same, old,
hearse-looking carriage, which has been rattled, backwards and forwards, for
this last half century.
But,
why are you so severe? I remarked.
Oh!
answered my friend; I once knew them. All that time I had a large pair of
mustachios. Times changed. I cut off my mustachios, and they cut my
acquaintance! With this, he went off, and talked to other people.
Mrs.
Be-at-them, and myself spoke not, though, I observed, she looked very hard at
me, and asked the hostess of the house, as she has since told me, who I was?
Nevertheless, we did not exchange a word. O’Fly-a-way was not there. He is a
very humble servant of hers, au moins, c’est ce qu’on dit, and a French kind of
an Irishman. Mr. O’Fly-a-way, was a little given to scandal-talking, and
over-talked himself one day, about Miss Brawney. Over-talking, I don’t think
more pardonable, than over eating, which is disgusting enough. The consequence
was, that the lady of the house, where I spent a very pleasant evening, having
daughters of her own, was not, at all, sure, that the same Mr. O’Fly-a-way,
might not over-talk himself, also, about them, and she has, therefore,
forbidden him her doors. Ainsi, vous voyez, mon ami, qu’on a bien tort de
parler trop. Mrs. Be-at-them retired shortly after supper.
The
next day, really, more, from good heart, than any particular desire to make
acquaintance, with the turbanned, fiery-looking Meg Merrilies, I wrote her, a
most polite, and, gentlemanlike note. I showed it to many of my friends, and
some of hers. It was, universally approved. Her answer was very short, and
contained these words, Mrs. Be-at-them’s compliments, and must decline the
acquaintance proposed.
Last
Wednesday night, I met her, for the second time, at a very rich West Indian’s.
I went there late. A general buz went through the room. These grooms, of the
Brawney’s, have brought so many mustachio’d beaus, that there is no moving,
and, in truth, it was very crowded: how select I know not. I like crowded
rooms. I believe, the Brawneys are much ridiculed here, although, for my own
part, I like one of them, without having spoken to her. Not that I think her
beautiful, or a figure to please me, being too scraggy; but she looks
good-natured, and as if she wished to be friends. The other, I don’t know when
I see her. I am told, that one is not allowed to sit down, except when dressed
in black, nor the other, to stand up, at any party: and the reason, assigned,
is, fear of creasing the dress of the one, and that the other is so
overpoweringly tall, and gigantic, that it is, absolutely, quite shocking, to
see her stand, in the middle of an assembly of ladies and gentlemen. She makes
the assembly look like the house, and she resembles its chimney.
Notwithstanding the Brawneys, their mustachios, and their beaus, the party went
off well. One match was made, but not with a Brawney! Quel malheur pour eux!
But Paris is a scandalous place, my dear Joe: people make a regular trade of
it. It is a commodity; and scandal clings closer to none, than to the heels of
these herculean damsels. Report says, they dine at cafés, tête-à-tête, with the
gardes-du-corps, and that a moustache, well blacked, and curled, is an
irresistible passport to their Sunday evening converzaziones, where reign scandal,
ecarté, black strap, and mustachios. Enough of these heroines of the chapeau
bergère.
I
must now take a hasty leave of you; because my sisters have, two of them, got
the spleen, or bile, or something or other; but the French doctors call it the
migraine. Indeed, they call every thing so, and cure all their disorders with a
glass of cold water, sweetened with sugar.
However,
this may be, my sisters are both unwell, et il faut réfraichir le sang, as the
doctors all agree.
Mais
comment donc?
Ma
foi, avec des sang-suës, et de l’eau sucré, sans doute.
As to
Eliza, she has, I do believe, fallen in love, with a dandy, of first-rate
folly: one Mr. Villers, who laughs at her; but, poor dear Mary is too good, and
too amiable to be laughed at, and I hope, and believe, she has too much sense
to love, without return, or wear a willow.
Farewell
Joseph. I wish you would come to Paris, direct to this hotel, not to the
post-office, it’s so far off. For my part, the first time I mounted up to the
Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau, to put a letter into the post; every clerk passed me
on, to the next, for more than a quarter of an hour, and the last one told me
it had struck five, et que c’était impossible. One more adieu, and believe me,
Very
sincerely, your friend,
PETER CALLAM.
Hotel de l’Europe,
Rue Richelieu.
To
return to Mary: she had slept ill, after Rosabella’s party. In vain, did she
call reason to her aid. She could not subdue her passion for Villers! First
love is all powerful, when it happens to be real, and from the heart of a young
lady, who has never been a novel-reader. However, she determined to be prudent.
She might die of grief, and disappointment; but she resolved never to cause a
pang in the breast of her parents. Eliza’s situation, too, gave her sister much
uneasiness. Indeed, dear Eliza, she would say to her, indeed, Villers has no
regard for you.
You
are jealous of me, Mary, would Eliza answer.
No,
indeed, I am not; but I should be, if I did not see there was no cause, was
Mary’s frank, but shrewd remark; adding, that she would, herself, be, always,
denied to Mr. Villers. She thus left the field open to her sister; only
imploring her, to listen to the warning advice of her most sincere friend, when
she, again, assured her she, was encouraging a passion, for one, whose heart
had never yet been warmed towards her.
Things
went on much in the same way, for a week or two. Villers called frequently on
the Callams, and was beginning to lose his patience, at finding that Mary,
invariably, retired to her room, the moment, he entered the house. Mary’s
parents greatly approved of her prudence, for certain reasons, which I will now
relate.
A
rich widow, one Mrs. Beaumont, had arrived in Paris, on the morning before
Rosabella’s party. The said Mrs. Beaumont’s lovely daughter, Caroline, had been
a school-fellow of Mary Callam, and loved her dearly, for her most amiable
character.
I
must, indeed, mamma, I must visit my dear Mary Callam, when I get to Paris,
said Caroline, to her parent, just as they arrived at Calais.
With
all my heart, answered Mrs. Beaumont. I do not go to Paris, to be
straight-laced, I assure you. One has quite enough of that in London. Mary is a
fine girl, and, between ourselves, I wish, earnestly, that your brother,
Samuel, would fall in love with her.
Now,
this said hopeful Samuel, Mrs. Beaumont’s son, and her late husband’s heir, was
a rigid methodist, having had a call when he least expected it. Samuel was such
a formal piece of goods, and he wore his hair so straight, and parson-like, and
his coats were so slovenly, and ill-made, that Mrs. Beaumont saw no hope, nor
chance, of his being accepted by a woman of fashion; and, of all things in the
world, Mrs. Beaumont, who was a gay, luxurious, handsome, buxom, widow,
delighted in her liberty. The poor, dear, Mr. Beaumont had now been dead
upwards of a twelve-month, and why should she be restrained, by a lath of a
son, who was in the habit of turning up his eyes, like a divine, and looking
like nothing human, if a word slipt from her, which was ever so little awry.
Still she had no excuse for turning him out of her house, while he continued
single; so she lived in hopes that the flesh might soon move him to matrimony.
With this object in view, Mrs. Beaumont, and her daughter, made the Callams a
very early visit, when they found Miss Mary so improved, in grace, and in
beauty, that Mrs. Beaumont really conceived Samuel could not behold her with
indifference. Unfortunately, a certain young woman, called Hannah Pure, who had
accompanied Mrs. Beaumont to Paris, in the capacity of a waiting woman, had
somewhat touched the fancy, or the heart of Mr. Samuel: not by mere accident,
but intentionally.
Hannah
Pure had been in the service of his mother, when his father was alive. She was,
then, a merry, bold girl: artful, by nature, she had, on the death of Mr.
Beaumont, formed a plan to lay siege to the heart of her young master, who was
too closely wrapped up, in his methodistical principles, to be turned from his
devotion. She, therefore, affected to be ever most anxious for pious
instruction, listening to Samuel’s prosing discourses, with an appearance of
deep interest. This had called forth the praise, and admiration of her young
master, and the fair Hannah, though turned of forty, still lived, in hopes,
although Samuel had never professed to feel more regard for her, than we are
taught to encourage towards all our beloved brethren. But my readers will judge
better of the footing, on which Samuel lived, with Hannah Pure, if I make them
parties to the interview, which took place, between them, on Samuel’s return,
from making his first visit to the Callams.
Samuel
left his mother and sister, with the Callams, when the clock struck ten, that
being his hour of returning to prayers and rest, and proceeded homeward on
foot. When he entered his dressing-room, Miss Hannah Pure followed him.
Mr.
Samuel, said the nymph, in a tone of great respect, Mr. Samuel, the rain hath
fallen heavily, shall I fetch you a nice cordial? For the sake of the
righteous, added she, turning up the whites of her eyes, my excellent young
master, do not trifle with your precious health!
Thou
art a kind soul, Hannah, answered Samuel; but, hast thou read, and inwardly
digested the volume, I gave thee, last week?
Oh!
Mr. Samuel, I read it over and over again, with fresh rapture. But the
cordial?—
I
will take nothing, said Samuel, and Hannah, with an humble courtesy, was
leaving the room.
Come
hither, Hannah, said Samuel, and, with grave dignity, beckoned her towards him.
Come hither, young woman! I believe thou lovest me, with such purity of spirit,
as defieth the evil one; and, therefore, may we venture———
Samuel
paused, and looked cautiously round the room. The good cheer, with which he had
been entertained, by the Callams, had somewhat slackened his morals, or rather
worked them up to such a degree of enthusiasm, as partook more of the flesh,
than of the spirit; and, therefore, repeated Samuel, after having ascertained
that they were unobserved, and, therefore, may we now venture?—Nay, pin thy
kerchief closer, woman! May we, I say, now, venture on a chaste salute?
Most
true! sighed the fair Hannah, and their lips were joined with such ardour, as
their pious creed did not, in the least, diminish.
At
this moment, Mrs. Beaumont, most mal à propos, entered the room, and Samuel
darted out of it, by an opposite door, with his face as red as scarlet.
Bless
us! said Mrs. Beaumont. Dear me, ma’am, I am truly sorry to have arrived so
very inconveniently, just as the spirit was moving you both; though I cannot
but admire your holy zeal!!
Madam,
said Hannah, in confusion, Madam, you surely do not mean to insinuate that¾¾¾
Nay,
spare me your excuses, Hannah, interrupted Mrs. Beaumont; I take it, for
granted, you are innocent, and that there was nothing wrong.
The
fact is, the fair widow was delighted with this discovery, for she wanted a
confidante, of that respectable and pious exterior, which would best cloak any
little slip, from virtue, since Paris, being, as Callam always declared, such a
wicked city, there was no saying what might befal, a poor, weak, unprotected
widow, there.
What
do you think of Miss Mary Callam? enquired Mrs. Beaumont, of her son, the next
morning, as they sat at breakfast; being now, more anxious than ever, to see
her son established decently, lest he might make a more degrading choice.
Truly,
Miss Mary’s beauty is, of the first order, answered Samuel: and his mother, to
make short of the business, threw herself on her son’s neck, expressing her
delight that her choice, for him, had met with his approbation. She was sure,
no young man could fail to be perfectly happy, with a wife of such an amiable
disposition, as Mary Callam.
Nay!
but I have not yet thought of the girl, as my wife, said Samuel, wavering:
although added he, as the recollection of her budding charms, fired his blood,
although my first duty, of course, is obedience, to my kind parent, and, truly,
since the damsel is so amiable, in disposition, I am ready.
Another
embrace, from mamma, closed the bargain; and Samuel promised to woo Miss Mary
Callam, in form, on the first opportunity, notwithstanding he felt, not quite
certain, that he was altogether pleased with the arrangement. Mrs. Beaumont
hastened to call upon Mrs. Callam, early the next morning.
Lork!
Mrs. Beaumont, said the warmhearted woman to her, how kind and good you are!
Pray God, all your condescension, and notice of me, may not make me grow proud,
and forget my former station in life.
No
fear of that, Mrs. Callam. Indeed I must scold you for being too humble, by
half. Who cares for pedigree now-a-days! unless in horses? Your husband is
rich, and your daughters are beautiful; what more can you desire? I have
something to communicate to you, my good friend, which, I hope, will not be
thought disagreeable news.
Mrs.
Callam was all attention!
Do
you know, that your charming daughter, Mary, has made a conquest of a very
rich, and excellent young man, who is ready to throw himself, and his fortune,
at her feet to morrow?
Oh!
Mrs. Beaumont, to whom can you allude? exclaimed Mrs. Callam, jumping up, and
seizing hold of the kind lady’s hand, which she pressed to her lips, in a fit
of gratitude.
No
less a personage, than my own first born, who is, heir to all his father’s
property. Nay, I am quite serious continued Mrs. Beaumont, observing that her
friend looked incredulous. I never was more in earnest, in my life; so tell me
if you think Mary will consent?
Consent!
Why what, in the world, can she possibly object to? Is he not young, rich,
religious, honorable?
True,
true; but young ladies, you know, my dear madam, are very romantic and
fanciful; and Samuel is rather serious you know, and does not dress quite so
fashionably as might please their wishes.
Pooh!
Pooh! retorted Mrs. Callam, my daughters have not been brought up, or
encouraged, in these follies. Be assured, Mary will be proud to make Mr. Samuel
an obedient, and most excellent wife.
Things
being, so far, agreed on, the ladies parted, as soon as Mrs. Callam, had
promised to prepare her daughter, for her tête-à tête, with Mr. Samuel, and
which was to be brought about, as if, by mere accident, at the first
opportunity.
I
must now tell my readers, something of Mrs. Beaumont’s fair daughter. Caroline
was the affianced wife of her wild cousin, Harry Hairbrain, with whom my
readers, have already formed a slight acquaintance.
She
was a beautiful, lively girl, and adored her cousin, whose hand, her father
had, on his death-bed, placed in hers: but, Hairbrain was a rake, whose conduct
was a constant source of uneasiness to her, and, though her pride induced her
to conceal her wounded feelings, from her lover, yet she, often, when he
imagined her to be calmly sleeping, had wetted her pillow, with bitter tears.
Her
cousin’s visit to Paris, had both piqued and offended her. True, they were not
to be married for another whole twelvemonth, and she had no right, to prevent
his seeing the world. She was, however, overjoyed when, unsolicited by herself,
her mother, one morning, surprised her, with the agreeable news, of her having
determined on a trip to Paris, pour se distraire, after the heavy, domestic
calamity, which had made her so nervous.
Hairbrain,
the very instant of her arrival, flew to his affianced, on the wings of love;
for he loved her better than any thing on earth besides; but, as to constancy,
for a whole year before marriage, c’etait trop démander: it was utterly out of
the question.
He
was a young man, of what my Lord Frederick Bentrick would term, such loose
morals, that he never, once, imagined the thing to be practicable, nor, indeed,
physically possible. He had, therefore, faute de mieux, passed a few idle
hours, with Sir Violet Sighaway’s sister, in the humane intention of consoling
her, for the neglect of that cruel world, who had cut her, and left her to
pine, as Mrs. Nesbitt’s neighbour, at Versailles. I do not mean that the
former, like the latter, was in the habit of making outré exhibitions of her
fundamental wrongs, to females. Of that, I entirely acquit her, as being a
woman of, infinitely, too good taste; but, enough, on this subject, for the
present.
The
proposed tête-à-tête, which was to give Samuel Beaumont an opportunity of
declaring his passion, was accomplished, on the very morning, after Mrs.
Beaumont had broached the subject, to Mrs. Callam. Ladies are so clever in
there manœuvers!
Mary
Callam had listened, to her mother’s proposal, on behalf of Samuel, with
dismay: but, she was not a heroine, of high flown ideas. She did not entirely
understand the holy scriptures either; but, the duties of a daughter, which she
felt herself bound to fulfil, towards affectionate, tender parents, were
straight forward, and clear as noon-day. She determined to listen to Samuel’s
suit, and, if she saw a possibility of complying with their wishes, without the
total sacrifice of every future comfort to herself, to do so. At all events,
she was resolved to avoid, all further intercourse with Mr. Villers, for the
sake of her sister, who, certainly, had worked herself up, into a violent
love-fit towards him, and, also, from motives of proper effeminate pride. She
would not, subject herself, to such insulting, careless, and indifference, as
her imprudence, in acknowledging her regard for him, had drawn upon her, and
something of the mere woman made her, almost, wish it were possible to bring
herself to consent, to an immediate marriage, with Mr. Samuel, in order to
prove, to that impertinent Mr. Villers, that she could survive his
indifference, and repay it, in his own coin.
Villers
was, all this time, enragé! dechiré! désesperé! like Peter Callam’s lady. One
day, he determined to cut this little, low-bred, impertinent minx…. and the
next beheld him, in a new suit, of folly’s own choosing, the earliest visitor
at Mrs. Callam’s house.
Why
don’t you propose to her? his friend Hairbrain would ask. But Villers’s pride
here, interfered.
What
have I to do with proposing myself to these soap-boilers, who are ready to shut
their doors in my face, and deny me the society of their daughters? said
Villers.
Why
then don’t you appear, in your natural, unaffected character? returned
Hairbrain.
Viller’s
mind was so disturbed, that he knew not, what to determine on. After due
reflection he resolved to obtain a private interview with Mary.
I
forget, that I am, all this while, keeping my readers, in suspense, though they
are, no doubt, anxious to hear Mr. Samuel’s declaration of love. Mrs. Beaumont
invited Mrs. Callam out of the room, on some trifling pretence, after
whispering to her son that, if he missed such a glorious, and golden,
opportunity, she would never forgive him.
Poor
Mary, guessing what was to come, and, having thrown a glance, on the formal
object, who was about to make his declaration, in form, felt all her courage
evaporate, as she could not, for the soul of her, avoid making, in her own
mind, comparisons, which were so unfavourable to Samuel. To conceal her
confusion, Mary took a purse, from her work-box, and began to net.
Why
are you not seated, Mr. Samuel, said Mary, raising her eyes, for an instant,
towards him.
Thank
you, Miss, answered Samuel, drawing his chair on a line with Mary’s, though, at
a most respectful distance.
A
long pause, now ensued, and Mary, during that interval, employed herself on her
purse. At last, Samuel coughed—and he coughed again, and louder, and, as if
with a sudden jerk, he ventured to draw his chair a little nearer to Mary’s,
and then—he blew his nose!
How
eloquent, thought Mary to herself! Ultimately, after various other minor
preparations, he ventured on a soliloquy.
If,
and he coughed again, if she would but look at me, said he, in a half whisper,
to himself, and then his cough re-commenced.
Mary,
at this moment, ventured to fix her large full eyes, inquisitively, on his
face, from very impatience of her present, most uncomfortable situation.
Samuel,
involuntarily started back, chair and all, for a pace or two. What a bright eye
she has! thought he, drawing in his breath, and, at length, wheeling forward,
once more, with a desperate effort, he addressed Miss Mary.
Pray–hem!–pray,
Miss Mary, said he, pray–don’t you–he paused and stammered. Don’t–don’t you.
I––
Mary
again fixed her bright eyes, on his face, with an expression of anxious
surprise, which reeled him back, to the point he had moved from, while he continued
his lame remark, don’t you think the days lengthen, most perceptibly, Miss?
This
is rather a common occurrence, at this season of the year, answered Mary,
trying to suppress a laugh.
Samuel
jumped on his feet, and, wiping the perspiration from his face, took a few
hasty strides about the room.
Oh! I
shall faint, before I can get to the point, in this manner, he mentally
ejaculated. It requires wonderful courage, and must be done at once: and he
darted again, towards Mary, whom he addressed in agitated, and hurried
accents:–
Pray
Miss, pray Miss Mary, how do you feel yourself inclined towards the holy estate
of matrimony? Thank God, it is out, at last, thought Samuel, breathing a heavy
sigh.
Mr.
Samuel, answered Mary, greatly confused, although nearly bursting into a laugh,
Mr. Samuel, the question is really so abrupt, and unexpected, that I do not
know how–
Come,
thought Samuel, gathering confidence, from Mary’s loss of it, come, I am better
now it is out.
May I venture to surmise, said he, rallying fast, and addressing Mary, loveliest of woman kind, from those bow-peep blushes, on thy fair cheeks, that thou preferest the righteousness of my inward man, to the gaudy butterflies, which surround thee? I do not venture to allude to Mr. Villers, in particular, though mine eye hath not dwelled on a butterfly of such varied colours. Nay, do not blush maiden, for thy modesty forbids thee, and I would ask thee upon what part of the holy ceremony is a maiden’s mind running, when she blushes? Is it not the pious joining of hands thus? At this moment, Samuel fell on his knees, and was in the act of pressing Mary’s hand to his lips, when, in bounced his sister Caroline, accompanied by his cousin, Harry Hairbrain, and his friend Mr. Villers.
Oh!
your most obedient, Samuel, said Caroline, laughing. I had no idea you would
cut such a good figure, at the feet of a lady.
Samuel, in great confusion,
instantly took his leave, saying, that he had much business on his hands, and
must leave Paris, for Versailles, in the evening; but that he would,
notwithstanding, wait upon Mrs. Callam, the following day.
His
mother now entered the room, to insist on his dining with her, the succeeding
Wednesday.
Recollect
Sam, I have a large dinner-party, and, in the evening, I see masks.
Samuel
turned up his eyes, and shook his head, at the word masks; but promised to be
punctual, at her dinner-hour on Wednesday.
Caroline,
who declared she must, and would have some private chat with her old friend,
and school-fellow, insisted on accompanying her to her dressing-room, where
Mary listened, with infinite patience, to all the complaints, Caroline made,
against her affianced husband.
I
cannot endure it, said Caroline. My friends will, no longer, permit me to
submit to Hairbrain’s neglect of me. It is publicly known, that he is the lover
of that nasty, impudent, ugly, sister of Sir Violet, and I am determined to
send him his congé. I shall do it in the coolest, most indifferent manner
possible. I shall not make any sort of complaint; but merely state that I am no
longer in the humour to become his wife. Yes! that will be quite enough for
Hairbrain. In short, I hate him, absolutely despise him. Caroline thus worked
herself up into invectives, which, at last, exhausted her; and she changed the
subject, and rated her friend, for having confessed to her, in confidence, that
she was in love with Mr. Villers.
How
can you be so ridiculous, as to work up your imagination thus, for a pink
waistcoat, and filligree buttons?
Mary
shook her head, as she wiped the bitter tear from her eye. What must he have
thought, finding that formal brother of your’s, on his knees, before me,
Caroline? asked Mary. I have a favour to beg of you, and implore you not to
refuse my most earnest request.
Out
with it, said Caroline.
Do my
love, for heaven’s sake, contrive to disgust your brother from marrying me, and
I shall be, eternally, under obligations to you. Indeed, I am not the person to
render him happy.
Well,
my dear, retorted Caroline, suppose you tell Samuel so, at once: and pray don’t
have the vanity to imagine he will drop down dead on the spot. He thinks you a
charming creature, of course; but, do not be in a passion. Entre nous, it is a
hard race between you, and our sanctified Hannah Pure, who is, you know, my
good mamma’s waiting woman.
My
dear Caroline, you mistake the difficulty. I am not afraid of breaking your
brother’s heart; but my refusal would pain and irritate my dear mother, who
firmly believes, my union, with Mr. Samuel, would insure my future happiness.
Let him but renounce me, and my parents will submit to what is irremediable.
Well,
my dear, I will do my best, having little fear that my brother’s large fortune
will, soon, procure him a partner, provided he does not, in the mean time,
elope with our sanctified Hannah, who has conceived a spiritual passion for
him!
Rather
late in the day, I think, said Mary, for, surely, your mamma’s woman must be on
the wrong side of forty.
No
such thing, my dear. She was born again, the other day, and has become one of
the f-a-i-t-h-f-u-l.
The
friends, now, retired to the drawing-room, where they found Hairbrain and Mrs.
Beaumont; but Villers had taken his departure. Mrs. Beaumont, having, already,
with her usual sharp-sightedness, discovered that Mary was much more inclined
for Mr. Villers, than for her son Samuel, resolved to bend her mind, like a
young twig, to her own wishes; for which purpose, she invited Clementina to
pass a fortnight at her house, asking Mary Callam, also, to make one of the
party, in the Champs Elysées. Clementina, having fallen out, regularly, at
least, six times a day, with her sister Rosabella, which is generally the case
with rival charmers, was delighted with the idea of leaving her home, for the
elegant mansion of Mrs. Beaumont; and Mrs. Callam, thought her beloved Mary
could not be under safer protection, than that of her future husband’s mamma!
Gustave,
said Villers to his valet, as soon as he entered his dressing-room, on his
return, from the Callam’s; Gustave, connoissez-vous la femme de chambre de
Madame Beaumont, dans les Champs Elysées?
Du
tout, Monsieur, answered Gustave, with a low bow.
Gustave
was an independent, clever, active, young rogue, qui se tenoit beaucoup à sa
toilette. Monsieur, said he, to Villers, on being asked why he left his former
service, when he presented himself to supply the place of Mr. Ambrose, the
English valet, who had just given Villers notice to quit, à cause des puces et
punaises, which certainly abound in Paris—
Monsieur,
je quitte mon maitre parcequ’il ne m’habille pas assez bien. Je tiens toujours
à paroitre avec du beau linge, bien propre. Au reste, Monsieur prendra des
informations.
Gustave’s
master assured Villers that Gustave was très habile garcon, qui ne manquoit pas
d’esprit.
Then,
said Villers, I am sure it will be an agreeable exchange to me, after having
been bored with Ambrose’s matter of fact-way, of finding fault with every
nation but his own. Gustave etait arreté sur le champ.
Vous
ne connoissez pas, donc, cette femme de chambre de Madame Beaumont? repeated
Villers.
Non,
Monsieur: mais cependant, Monsieur, continued Gustave, observing his master’s
agitated and perplexed countenance, cependant, cela pourroit se faire,
facilement, en cas que––
Mais
vous parlez si mal Anglois, retorted Villers.
Oh!
c’est égal, Monsieur, il y a des gestes, très expressives, qui, joint au peu
que je sais, suffra pour tout ce que vous voudriez.
In a
few words, Villers proceeded to inform his servant, that he desired to be,
minutely, informed of the movements of Mary Callam, so as to accomplish a
tête-à-tête with her, and he saw no better plan, than bribing the waiting woman
of Mrs. Beaumont, to inform them when the young lady walked, or drove out, what
were the family hours, who they visited, &c.
Ou
trouverai-je Mademoiselle, la femme de chambre, Monsieur? Gustave asked.
Est-ce
que je sais moi? exclaimed Villers.
Bien,
bien, Monsieur, ça suffit, c’est une affaire fini. J’y vais de suite.
Caroline
had returned home, in somewhat better spirits; for she could not, while in
Hairbrain’s society, doubt that she was beloved, in spite of all the stories,
which had come to her ears. She found her brother Samuel alone, in the salle à
manger, reading a sermon! and she determined to seize this opportunity of
complying with her friend’s request, by endeavouring to disgust him with the
idea of taking Mary Callam to wife.
Samuel,
said Caroline, I have just heard all about your success with Mary Callam, who
confesses she has made her mind up to have you. She declared, however, that
there was no denying, even to your sister, that you are, unquestionably, a
great quiz. She is, nevertheless, determined to change both your inward and
your outward man. In the first place, she has, already, spoken to Mr. Villers’s
tailor, and has ordered him to take your measure for a new suit to be married
in; the fellow suit to Mr. Villers’s evening-costume. Caroline was here
interrupted by a heavy groan, from her brother. She continued, You are to renew
the order of dandies, which has fallen into disrepute.
You
are to be padded, à la Violet Sighaway.
You
are to wear stays, man!
Good
Lord defend us! sighed out poor Samuel.
You
are to have a French valet, who is to put your hair in papillottes!
You
are to take lessons, every morning of your life, of Madame Point du Pied, until
you are perfect in the new quadrilles.
You
must waltz too!
This
cannot be! said Samuel, with great solemnity.
Oh!
but it must be, returned Caroline. You ought to feel proud, and honoured, that
a lady, of her beauty, will be at the trouble of brushing you up, and spending
your fortune. I long to see what sort of a dandy you will make. Mary Callam
means you to become a member of the Whip-Club, as soon as you return to
England!
I’ll
not marry her, said Samuel, with steady firmness; at the same time, thrusting
his hands into his waistcoat pocket, and placing himself in an attitude of
defiance.
What
do you mean? You are only joking now. You are to have an opera-box too!
Nay,
then my conscience will not permit me to marry her.
You
are to drive Mary about Hyde Park, every Sunday, in a dashing curricle, with
cocks à la Romeo Coates, and built on the new principle.
Verily,
shall I be d–––d, if I marry her!
Oh!
fie! for shame! said Caroline, stifling a laugh. The fact is, I thought it best
to acquaint you with these things, feeling convinced, that you were not
calculated to make each other happy; but mind, you must not betray me. Act with
firmness, my dear brother. You are rich, and of age. Wait till after our masquerade,
on wednesday, and, then, tell, our mother, boldly, that the match was never of
your seeking, and that you must, and will decline having a wife, forced on you;
I likewise, will do my best to coax her out of this mania.
Do
so, Caroline, answered Samuel; for thou hast more influence than I. Try to
convince her, that it was all nothing but vanity, and vexation of spirit, and
that, in fact, I could not, exactly, learn the quadrilles, if I would.
I
will do my best she replied; but remember! It is now, almost, time we were
dressed for dinner.
I am
going, said Samuel: but, turning back, remember I will not marry the girl.
Never
fear rejoined Caroline, as she went into her dressing-room.
Poor
Clementina Callam’s too susceptible heart was, all this while, nearly broken,
by the provoking inattention of Mr. Walkup, who, had wheeled about to the
Brussels heroine, the moment that the Clementina-bank had stopped payment.
He
had, however, here, made a very great miscalculation; for the Brussels lady was
playing, or trying to play, the same game, with a rich Armenian, whom she
wished to force to love her, whether he would or no. In vain, did she sigh, and
bemoan his absence; for the Armenian thought as much about her, as the Pope: so
this game was never played out with him. I am, credibly, informed, that it was
a very different, and a much more degrading traffic, this lady carried on, in
Brussels, and, about which, I will, one day, inform my readers, when I have
more time to spend upon such a disgusting subject. Mais comme disoit mon ami
l’editeur, elle est une femme terrible, menteuse, et très méchante. Elle se
broule avec tout son monde. Personne n’y va plus, et elle se grise toutes les
soirées, seule, et, pour se dedommager de ce bel Armenien, elle reçoit un brave
Russe.
Rosabella
would often rate her sister, for her folly, in advancing to Mr. Walkup, such
large sums. Harsh words would ensue, and sisters, in the heat of consanguinity,
often forget what is due to decorum. Clementina actually accused her sister of
being in love with Monsieur Julien, her chasseur! This was beyond the patience
of the most pacific maiden breathing; so Rosabella called her maiden-sister, a
——: but, there are two reasons why, I may not soil my virgin-white paper, with
Rosabella’s appellation. In the first place, it was a very shocking one; in the
second, there exists such a laudable scarcity of the letter double u, in the
French printer’s office, that I have been waited on, and earnestly requested,
by the printer, to be as economical of them, as possible.
However,
Clementina was, as she declared herself, quite in heaven, chez Madame Beaumont,
where she was permitted, to follow the dictates of her innocent mind,
unobtruded on, by such coarse and disagreeable remarks; for Mrs. Beaumont, was
too much a woman of the world, not to treat her with infinite politeness.
Clementina
repaid her civility, by flattery, and the most persevering attentions.
Any
news, my dear Mrs. Beaumont? Clementina enquired one morning, after giving her
friend, due time to peruse a long, English letter, which had just been handed
to her, by the post.
It is
from my old friend Mrs. Pemberton, and written in that lady’s usual, worldly
style, answered Mrs. Beaumont, handing Clementina, the following epistle.
From
Mrs. Pemberton of Fitzroy Square, to her friend, Mrs. Beaumont.
My dear friend Mrs. Beaumont,
By
this time, you are, I trust, safely arrived, and comfortably settled, in the
gay, and beautiful city of Paris! How I envy you! a Mr. Villers, who is now in
Paris, was presented to us, a short time ago, when we attended Epsom races. Do
you meet him? If so, tell me what you think of him, as a speculation for one of
my daughters. I have heard various reports about him, that he is rich, poor,
secretly married, mad, &c.; but, all the ladies agree that he is
superlatively beautiful, and very fascinating. For my part, I protest, I don’t
know what the word means. It is so disgusting, and absurd, as applied to a man.
Indeed, I was much puzzled as to the degree of encouragement, I ought, as a
prudent mother, to have given him. If I mistake not, my daughter Clara loves
him.
I
always dreaded the softness of Clara’s disposition, though I am constantly
telling her how impossible it will be, for me, to get her comfortably, and
brilliantly established, unless she preserves her indifference.
Mary
is tolerably obedient; but she is idle, and neglects her dancing. Indeed, my
dear Mrs. Beaumont, a mother, who labours to keep up appearances, with so small
a fortune, in order to secure the future welfare of her family, has an arduous
duty to perform, and it is truly heart-breaking, when wilful, young girls,
insist upon being blind to their own interest.
If
this Mr. Villers is worth securing, it would be abominably provoking to let him
slip through our fingers, and Lord Northern believes him to be a man of immense
fortune. Advise me, my friend. Shall we follow him to Paris? He certainly
admired my daughter Clara, greatly.
I beg
you to present my kind compliments to the Cleavers! How well that girl married,
and all, by her own, prudent management. I inclose you the pattern of the
collar, for Caroline. As to fashions, I see nothing new, that I recollect, in
this moment of hurry. We are at home, to night, and Jackson can do nothing, without
my superintendence. No taste whatever, in the arrangement of ice and jelly,
&c., and one is afraid to change one’s servants. Jackson dresses
fashionably too, which is a great point.
Mustachios
are come in, for old gentlemen, of the cloth, be they tailors, or clergymen.
The navy too are coaxing them; but the Germans, and real dragoons, cut them.
Waltzing
is coming in, and nodding is going out, for men. Their present mode of
salutation is this, they stare hard, and, being about to nod, they change their
minds, think better of it, resume the erect position of their heads, and with a
jerk, snatch off their hats, à la mode Parisienne, just too late for the
ceremony to be observed.
The
rage for married women, is over; but they are not out, merely negatives, like
the Tilburies, or the three Mr. Clock-cases, who, by the bye, still drive
tilburies, as do the Piccadilly butchers.
Wigs
are all the rage, and mustachios, for the wig-makers. Lady Topknot is trying to
make rose-colour, and yellow, go down; but it does not take, this year. The
rose-colour had something of a run; but it won’t do with yellow.
Girls,
my dear Mrs. Beaumont, virtuous girls, are in the back-ground this season; but
I tell mine to keep up their spirits, for times may mend. Clara shall try the
wig à la Maintenon, in the autumn.
Apropos,
Mrs. Nesbit’s corsets give the most natural em bon point of any, I ever saw. No
rouge, tell Caroline, and languid apathy takes a good deal, lately,
particularly, with very young men, while timidity does more with men of a
certain age.
I am
hurried to death, and must now take leave of my dear friend, anxiously
expecting to receive a good account of her. En attendant, she will believe me,
ever,
Her most affectionate
friend,
SARAH PEMBERTON.
Mrs. Beaumont took very little time to send the following answer:
My
dear Mrs. Pemberton,
As
you seem anxious for my answer, by return of post, I send off, merely, a very
few lines, to acquaint you of the little I know of Mr. Villers. He is,
undoubtedly, rich, voila le principal, and, I know, he possesses a valuable
West India property. Au reste, I am told, his parents died, when he was very
young; never heard they were mad; believe Villers to be somewhat of a bon
vivant, possessing great talents, without being the least ambitious, to shine,
in any thing; but the women will tell you that every word and attitude are
studied to charm them, while he has not the slightest intention of returning
their passion. In short, he has the character of a male coquet, among the
ladies here, and I never saw a man dress in a more outré style of fashion, in
my life. Adieu, pour le moment. With kind thanks for the pattern of collar, and
remembrances to all your family,
Believe me, truly,
your friend,
CAROLINE BEAUMONT.
No.—, Champs Elysées.
Ma
foi! les maitres Anglais sont assez aimable, thought Monsieur Gustave, Viller’s
valet, as he was equipping himself, in his gayest suit, determined to subdue
Madame Beaumont’s fair suivante. Already, he had contrived to ascertain that
the femme de chambre, Hannah, was in the constant habit of going to market,
every morning, at nine o’clock. Gustave was not personally acquainted with
Hannah, neither did he know her, by sight; but he took it for granted, that she
was tant soit peu gentile, and, being of a very sanguine temperament, he was
already half in love, by instinct: was sure he should know her, even if the
basket, she was in the habit of carrying, on her arm, had not been described to
him.
Only
half past eight o’clock, in the morning, and Gustave had already taken his
station at Mrs. Beaumont’s door. Ah! ah! la voila! mais non! mais si!! c’est
elle! ma foi! est-ce qu’elle ne sort pas donc? were ejaculations, which he made
to himself, aloud, as often as the porte cocher, of Mrs. Beaumont’s hotel,
moved on its hinges. Just as Gustave had begun péste! in good earnest, the
thin, boney, erect form of Hannah Pure, issued from the house, with her market
basket, on her arm.
Hannah
was a brown, thin, harsh-featured, ill-favoured woman, in her forty-second
year. In short, though there existed many women, who might be judged uglier, it
were difficult, perhaps impossible, to find one more calculated to calm, and
quiet the passions of the other sex.
Diable!
Elle porte un panier celle là! said Gustave. C’est elle, sans doute. Messieurs
les Anglaise sont droles? Que veut-il que je fasse avec ça? N’importe c’est une
Anglaise toujours. He made up to her.
Bon
jour, Mademoiselle, said he, with a gracious bow.
Pray
what is your business, with me, young man? Hannah asked, drawing herself up,
primly.
You
are de praty virgin of de moon, Miss Hannah, and it is not beesness, vat for, I
vant you, but de pleasure, vich is de only sarioos beesness vat seenefees, of
de life, Miss Hannah.
These
French are, really, polite creatures, thought Hannah, who could not listen to
compliments, for the very first time, in her life, unmoved; and she cast a
side-long, smirking glance at Gustave, half methodistical, half—my readers know
what! but she felt quite no how, and odd.
Oh!
you letil chaste Vanoos! you very vanting letil Diane, Diana, I believe you
call her. My dear Hannah, vat praty, letil, nice Hecate you is! continued
Gustave, who was afraid to cut the thread of his nonsensical discourse, lest
his courage should fail him, when it might be prudent to take it up again.
This
is a very respectable, young man, I make no doubt, thought Hannah; and then,
addressing him, pray what is your name, young man?
My
name is Monsieur Gustave, you letil black angel, and I am de gentilman of von
gentilman, as you call it, in your contra.
And
what is your master’s name?
Oh! for my mastare, he is
not at all mastare even of himself, Dieu le garde! He is one slafe to de
bootifool eyesbrow, of de yong lady, in you ouse, Mees Mary Callam.
Indeed!
said Hannah.
In
short, you dear letil, nice ting, I tell you we are both, moi et mon maitre,
two letil infortunés and our tender, letil, soft hearts have been broke to
death, between your bootifool sharm, and de sharm of Mees Mary.
And
where did you see me, Mr. Gustave? enquired the pious lady, bridling.
Gustave,
malgré sons savoir faire, was puzzled by this question.
See
you, Miss! ver did I see you? Oh! ma foi, always every where about de vorld,
you letil Hecate.
I see
you, continuellement, in my dream, every night, vat I go into my bed.
Well,
Mr. Gustave, I must say, you are the most well-bred gentleman, I have met with,
in France; but I must now wish you a good morning, nevertheless.
Stop
a minute! attendez donc, ma belle! said Gustave, seizing hold of her dry,
yellow hand.
For shame! Fie! For shame,
Mr. Gustave, let me alone! I never yet suffered one of your sex to lay hold of,
even my finger. Fie Sir!
Stop!
stop! I tell you, den, my queen of de bootifool furies! vous me déseperez.
You–you despair me! Look at dis letil ting, said he, drawing a small, unloaded
pistol, from the corner of his pocket.
Vat
shall you tink of dis letil ting?
Hannah
almost screamed, Lord be merciful unto me, sinner that I am! Is the man going
to shoot me, after all his fine speeches?
Doucement!
doucement! Vat for I shall kill de angel! de Hecate of de vorld! I vould kill
ten tousand men, rader dan kill myself. You understand! dat is to say,
j’aimerai mieux être tué cent fois, que de tuer une belle femme.
Why
do you show me that shocking pistol then ?
Because,
because, I shall tell you, because, vat for I bring de pistolet, in my pocket,
is dis. My master—ecoutez donc—my master have it, in his pocket, de letil
broder of dis pistolet, vid de bal, and de poudre, all quite complete, ready to
shoot himself, in de troat, if you not, tell to him ver he can speak to Mees
Mary directly.
I
shall not risk to cause such a dreadful crime, by concealing that Miss
Clementina Callam accompanies her niece, to the entrance of the Bois de
Boulogne, every morning, at about half after nine, or ten o’clock; but, as to
your master finding Miss Mary alone, I think it will be out of the question, to
expect it.
Et
vous? ma belle! quand est ce qu’on vous trouvera seule?
Monsieur
Gustave, en vrai Parisien, thought it incumbent on him to ask this question,
inwardly praying, that the English woman might turn out to be as virtuous as
she was ugly.
Surely,
Monsieur Gustave, said the damsel, you will not insist, on my committing myself
with a stranger? Consider my good name!
Ma
foi! Ma belle et charmante Hannah, vous m’avez touché! Je vous respecte, trop
pour insister. Helas! Mes dames les Anglaises sont si vertueuses!! et moi, je
vous avoue que je suis infiniment délicat sur le rapport de l’honneur. You
understand?
Not
in the least, Sir!
I
tell you, I am very mush indeed, delicat, as to your honneur, and I must run
away from your great sharm. Adieu, adieu. He was hastening away from her,
delighted at the idea of having obtained the end he proposed, without parting
with a single franc of the money, which his master had given him, to be
presented, to the abigail, as a bribe.
But,
Mr. Gustave, said Hannah, following him up; Mr. Gustave, I say, how am I to be
quite certain, that you have quite given up your dreadful intention?
N’ayez
pas de l’inquiètude, ma chère dame. Don’t you be frait, not noting at all, my
praty letil Vanus.
Nay
then, I cannot possibly trust you. Return, Mr. Gustave! Charity, my pious young
master assures me, is a first-rate virtue. Come back, then; I dare not trust you
out of my sight, with that dreadful instrument in your pocket.
Sacré
nom de Dieu! Mais elle me veut, malgré moi! Que diable lui dirai-je? Ma belle,
Je jure devant le bon Dieu, et par cette jolie main, said he aloud, falling on
his knees, and pressing her dried, boney fingers, to his lips, oui, je jure…
Hannah
thought she might trust him, was all of a fluster, as she called it, and a
tremble.
A
declaration, in full, was coming, no doubt. Paris was, then, a lucky place, for
finding a husband. While these ideas were passing in her brain, Gustave
continued his rhapsody.
Oui
mon ange! je jure—again he paused.
Speak
out, Mr. Gustave!
Vous
me permettez?
Certainly.
Je
jure, donc, de vivre le plus long temps possible, pour vos beaux yeux. Dat is,
I swear to live upon your fine eye!
Gustave
now darted on his feet, and was out of sight, in an instant.
Much good may it do him,
with his gibberidge. I can’t understand these mounseers, and what’s more, I
never could abide them, muttered the pious Hannah, as she resumed her walk,
vers la halle, in high dudgeon.
It is
all settled, and all right, my dear Mary, said Caroline, jumping into the room.
We are both free as air! As for you, my brother declares, he would as soon be
wed to Beelzebub, as to you!
Mary,
in the gratitude of her heart, could not help clasping her young school-fellow,
in her arms, and giving her a fervent kiss.
How
very good this is of you! said Mary.
And
how excessively rude this is of you! retorted Caroline. One would think, from
all this rapture, that you had escaped the black gentleman himself, instead of
my excellent brother.
Mary
really begged pardon, was quite ashamed of being so inattentive, so………
Oh!
don’t tell me, I am not in the humour to listen to fine speeches. I have just
discarded Hairbrain for ever! It cost me a few tears; but I have brushed them
away, and I am now free.
How
is it possible you could drive away such a very old attachment, which has
almost grown with your growth? asked Mary.
But
weakened with my strength, added Caroline. Hairbrain is a heartless, unfeeling
creature, who, as mamma says, is unworthy of a thought: since he does not,
even, take the trouble to conceal his intrigues, from me. He, actually,
yesterday, drove past my window, with that impudent Lady Sinenough: but let us
change the hateful subject! I have cut him dead, for ever. Now we will consult
about our masquerade dresses, Caroline tried to rattle upon Turkish turbans,
precious silks, French laces, and all the rest of such things; but the effort,
she made, to appear gay, was evidently forced.
We
will venture just to look in upon young Hairbrain, after putting on our
invisible belt, merely to ascertain the style of Caroline’s letter to him, and
whether he survived, and how he supported the dreadful news, which it
contained.
Misfortunes
never come single. Hairbrain had lost a heavy sum, at play, on that very
morning, besides being, absolutely, dunned and persecuted, with the too ardent
love of my Lady Sinenough, whose acquaintance he had only made, pour passer le
temps. He was sitting at the window of his hotel, in a musing, and very
melancholy attitude, when his groom-tiger-boy, Tom, presented him a letter.
From
my darling sweet comforter, Caroline! said he, pressing it to his lips, as soon
as he recognized the hand-writing. I knew she would never forsake me, good for
nothing as I am; but I will be faithful! I’ll reform, from to-day! Had we been,
but united, I had not got into this scrape. He then broke open the seal, and
read as follows:
My
object, in writing, is not to reproach you; yet I cannot, though it is my
mother’s wish, request you to return me my letters, and the portrait, I
bestowed on you, in a moment of childish folly, without stating to you that
your affair, with Lady Sinenough, is public. I feel the subject to be an
improper one; yet, I conceive, any thing is preferable to the imputation of
caprice which, but for the knowledge of this circumstance, I should deserve.
Mamma will permit me to see you alone, to-morrow, half an hour before dinner-time,
for the purpose of receiving my own letters, and returning your very sincere
effusions. We shall, afterwards, I trust, continue to live in friendship
towards each other. When two persons are agreed, on such a subject, there can
be no reasonable cause for animosity.
CAROLINE BEAUMONT.
No. —, Champs Elysées.
Faithless,
unfeeling Caroline! said Hairbrain, throwing down the letter, and stamping his
feet. This is contempt, not jealousy. She despises me. I’ll send her letter
back, by Tom. Here, Tom.
Do
you want me, Sir?
No
Sir, who the devil wants you?
I
will be cool, and gentlemanlike. Hem! My affair, as she calls it, with Lady
Sinenough; yet I have been carrying on a very unreserved intrigue, with this
bold lady! I am a wretch! that’s certain, continued Hairbrain, striking his
forehead; and I have lost all my money: but I could never have been happy, with
a woman of this methodical character. I want to be adored as I am! Nay, I would
have my very faults cherished; because they are mine. I am a terrible coxcomb,
and not such a particularly handsome fellow, I begin to suspect. I have a mind
not to dine with them to-morrow, and yet, if I don’t, Caroline will flatter
herself, I am enraged at being jilted!
Hairbrain’s
profound cogitations were now, interrupted, by the entrance of his friend,
Villers, who declared that he had a very earnest request to make to him.
My very good fellow,
answered Hairbrain, you could not have chosen your time worse; for I am in a
devil of a humour, I tell you. He then forced on Villers’s impatient ear the
story of his losses, and misfortunes, and concluded by handing him Caroline’s
last letter.
Villers
declared, upon his honour, that, had he loved, as man ne’er loved before, such
an indifferent letter, from his affianced bride, would have made him
heart-whole, in an instant.
Oh!
you are right! You are right, said Hairbrain, plucking up all his spirit. I am
a wretch! a sneak! a very Jerry Sneak! but wait, my good fellow, and see me
send her a proper answer.
Little
Hairbrain, immediately, dispatched Tom, with the following laconic reply to
Caroline’s letter.
Mr.
Hairbrain will feel great pleasure in complying with Miss Beaumont’s request;
for which purpose, he will do himself the honour of waiting upon her, according
to her appointment, to-morrow.
And
now that business is settled, said Villers, I must put your friendship, for me,
to the test.
Well!
how am I to serve you?
I
will tell you. Old Miss Clementina Callam, accompanies her niece, Mary, every
morning, between nine and ten o’clock, to the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne,
for the benefit of her health. Luckily, the old lady is bilious, and requires
exercise. Now I want you to contrive to pay some little attention to the good
aunt, which may lead to conversation, and then you must flatter her vanity, and
compliment her, till you have completely called off her attention from her
young charge. Do you understand me?
My
dear Villers, the thing is out of the question. I know nothing, in the shape of
a personal compliment, which would not appear burlesque ridicule, when
addressed to such an object as Miss Clementina. My spirits just now are but
indifferent. I wish I could oblige you; but, upon my soul, I hope you won’t
insist on my making myself so truly ridiculous.
I did
hope, Hairbrain, that, where the happiness of my life was at stake, you would
not have scrupled to make some trifling sacrifice of inclination.
Well!
well! if you really can think of no other means of speaking to Mary, I will be
with you, at nine to-morrow, and do my best; but, with the most eager desire,
in the world, to serve you, I tell you, before-hand, I know I shall not, in the
present state of my mind, be able to keep it up more than five minutes, and, as
to kissing the leathern fist of that ridiculous, old witch, without laughing, I
am sure the thing is impossible. Now, what say you to a drive in my cabriolet?
With
all my heart.
Come
then, let’s try and meet your rival Samuel! Why don’t you call him out? It
would be capital fun, and very safe, I imagine. Suppose I carry him a challenge
to-morrow morning! Come, don’t look so melancholy, man. You are worse than I
am, and your face is as long as Bob Hopeless’s was, when he performed the
ghost, at our Westminster play. He could never get a single line of Latin, by
heart, in his life.
I
have a great mind, said Villers, to call on this methodistical quiz, and ask
him whether he is an accepted lover.
Come
along, then, answered Hairbrain, turning his horse, and guiding him towards
Samuel’s residence; and, before Villers had made up his mind, as to what he
meant, or wished, little Tiger-Tom had rung the bell of Mrs. Beaumont’s hotel,
and enquired for Mr. Samuel.
What
the devil shall I say to him? said Villers.
Little
Tom returned, before Hairbrain had time to reply to this question, and informed
his master that Mr. Samuel was at Versailles, that he had spoken to the
coachman, who had informed him, he had received orders to take the carriage
down, at night, in order to bring up his master, the next day, to attend at
Mrs. Beaumont’s large dinner-party.
Let’s
have him upset on the road, said Hairbrain.
How
the deuce is that to be managed?
Trust
to me, whispered Hairbrain, and then, jumping out of the cabriolet, he beckoned
Samuel’s coachman aside, and addressed him to this effect.
My
good fellow, you are to drive up Mr. Samuel Beaumont from Versailles,
to-morrow, I believe?
Yes,
Sir, answered the coachman, touching his hat.
I
say, you—you must upset him!
Upset
my young master!
Yes;
overturn him! don’t you understand me?
Why,
really, Sir, I can’t exactly say I do.
You
need not break his neck, you know, continued Hairbrain, slipping a hundred
francs, in gold, into his hand. There are plenty of nice soft places, after the
rain. I only want to make him arrive too late for dinner to-morrow. And, I say,
if you succeed, here’s another hundred francs for you.
Why
Sir, said the coachman, pocketing the gold, why, true sir, as you say, it won’t
do him no great matter of harm, after the rain.
Enough!
I depend on you. Mind, he must be neat and clean all over: a decided upset; but
safe, and the carriage ought to go on to Paris. Never mind the mud.
You
shall be satisfied, Sir, said the coachman, and Hairbrain joined Villers, in
the cabriolet.
My
readers must now be acquainted with Miss Clementina’s conquest, of a certain
beau militaire, the self same hero qui fesait l’aimable, chez Madame la
Comtesse de Bienpassé, on the night of her soirée. He had followed her from the
Thuilleries, watched her window, next day, from the Champs Elysées, and,
lastly, had addressed her a most romantic love-effusion in rhyme.
The
writer of these elegant lines, must certainly possess an exquisite sensibility!
ejaculated Clementina, after she had read them. Indeed, added she, they are all
soul! She was strongly agitated! Females were much to be pitied, who dared not
give their tender feelings vent, though their little, fluttering hearts were
bursting. She wished nature had made her less susceptible.
What
dress shall I lay out for you, madam? enquired Mrs. Beaumont’s woman, the pious
Hannah Pure, who had presented Clementina with the letter, containing the copy
of verses, and was retiring.
Any
thing you like. The yellow. No, the blue. In short, what you please, good
Hannah. I care not what I wear. I am unwell.
You
do look a little languid, madam. I wish my angelic, young master was here. His
pious discourse would surely do you good.
Not
just now, my good woman! not just now. Did you enquire who delivered the
letter, I have just received?
Yes,
madam; it was a gentleman, in a military cloak, who put it into the hands of
our Swiss, and disappeared, without uttering a single word.
Mysterious
being! Hannah! I would I could calm this nervous fluttering of my heart!
Shall I read to you, madam?
I have some excellent books, in my apartment, which cannot fail to delight, and
quiet your soul. I read them over and over again, with renewed rapture.
No
doubt there are many books, well calculated to sooth the present disturbed
state of my mind.
Let me
recommend to your attention, Madam, the sufferings of the Holy Martyr, St.
Gemini, who was broiled on a gridiron!
By no
means, Hannah: my feelings are not equal to any thing of the kind.
Shall
I bring you the martyrdom of St. Lincoln, who carried his head under his arm, a
considerable distance, after it had been cut off?
Mercy
on me! No! said the fair Clementina, and immediately dismissed Mrs. Beaumont’s
provoking Hannah Pure, whom she vowed, had no soul, to enter into her feelings.
In
the evening, when Miss Clementina took a stroll, down the Champs Elysées, to
cool her blood, she was accosted by the said beau militaire, who had, probably,
ascertained that she was in comfortable circumstances, and who addressed her in
very respectful language.
I, by
no means, affirm that this beau militaire was a French officer, or a French man
at all, out of the high consideration I have for their merits as soldiers. I
merely state that he wore a uniform, and might have been an English, or an
Irish, or an Italian, or a Dutch, or any other adventurer, for any thing, I
know to the contrary. Such as he was, his professions, to Clementina, were so
exaggerated and ridiculous, that, had she not been the silliest, of all silly,
vain, old fools, she must have seen through them at once. As it was, she gently
bade him adieu, after promising to consider his proposals, and return a decided
answer, as to declining, or accepting his suit, in a few days.
Bless
me! said Miss Clementina, to her companion, Mary Callam, as she entered the
Bois du Boulogne, on the very morning after Mrs. Hannah Pure’s interview with
Monsieur Gustave, bless me! Mary, what a heavenly place is this! how soothing
to a mind, torn with emotion, is this sweet, retired spot!
Well!
I protest, answered Mary, that I have little taste for retirement, and these
woods, which, for our sins, we parade every morning of our lives, would not be
the less endurable, if we were accompanied by some gay, and dashing beau, to
praise our charms, and the lovely tint, such excursions, lend to the tips of
one’s noses. But…my dear aunt, who comes here? I spy two charming,
elegant-looking, young men. Good heavens! Surely he, on the left is Mr.
Villers. Mary now trembled from head to foot.
What,
that impertinent, silly fellow! I dislike him now of all things! but who is his
companion? I fancy it must be young Hairbrain! Bless me, I wish I had put on my
rose-coloured pelisse! How unlucky, that we should be seen, by fashionable
people, in this dowdy style!
Your
most obedient, ladies! said Villers. This is, indeed, a most agreeable
surprise! Who would have imagined this happiness? at such an unfortunate hour
too! For my part, I happened to get up, in the middle of the night, pour passer
le tems!
Do you know, said Hairbrain,
addressing his night-mare, do you know Miss Clementina, that your present
bloom, and beauty, may somewhat account for the remark, I made to Villers, just
before we recognized you both for our acquaintances!
Is it treason to ask what
that remark might be? enquired Clementina, bridling.
I remarked, madam…I was
saying…madam…My dear Miss Clementina! d—n it, what do I mean? what shall I say?
(after a little thought)…Oh! I merely remarked to my friend, just as you bent
your steps towards us, that your stately deportment brought nearest to my
fancy, my conception of the fair Helen, whose beauty once set the whole world
in arms, and whom Homer so well describes, in the two following lines:
What
winning graces, what majestic mien!
She
moves a goddess, and she looks a queen!
It’s
very common-place, thought Hairbrain; but, (looking towards Villers, who had
already coaxed Mary to some distance) he saw it answered the purpose.
Mr.
Hairbrain, said Clementina, your gallantry is notorious. You are, I must
confess, a very pleasing flatterer!
Dear
Miss Clementina, you really do yourself injustice. Could you…I declare, madam,
I wish you could read my heart. Excuse me if I, humbly, intreat for a moment’s
privacy with you. (and he led her farther away from her niece and Villers) I
have long wished, long desired this opportunity of explaining to you—of—in
short—in short—(I can’t stand this much longer, said Hairbrain to himself,
looking anxiously, after Villers.)
Be
more collected, said the compassionate Miss Clementina, observing his confusion.
I will not, added she, with dignity; I will not, with the usual affectation of
my sex, pretend to misunderstand your feelings, nor will I doubt your
honourable intentions! (This is pleasant, thought Hairbrain, while Clementina
went on) but circumstances of a delicate nature, added to the abruptness of
your declaration, compel me to say, I cannot bid you hope!
Madam,
interrupted Hairbrain impatiently, Madam, I beg you will not—
Hear
me, interposed Clementina, hear me out, Mr. Hairbrain. Though I have said I
could not bid you hope; yet I have not said that you must absolutely despair.
I
assure you, Madam, upon my honour, said Hairbrain, looking anxiously after
Villers, you have completely mistaken—in fact, I—
Courage,
young man. Faint heart never won fair lady. Troy, you know, did not fall in a
day. I will be frank with you. My father was in the soap-line, as honest,
painstaking a soap-boiler, as any in Whitechapel; nothing more, and the reward
of his industry was, at his death, divided between my brother, my sister, and
myself.
And
so, fancied Hairbrain, and so, for a few ridiculous speeches, here am I, on the
brink of matrimony, with a woman too old for my mother! who is the daughter of
as honest, pains-taking a soap-boiler, as any in Whitechapel!!
Miss
Clementina, said he, endeavouring to address her with firmness, Miss
Clementina, you have entirely misunderstood me, that is, I mean—indeed, I
assure you, Madam, added he, suddenly bolting off, towards Villers, in whose
ear he whispered that, upon his soul and body, he could not keep it up any
longer, being so horridly ashamed of the ridiculous part he was playing; and
so, continued Hairbrain, do for God’s sake, come home to breakfast, or I shall
faint!
What
a moment to talk of vulgar breakfast! I am in heaven!!
And I
in ——! I’ll tell you what Villers, it is utterly impossible to stand this sort
of thing: I really am not up to it.
Nay,
my prince of good fellows, said Villers, pushing him towards Clementina, who
was advancing, for God’s sake, don’t spoil every thing. Go and give her a few
more flourishes! You got her into such a line!
A
precious line you have got me into, grumbled out Hairbrain, as he proceeded to
join Miss Clementina Callam.
Dear
Madam, said he, to her, pardon, I ask many pardons, make many apologies. You
have, I fear, misconstrued some trifling observations of mine, which really
were not meant to convey…but we are observed. He had just perceived le beau
militaire, who was watching them, behind a tree. It was the identical, poetical
gentleman, who had made his declaration to Miss Clementina, in the Champs
Elysées. He, too, had ascertained her usual hour of walking, and had gone there
to follow up his chance.
The
case seemed desperate; for Hairbrain was strikingly handsome. From long
experience, he had ascertained that a duel was a never failing passport to
female favour, and, in the very bad state of his finances, it was not, for him,
to stick at trifles; so accosting, Hairbrain, fiercely, before he could recover
from his surprise, he declared that no power on earth, save death, should
compel him to give up his claim to that lovely woman’s hand.
There
will be murder, screamed out Miss Clementina, and fainted in the arms of young
Hairbrain!!
Mary,
being within hearing of her aunt’s screams, now ran, hastily, towards her. What
is the matter with my poor aunt? she enquired eagerly.
God
only knows, exclaimed the mortified Hairbrain. At this unlucky moment, as
though his evil genius had conspired against him, his eyes caught a glimpse of
Caroline, who, with her mamma, was observing him with astonishment; but, the
instant they caught his attention, they turned back, and were soon out of
sight.
What
the devil am I to do with her, Mr. Thingumbob? If this lady is a favourite of
your’s, for heaven’s sake, take her off my hands, and I’ll fight you at any
other time, you like. I am just in the humour, now, to blow somebody’s brains
out. Give me your card, man, and here, take hold of mine, and the lady too, or
I really must let her go!
The fair Clementina now,
languidly, opened her eyes.
Oh! I
am glad you are better, Ma’am, said Hairbrain, relieving himself in such haste,
that, but for the supporting hand of the beau militaire, who hastened to her
assistance, she might have reeled, or tottered, at least.
Now,
Sir, said Hairbrain, I have not a minute to spare; but you have my card. I will
wait at home, for you, till four o’clock.
Pray
leave us gentlemen, said Mary, much ashamed of the ridiculous figure, her aunt
had cut, in the presence of Villers.
Villers
and Hairbrain complied with her earnest request; but first, Villers called out
to Miss Clementina, declaring himself au desespoir to see her so accablée and
so isolée, without one of her countrymen to protect her; but, ma belle, if I
meet any body, in your line, at all, I will send them after you, added he,
kissing his hand to them, with much affectation.
And
so I am to be shot through the head, to-day, by way of a winding up to the
ridiculous part you made me play, said Hairbrain, half sulkily, half laughing,
the moment they were alone.
Oh!
no danger, my good fellow, no danger. The man must be some adventurer. He wants
to make money, not to be shot at, take my word! Who the devil else would
propose to such a thing as Miss Clementina?
And
yet you set me at it; but, if ever you catch me making such an ass of myself
again, for Caroline to show me up to ridicule, my name is not Hairbrain!
Never
mind, my dear fellow, I will, at any time, do as much for you, on such a pinch.
I am quite convinced of Mary’s disinterested principles, and also of the
excellence of her understanding; for she has assured me, that she could not
continue to respect me, unless I would leave off making a fool of myself. In
the mean time, she will surely refuse me, in spite of my riches; at least, I
think so, and I am determined to put the matter beyond a doubt, on the very
first opportunity.
The
friends now took leave; but Villers fully acquainted Hairbrain with all his
proposed movements, for that day, in case he might be wanted in the character
of a second; which idea did not at all alarm Villers, who knew the world too
well, not to distinguish bullying from courage, and felt persuaded that his
friend would receive no challenge from Monsieur le Militaire, as he called himself.
Villers
was right. Hairbrain waited, in vain, till past five o’clock, for the hero, and
then set off, in his cabriolet, to keep his appointment with Caroline,
accompanied by that fair lady’s miniature, and an immense bundle of letters and
trinkets.
Caroline
sat waiting for him, at the window, absorbed in melancholy reflections. She had
never dreamed of receiving such a cutting answer to her letter, from one, who
had deserved her reproaches, and his indifference wounded her beyond the power
of rallying.
Your
most obedient, Madam, said Hairbrain, entering the room, with a large bundle of
letters in his hand.
I am
proud, you see, Madam, to obey your commands: and, then, he added, in an under
voice, I look like an attorney’s clerk, or a general post-man, bundling up
stairs, with this immense profusion of papers. It would be adviseable for young
ladies, of your very fickle disposition, to bestow less weighty favours on
their humble admirers.
You
wrong me, Sir, answered Caroline, much hurt, though striving to speak calmly. I
am not fickle, nor ever dreamed of avoiding my engagement with you, until you,
openly, insulted me.
Miss
Beaumont, had it so happened that you had honoured me with your fair hand, in
marriage, I believe that my conduct would have been ever such, as you would
have had a right to expect. In the mean time, I never affected any particular
stoicism, you know.
Neither,
retorted Caroline, have I ever sought to discover your secrets, Sir, till
publicity obliged me to notice them.
With
regard to their publicity, indeed Caroline! I mean Miss Beaumont, the publicity
was not of my seeking. The object is too old for vanity to feed on. That was
her doing. However, we are losing time; for, as you say, in your letter, very
properly, when two people are perfectly agreed, as we are, on a subject, it is
folly to discuss what might have been—
True,
Sir, said Caroline, turning from him, to conceal her agitation, while she
searched in her reticule for Hairbrain’s letters.
You
are quite right, Sir. These Sir, are your letters, which I beg leave to return
to you.
And
here, Miss Beaumont, is the lovely portrait, you honoured me with, pursued
Hairbrain, determined not to be out-done, and searching, alternately, in all
his pockets. This is—what the devil is this? Oh! this is the sketch, you took,
of my black horse, Timour the Tartar. This is—this is, you recollect, the
tooth-pick case, and here is the ring. Stay, I have got a ringlet of your hair,
some where. Oh! this is the pin, an antique. You remember giving it me, when a
child. I am like the guard of a mail-coach, rummaging about, in all my pockets,
for all these parcels, and trinkets. Enfin, voila tout. Mille pardons, I forgot
the ringlet. Here is the lock of hair, which I am permitted to prize no longer;
and now, fair lady, we are friends.––N’est-ce pas? perfectly good friends!
excellent friends!!
Poor
Caroline, in extreme agitation, was obliged to turn away her head, to conceal
her tears.
Nay,
fair lady, your hand, give me your hand, to seal our bond. I have it in your
own fair writing. Are we not friends, Caroline?
Oh
yes! friends, certainly, perfectly friends, of course! Why not? said Caroline,
in hurried, sobbing accents, holding out her trembling hand towards him, while
she was forced, with the other, to conceal her tears, in her handkerchief.
Hairbrain
could no longer doubt his power.
My
sweet, dear, angel, Caroline! for God’s sake, love me, and forgive me, or I
shall go mad! said he, half devouring her little hand with ardent kisses.
Gently,
gently, said Caroline, smiling on him, through her tears, gently then, it were
adviseable for gentlemen not to bestow such very weighty favours.
We
will never quarrel again, said Hairbrain, pressing his future wife, in his
arms. At this critical moment, they were disturbed, by a summons to dinner.
Pray,
said Hairbrain, with affected carelessness, had Mr. Samuel arrived from
Versailles?
No,
Sir! Mrs. Beaumont has waited half an hour for him, and has now ordered dinner.
The
dinner was brilliant. There was, amongst the company, little Mr. Boot-jack, the
amateur opera writer. He was just returned from Italy and Germany, and would do
nothing but sing couplets, and talk of an impromptu, he had made, so often,
that the polite part of the company could not help requesting him to repeat the
following nonsense, much as they would have preferred his silence.
Having
fixed his die-away eyes upon his fair hostess, he, thus, began:
In painting, thy sweet reality,
I borrowed, from immortality,
The attributes I most admired,
Till my own imagination fired.
Ah! ah! I’m caught! I’m your Apollo.
This is no fable, which I borrow.
By turns, I was all gods, to thee,
Except your feathered Mercury!
Charming,
said every body at once. People must be polite.
And
so you are pleased with my rhymes? said Boot-jack. What I do, you see, is
off-hand. No pedantry! eh!
None
in the world, said Caroline and Hairbrain, in a breath. They were now in such a
happy humour that they could, willingly, have flattered Miss Clementina herself,
with all her fainting, &c.
Just
as the desert was placed on the table, Samuel Beaumont made his appearance,
with the flaps of his coat pinned, tight, round his waist, and covered with
mud.
Mercy
on us! What is the matter? exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, jumping up.
It
hath pleased Providence that I should be upset in the midst of the mire!
answered Samuel, with solemn gravity.
His
kind mamma duly condoled with him, and apologized, to her party, for requesting
he might be allowed to refresh himself, before he went up stairs to dress.
Don’t
make two dressings of it, Samuel, pray, said Mrs. Beaumont, or there will be no
end to it. Every body comes to Paris to waive ceremony; but you may as well
unpin your coat, you know, Samuel; because it looks so odd behind.
Samuel
assured her, in a whisper, that the humidity of his pantaloons, behind, would
spoil the lustre of the cloth of his coat-tails, which were new.
Never
mind then, said Mrs. Beaumont; but remember you must positively attend the
masquerade.
Nay,
that may not be. It is a wicked recreation, and Satan, I fear, will be busy
among ye! turning up his sanctified eyes.
No!
no! Satan is prohibited: he frightened the ladies, so terribly, at my last
masquerade, in town.
Really,
mother, you must excuse me. I am not exactly a gay man, and I do not, you know,
understand these things.
You
must begin then brother, Samuel, observed Caroline. Pray do, to oblige me, who
have certainly done my best to serve you, recollect, lately.
Samuel
declared he was afraid ill would come of it, and, further, he expressed the
impossibility of his keeping up any character.
Try
Harlequin, said Boot-jack, tapping him on the shoulder, or, what think you of
Cupid?
Nay
friend, Cupid was a child, and, but that thy years have surpassed thy wisdom, I
would venture to recommend the part to thyself.
The
masquerade was more brilliant than the dinner, and, among the motley group,
Boot-jack was a prominent character, as Apollo, flitting about every where, now
on his knees at the feet of a foreign princess, then whispering soft rhymes, or
tuning his lyre, in an attitude, before a milk-maid or a flower-girl.
Villers
was in his glory, and performed the part of a French dancing-master, du tems
passeé-à merveille!
Mary
took up the character of a school-girl, which was Villers’s motive for being a
master: in short, they were inseparable, and Mary was convulsed with laughter,
at the admirable humour, he displayed.
A
friar, with a long beard, now attracted the attention of every one. He was
hunted, up and down the room, by a noisy, gigantic woman, in a red cloak, with
a squalid, hideous child, at her back.
Ah!
the grey old villain! Ah! the deceiver! to turn his back on his own offspring!
Oh! the wicked lascivious monk, she cried.
What
is the matter? What is the matter good woman? said a counsellor, in a long
white wig.
May
it please your honour, answered the woman, dropping a low courtesy, that
grey-beard there, one unlucky night, got the better of my virtue! Alas! it
never happened to me, but once before, and I became pregnant; when the
hard-hearted monster forsook me, to carry on an intrigue with the candle
snuffer’s daughter, of his convent.
Detain
that hoary sinner, at the suit of the plaintiff here, till the action is tried,
called out a judge, and, behold the learned counsel, several in number, seated
in rows, shaking at each other their powdered wigs, while one, the most
celebrated, in a loud and audible voice, addressed the assembly, and my lud
judge.
May
it please you, my lud, and gentlemen of the jury, yon fair, and delicate
female, has been a victim to the vile lust of the hoary sinner, at the bar,
who, by wicked spells, my lud, and gentlemen of the jury, contrived to overcome
her virtue; and, to the disgrace of humanity, be it spoken, the hypocritical
priest abandons, and turns his back, gentlemen of the jury, upon the fruit of
his own bowels.
All
this while, the persecuted friar seemed to be in violent agitation. At last, he
was seen, by Mary, to raise his mask, for an instant, and discovered the
features of poor Samuel Beaumont.
The
little pocket-Apollo, Boot-jack, now diverted the attention, not only of the
learned counsel, but also of the judge himself. He was kneeling at the feet of
the goddess Flora, and his suit of flesh-coloured silk, was so tight, that it
would have been quite indecent, only he was but an Apollo in miniature. Flora
acted coy modesty, such as seemed to add fuel to his flame. At last, a fine,
noble-looking creature, who also represented Apollo, but this man looked the
real god, from which the other had sported the like costume, in very humble
imitation—one looked like nature, the other like nature’s journeyman—The said
Apollo, the great, just when Apollo the little was most pathetic, and still on
his knees, softly snatched the wreath of laurels, from his temples. Little
Apollo was about to fall into a rage, when the arch rogue, Apollo the great,
fastened, on his head, two large assinine ears!! The little hero, fully
believing that his laurels were replaced, amused himself, quietly, in arranging
this interesting bandeau, prettily, over his left ear. He proceeded with his
gesticulations, which were meant to express, to his fair Flora, admiration,
rapture, and delight. Now, pressing one hand to his heart, and holding it down,
fast with the other; shrugging up his little shoulders, and drawing in his toes
at the same time; then, audibly sighing. At a most critical moment, a gay,
young Harlequin snatched off Flora’s wig-wreath, and mask, together, this
discovering, in the gay, youthful garb of the goddess, the shrivelled features
of Miss Clementina Callam!
Sure
such a pair was never seen,
So
justly formed, to meet, by nature!
Cried Harlequin, and disappeared, closely pursued by
the furious virgin, who chased him up and down the room, in search of her wig
and mask, to the infinite amusement of all the company, save Apollo the great,
who, not only forced young Harlequin to render up what he had purloined, but,
further, took the liberty of giving him a few severe blows, over the shoulders,
with his wooden wand, pour lui apprendre à vivre.
I need not acquaint my most
sagacious readers, for ye are all wise and sagacious, and prove your wisdom by
reading my work, I need not, I say, inform people of such tact, and in such a
masquerading country, that it was beau Villers, who had changed his costume to
that of Apollo, with the malicious intention of placing a pair of well-grown
ass’s ears, on the temples, where laurels had been sown, in vain. Not five
minutes after this occurrence, Apollo the little was seen, true to his first
vocation, of maitre de danse, dans les vieux tems passé, fiddling away, on his
little kit, or singing his instructions, to beginners, to the time of the
minuet de la cour.
Sur
le-le-le-le point du pied, lal la lal la lal la Ma-de-moi-selle An-gé-lique.
Tour-tour-tour-nez le pi-ed gauche un peu. Fi donc! Ma-de-moi-selle. Ploy-ez,
ma belle, lal la lal-la. Un, deux, trois, tal lal la. Bon! bien! lal la. Vous
me de-vez un ca-chet, Made-moiselle. Tal lal lal lal, un, deux, trois, ployez
donc. Bon, bon, bon, de la de la semaine passée, passée. Tal lal lal la.
I
must, now, my fair, or unfair readers, draw this little sketch-book, or any
other named-book, you please, to a conclusion. I am obliged to go to Calais, to
meet my Publisher, from London, and I leave this merry city, Paris, at five
o’clock, this very afternoon; but, hurried as I am, and with my femme de
chambre waiting, for me to show her what is to be placed in my travelling bag,
yet it will not do to leave my heroine, Mary Callam, taking dancing-lessons,
and in such a state of uncertainty; but I really am puzzled how to make the
best of a heroine.
They
married, and lived happy all the rest of their born days, and used to have a
child once a year! This is ending a book, in such common routine; and, if I
kill her, that too is à l'ordinaire, in France, where fair heroines are sure to
die.
This
little work, which I began eight days ago, had, ’ere now been finished, and
before the public, but that I knew not what to do with my heroine, and now my
mind is as uncertain as ever. However, decided it must be, and the toss-up of a
halfpenny shall settle, whether she continue an old maid, or I marry her; so,
to use my friend, Lord Clanricarde’s elegant words, here goes.
T’is heads for maids,
And tails for wives.
A Newmarket-toss. Now for it! There it is done, and
the conclusion will show whether it turned up heads or tails.
In
the mean time, since it is possible, provided printers, and translators look
sharp (regardezaigu, as an Englishman said to his French valet, when he wished
him to be quick one day) that this little book may be published in French
before my return, I beg to assure Messieurs et Mes Dames les Français, et
Françaises that I have not written a single line with intentional disrespect,
towards any individual of their nation. Above all, I respect, and always did
so, the well known courage of their troops. As a woman I can know very little
about military discipline, or etiquette, or dress; but a French soldier,
whether a cuirassier, or lancer, or hussar, or a foot-soldier, appears, to me,
always dressed well, and better than our own troops; because they seem dressed,
always the same, and always as if they were, that moment, ready to fight. Their
clothes sit easy on them, and do not appear to inconvenience them, and are, by
no means ill-made, whereas, our troops wear their clothes, tight and
straight-laced, and appear to be in a kind of pillory; and, I have seen some
lancer-officers, who feared, absolutely, to sit down, lest they should crease
the knee-parts of their trowsers. To conclude, in good earnest;––The masquerade
went off famously.
Villers
contrived to reconcile Clementina, to herself, by his attentive kindness; for
which Mary loved him more than ever. As for Villers, it was impossible for him
not to suspect that he was beloved, by Mary, yet so many mothers, like Mrs.
Pemberton, had laid siege to his fortune; so many widows and damsels, had
angled for him, among the heartless, and mercenary; that, between them all,
they had spoiled the natural frankness of his character. Mary might, and he
believed she did fancy him:—c’est à dire qu’elle lui avoit monté la tête: but,
naturally domestic, he wanted such a wife, who would have scorned the richest,
and handsomest man alive, unless he joined to those attractions, such solid
virtue as must insure her respect.
Alas! poor human nature!
Who is wise at all times?
Mary’s
heart was warm, and pure, and her understanding excellent, for her years; but
she was not yet eighteen, and she loved for the first time. It was true, that
she believed Villers to be a vain coxcomb; but she had witnessed the goodness
of his heart, in the attention, he paid, to poor Clementina, under her
disaster, and then his talents, had never been concealed from her. Was it in
human nature, that she should refuse to marry him?
Villers,
in his usual affected way, and in his most tawdry suit, proposed to Mary
Callam, on the following morning, and was accepted with undisguised rapture.
I am
not worthy to be your companion, said the blushing, warm-hearted girl, and yet,
as far as may depend on all my exertions, through life, I am sure no woman on
earth, can better deserve you.
There
was something so radiant, and purely benign, in the expression of Mary’s clear
gazelle-like eyes, that Villers was restrained only by an effort, from clasping
her in his arms, and addressing her by the endearing appellation of wife: yet,
one more trial he would make: It could not hurt his cause, if his cause were
worth gaining.
Alas!
my dear Mary, said Villers, you know not to what, or to whom, you bind
yourself. You believe me rich!
And
are you poor? enquired Mary, in a tone of sweet compassion.
Mary!
I am a ruined man!
Oh!
what will become of you dear Villers! You who have been bred up in
extravagance, and riches, and in the enjoyment of every luxury! Alas! the
fortune my father can give me, will be enough for moderate comforts only; but
then I shall be cheerful, and could be very industrious, and
* * * * *
Do
you accept me then? enquired Villers, eagerly.
Mary
opened her fine dark eyes, in astonishment, and fixed them on his face,
Villers, said she, after a pause, you are mysterious, and I abhor mystery.What
do you mean? Have we not already pledged our faith to each other, for ever.
Villers
called her his dear, disinterested angel, his wife, his darling-wife, and
clasped her to his heart.
Mary’s
spirits sunk, from that hour! You have suspected me of being a mercenary
creature, then? said she, despondingly.
Forgive
me, dearest, that I have made this hard trial of your virtue! Thank God, I have
riches to offer you. Neither is, your husband the silly fop which you imagine:
on the contrary, he despises foppery.
Mary
turned her thoughtful eyes to the earth. Her glowing cheek, and the violent
panting of her bosom, shewed the agitation of her mind.
Villers
was thunderstruck, and called on her, by every endearing name, to explain to
him, the cause of this sudden alteration, in her manner?
Villers,
said Mary, at last, in a low, melancholy voice, you have greatly wounded me. I
was never so affected before. I feel for the suspense I must leave you in; but,
indeed I cannot help it. If I become your wife, I must give myself to you,
wholly and for ever, and I must give you all the affection, my heart, is
capable of feeling. At this moment, I am offended with you, and cannot decide
in anger. Before this evening, you shall certainly hear from me. In the mean
time, I cannot, will not be detained. God bless you, Villers! and Mary
disappeared before he could recover from his surprise. He would have followed
her, but that she had joined her mother, in her dressing-room. He would have
immediately applied to her parents, but that he was oppressed, by a certain
presentiment, of having seen Mary for the last time. He felt a weight on his
mind, which almost rendered him inanimate. He could decide on nothing. The
atmosphere was too heavy and dead, for him, to breathe in. He flew out of the
house, and bent his hurried steps towards the Bois de Boulogne, where,
exhausted with the violence of his feelings, he stretched himself on the grass,
where he lay, concealed, by the thick branches of the trees, which form a
complete shade, in this delightful wood.
I
cannot exactly tell my readers how Villers passed the whole of that, to him,
melancholy day; but I have ascertained that he scribbled over, at least, a
quire of best vellum, in attempting to address Mary, and that he sent
messenger, after messenger, to her house, every five minutes, imploring her to
put an end to his cruel suspense, by allowing him to see her, if but for a
minute.
The
only answer he obtained, was, that Miss Mary would certainly write to him,
before the day was concluded.
It
was nine in the evening when Villers received the following letter from Mary.
Villers,
I
will not attempt to describe the painful sensations, which the idea of causing
you any uneasiness, occasions me; but, believe me, the conviction that, in
refusing to become your wife, I shall contribute to your future good, is alone,
what gives me courage to say, to one who has honoured me, far beyond my
deserts, that I never can be his.
Had
our loves been spontaneous, had we loved, and trusted each other, had your
feelings sympathised, with mine, and your heart glowed, with the same truth and
ardent affection, my happiness must have been too pure, and my devotion to you
might have rendered me neglectful of those ties of friendship, in which I have
hitherto gloried. I knew nothing of life or the world. To you, I devoted my
whole soul, and the freshness of my first affections were yours, at once! Alas!
all this while, when I would have laid down my life for you, you were
scrutinizing my character, and suspecting me, at seventeen years of age, of the
mercenary intention of affecting love to secure your fortune. While my heart
gave itself, to you with pure devotion, you made me serve an apprenticeship,
before you could give me credit for being better than the lowest hireling.
You
have taught me a lesson, which has sunk deep into my heart. You have made me
feel that the face is not the index of the mind, and that, as a matter of
prudence, and foresight, I ought to have looked on you with suspicion, and
given you no credit for even the feelings of an honest man, till I had tried
you.
The
illusion is destroyed. I never wished to become the wife of any man before, and
since I have discovered that our present feelings are liable to be suspected,
and misinterpreted, so grossly, I shall, perhaps, now continue, to the end of
my life, single. Sure of the purity of my parents’ affection for me, I will
devote my life to them, and my first faith, which has been pledged to you,
shall never be broken.
Farewell,
then, Villers! You shall have my earnest prayers for your happiness. Do not,
however, deceive yourself by false hopes. Let your own pride restore you to
happiness. My parents can inform you that, as a mere child, I ever evinced
unusual firmness of character. You suspected me of being vile, at that moment,
when I gave you my whole heart, and I, now, love you no longer.
Accept
my forgiveness. Believe my assurance that I shall feel, for no other mortal
being, such love as you once inspired, and that I shall never change either my
name or my nature.
May
every happiness, which this life can impart, be yours, and may God bless you!
MARY CALLAM.
I
will not attempt to describe Villers’s state of mind, on the receipt of the
above letter. Time alone could heal the wound, Mary had implanted, in his
breast. However, he felt so deeply, both from pride, and sincere regret, that
he never once attempted to alter Mary’s resolution.
Whether
Clara, the fair and amiable daughter of the match-making Mrs. Pemberton, who
had long encouraged the most sincere passion for him, was ever rewarded for her
constancy, I know not; but Villers did not die. Life is too tough, and fights a
hard battle with despair, in the breast of a beautiful, and accomplished, young
man.
The
amiable Mary, was invited, by her early friend, Caroline, to act as bridesmaid,
and accompany her and Hairbrain, to the country-seat of the latter, in
Hampshire.
Eliza
Callam loved Villers no longer than he played the part of a first-rate beau:
her passion was for the filigree buttons.
Clementina
married Monsieur le beau Militaire, who, being of a very mild temper, and
feeling really grateful to one who relieved him from extreme penury, rendered
his wife tolerably comfortable, in the civil way. The good Mr. Callam returned
to London, with his family, in high spirits; for he longed to talk of the
Lions, he had seen, amongst his, less favoured neighbours.
Mrs.
Callam hoped to return, some day or other; because she was so fond of
made-dishes, and wood-fires. Peter declared Paris a dead bore, and was in
raptures at the thoughts of seeing Kean again.
Rosabella
was seen driving, furiously, through one of the barriers of Paris, in a
dashing, and gay equipage, with four horses, and post-boys, in scarlet jackets,
and new, leather breeches, in the company of a fine looking foreigner, with a
black moustache. The carriage, however, passed on so rapidly, that there was no
such thing as ascertaining, positively, whether her companion, was a chasseur,
en bourgeois, or a lord chamberlain!
Au
reste, mes lectures me permettront, maintenant, de leurs saluer, tous, Anglois
et François, avec beaucoup de respect, espérant, toujours, qu’ils daigneront me
souhaiter un bon voyage.
THE
END.
Printed
and Published by J. J. STOCKDALE,
24,
Opera Colonnade.