O, cousin, you know him—the fine gentleman they talk of so much in town.—Wycherly’s Dancing Master.
By the bright days of my youth, there is something truly delightful in the quick motion of four post-horses. In France, where one’s steeds are none of the swiftest, the pleasures of travelling are not quite so great as in England; still, however, to a man who is tired of one scene—panting for another—in love with excitement, and not yet wearied of its pursuit—the turnpike road is more grateful than the easiest chair ever invented, and the little prison we entitle a carriage, more cheerful than the state-rooms of Devonshire House.
We reached Calais in safety, and in good time, the next day.
“Will Monsieur dine in his rooms, or at the table d’hote?”
“In his rooms, of course,” said Bedos, indignantly deciding the question. A French valet’s dignity is always involved in his master’s.
“You are too good, Bedos,” said I, “I shall dine at the table d’hote—who have you there in general?”
“Really,” said the garcon, “we have such a swift succession of guests, that we seldom see the same faces two days running. We have as many changes as an English administration.”
“You are facetious,” said I.
“No,” returned the garcon, who was a philosopher as well as a wit; “no, my digestive organs are very weak, and par consequence, I am naturally melancholy—Ah, ma fois tres triste!” and with these words the sentimental plate-changer placed his hand—I can scarcely say, whether on his heart, or his stomach, and sighed bitterly!
“How long,” said I, “does it want to dinner?” My question restored the garcon to himself.
“Two, hours, Monsieur, two hours,” and twirling his serviette with an air of exceeding importance, off went my melancholy acquaintance to compliment new customers, and complain of his digestion.
After I had arranged myself and my whiskers—two very distinct affairs—yawned three times, and drank two bottles of soda water, I strolled into the town. As I was sauntering along leisurely enough, I heard my name pronounced behind me. I turned, and saw Sir Willoughby Townshend, an old baronet of an antediluvian age—a fossil witness of the wonders of England, before the deluge of French manners swept away ancient customs, and created, out of the wrecks of what had been, a new order of things, and a new race of mankind.
“Ah! my dear Mr. Pelham, how are you? and the worthy Lady Frances, your mother, and your excellent father, all well?—I’m delighted to hear it. Russelton,” continued Sir Willoughby, turning to a middle-aged man, whose arm he held, “you remember Pelham—true Whig—great friend of Sheridan’s?—let me introduce his son to you. Mr. Russelton, Mr. Pelham; Mr. Pelham, Mr. Russelton.”
At the name of the person thus introduced to me, a thousand recollections crowded upon my mind; the contemporary and rival of Napoleon—the autocrat of the great world of fashion and cravats—the mighty genius before whom aristocracy had been humbled and ton abashed—at whose nod the haughtiest noblesse of Europe had quailed—who had introduced, by a single example, starch into neckcloths, and had fed the pampered appetite of his boot-tops on champagne—whose coat and whose friend were cut with an equal grace—and whose name was connected with every triumph that the world’s great virtue of audacity could achieve—the illustrious, the immortal Russelton, stood before me. I recognised in him a congenial, though a superior spirit, and I bowed with a profundity of veneration, with which no other human being has ever inspired me.
Mr. Russelton seemed pleased with my evident respect, and returned my salutation with a mock dignity which enchanted me. He offered me his disengaged arm; I took it with transport, and we all three proceeded up the street.
“So,” said Sir Willoughby—“so, Russelton, you like your quarters here; plenty of sport among the English, I should think: you have not forgot the art of quizzing; eh, old fellow?”
“Even if I had,” said Mr. Russelton, speaking very slowly, “the sight of Sir Willoughby Townshend would be quite sufficient to refresh my memory. Yes,” continued the venerable wreck, after a short pause,—“yes, I like my residence pretty well; I enjoy a calm conscience, and a clean shirt: what more can man desire? I have made acquaintance with a tame parrot, and I have taught it to say, whenever an English fool with a stiff neck and a loose swagger passes him—‘True Briton—true Briton.’ I take care of my health, and reflect upon old age. I have read Gil Blas, and the Whole Duty of Man; and, in short, what with instructing my parrot, and improving myself, I think I pass my time as creditably and decorously as the Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A—v—ly himself. So you have just come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham?”
“I left it yesterday!”
“Full of those horrid English, I suppose; thrusting their broad hats and narrow minds into every shop in the Palais Royal—winking their dull eyes at the damsels of the counter, and manufacturing their notions of French into a higgle for sous. Oh! the monsters!—they bring on a bilious attack whenever I think of them: the other day one of them accosted me, and talked me into a nervous fever about patriotism and roast pigs: luckily I was near my own house, and reached it before the thing became fatal; but only think, had I wandered too far when he met me! at my time of life, the shock would have been too great; I should certainly have perished in a fit. I hope, at least, they would have put the cause of my death in my epitaph—‘Died, of an Englishman, John Russelton, Esq., aged,’ Pah! You are not engaged, Mr. Pelham; dine with me to-day; Willoughby and his umbrella are coming.”
“Volontiers,” said I, “though I was going to make observations on men and manners at the table d’hote of my hotel.”
“I am most truly grieved,” replied Mr. Russelton, “at depriving you of so much amusement. With me you will only find some tolerable Lafitte, and an anomalous dish my cuisiniere calls a mutton chop. It will be curious to see what variation in the monotony of mutton she will adopt to-day. The first time I ordered ‘a chop,’ I thought I had amply explained every necessary particular; a certain portion of flesh, and a gridiron: at seven o’clock, up came a cotelette panee, faute de mieux. I swallowed the composition, drowned as it was, in a most pernicious sauce. I had one hour’s sleep, and the nightmare, in consequence. The next day, I imagined no mistake could be made: sauce was strictly prohibited; all extra ingredients laid under a most special veto, and a natural gravy gently recommended: the cover was removed, and lo! a breast of mutton, all bone and gristle, like the dying gladiator! This time my heart was too full for wrath; I sat down and wept! To-day will be the third time I shall make the experiment, if French cooks will consent to let one starve upon nature. For my part, I have no stomach left now for art: I wore out my digestion in youth, swallowing Jack St. Leger’s suppers, and Sheridan’s promises to pay. Pray, Mr. Pelham, did you try Staub when you were at Paris?”
“Yes; and thought him one degree better than Stultz, whom, indeed, I have long condemned, as fit only for minors at Oxford, and majors in the infantry.”
“True,” said Russelton, with a very faint smile at a pun, somewhat in his own way, and levelled at a tradesman, of whom he was, perhaps, a little jealous—“True; Stultz aims at making gentlemen, not coats; there is a degree of aristocratic pretension in his stitches, which is vulgar to an appalling degree. You can tell a Stultz coat any where, which is quite enough to damn it: the moment a man’s known by an invariable cut, and that not original, it ought to be all over with him. Give me the man who makes the tailor, not the tailor who makes the man.”
“Right, by G—!” cried Sir Willoughby, who was as badly dressed as one of Sir E—‘s dinners. “Right; just my opinion. I have always told my Schneiders to make my clothes neither in the fashion nor out of it; to copy no other man’s coat, and to cut their cloth according to my natural body, not according to an isosceles triangle. Look at this coat, for instance,” and Sir Willoughby Townshend made a dead halt, that we might admire his garment the more accurately.
“Coat!” said Russelton, with an appearance of the most naive surprise, and taking hold of the collar, suspiciously, by the finger and thumb; “coat, Sir Willoughby! do you call this thing a coat?”
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