Kitabı oku: «Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 327, January, 1843», sayfa 12
Our aristocratic youth we take the liberty to classify, as they do coaches, of which they are so passionately fond, into
1. FAST,
2. SLOW.
The fast youths have several degrees of swiftness, from the railway pace, down through imperceptible gradations, to ten miles an hour, at which rate of going the fast fellows end, and the slow fellows begin.
Of these last there are also many varieties, from the tandem and tax-cart down to the waggon and dog-truck; and it cannot be denied, that as regards the former more especially, there is a great similarity between the youths themselves and the vehicles they govern; they go very fast, don't know what they are driving at, are propelled in any direction by much more sagacious animals than themselves, and are usually empty inside. The fast fellows are divided, moreover, into the occasional and permanently fast; and first of the occasional fast fellows:—
These form a very considerable proportion of our fashionable youth, and combine the gentleman with a dash of the petit-maitre, overlaying a naturally good disposition with a surface of scampishness, which, however, they lay down when they marry, and thenceforward they belong altogether to the slow school.
The permanently fast fellows deserve a more detailed notice, since they are always before the police magistrates and the public, in one shape or another; and although often committing themselves, are seldom or never committed.
The members of this class it is who furnish the democratic Sunday papers with a never-ending succession of articles, headed "THE ARISTOCRACY AGAIN," "BRUTALITY OF THE HIGHER CLASSES," "DEPRAVITY OF THE NOBBY ONES," and the like and it is from these fast fellows, unfortunately, that a great many ignorant people draw their conclusions of fashionable life and conversation in general, extending the vices of a few shameless profligates to the entire of the little world, commonly called the great.
The permanently fast fellows, or, as we think their general demeanour entitles them to be called, "Blackguard Nobs," are a lot of little, scrubby, bad-blooded, groom-like fellows, who have always, even from childhood, been incorrigible, of whom nursery governesses could make nothing, and whose education tutors abandoned in despair; expelled from Eton, rusticated at Cambridge, good for nothing but mischief in boyhood, regularly bred scamps and profligates in youth, and, luckily for mankind, generally worn-out before they attain the wrong side of forty. A stable is their delight, almost their home, and their olfactories are refreshed by nothing so much as by the smell of old litter, to which attar of roses is assafoetida in comparison.
Their knowledge of horses, which they get at second-hand from Field, or some of the other crack veterinaries, is their only pride, and indeed the only thing they imagine any man ought to be proud of; they reverence a fellow who has a good seat in his saddle, and delight in horsemanship, because horsemanship requires no brains; driving a "buggy" in good style is respectable, but "shoving along" a four-in-hand the highest exercise of human intellect, as for Milton and Shakspeare, and such inky-fingered old prigs, who never had a good horse in their lives, they despise such low fellows thoroughly. Their chief companions, or rather, their most intimate friends, are the fellows who hang about livery stables, betting-rooms, race-courses, and hippodromes; crop-eared grooms, chaunters, dog-stealers, starveling jockeys, blacklegs, foreign counts, breeders, feeders; these are all "d—d honest fellows," and the "best fellows in the world," although they get their living by cheating the fast fellows, who patronize them.
Of money, they know no more than that it is a necessary instrument of their pleasures, and must be got some how or anyhow; accordingly, they are on intimate terms with a species of shark called a bill-discounter, who commits upon them every sort of robbery, under the sanction of the law; and who also is always a "d—d honest fellow."
They can be sufficiently liberal of their money, whenever they have any, to all who do not want, or who do not deserve it; if a prize-fighter becomes embarrassed in his circumstances, or a jockey is "down upon his luck," it is quite refreshing to see the madness with which the fast fellows strike for a subscription; an opera-dancer out of an engagement, or an actress in the same interesting condition, provided they are not modest women, have, they think, a claim upon their generosity—and perhaps they have.
They think it ungentlemanly to cheat, or, as they call it, "stick" any of their own set, except in matters of horse-flesh; but "sticking" any body out of their own set, especially tradesmen, is considered an excellent joke, and the "sticker" rises several degrees in public estimation.
We should be doing great injustice to the fast fellows if we omitted a brief notice of their accomplishments. Driving is, of course, the chief; and, by long experience and impunity, wonderfully grand exploits are achieved by the fast fellows in this department.
One of the most original is to get into a strong cab, with a very powerful horse, lamps lit, tiger inside, and to go quietly along, keeping a sharp look-out for any night cabman who may be "lobbing," as the phrase is, off his stand, the moment the "game," who is generally one part asleep and three parts drunk, is espied, put your horse to full gallop, and, guiding your vehicle with the precision fast fellows alone attain, whip inside the cabwheel, and take it off. The night cab comes down by the run, the night cabman tumbles off, breaking his nose or neck, as it may happen, and you drive off as if the devil kicked you. When you have gone a couple of miles, make a circumbendibus back again to the night-house frequented by your set, and relate the adventure, with the same voice and countenance as a broker quotes the price of stocks; then order a cool bottle of claret with the air of a man who has done a meritorious action!
Another accomplishment, at which not a few of the fast fellows excel, is that of imitating upon a key-bugle various animals, in an especial manner the braying of an ass: when the fast fellows drive down to the Trafalgar at Greenwich, the Toy at Hampton Court, or the Swan at Henley upon Thames, the bugle-player mounts aloft, the rest of the fast fellows keeping a lookout for donkeys; when one is seen, a hideous imitative bray is set up by the man of music, and his quadrupedal brother, attracted by the congenial sound, rushes to the roadside—mutual recognition, with much merriment, is the result.
The fast fellow who does this best, is considered one of the immortals; and we are not without expectation, in due time, of seeing his talent rewarded by a pension.
Breaking bells, twisting knockers, and "knapping" rail-heads, has descended so low of late that the fast fellows are ashamed of it, and have resigned it to the medical students, patriotic young members of Parliament, and others of the imitative classes; but there yet exists, or very lately existed, a collection of these and various other surreptitiously acquired properties, known among the fast fellow by the title of ——'s Museum, every article being ticketed artistically, and the whole presenting an example of devotion to the cause of science, we believe, without a parallel.
These are a few of the comparatively innocent amusements of the fast fellows; others there are of graver character, which we need not refer to, especially as the fast school is fast wearing itself out, and many of the fast fellows already begin to "put on the drag," and go at a more reasonable pace.
Their ignorance, with the single exception of horse-flesh, is appalling. Nobody who does not know the fast fellows, would credit that men could by any possibility grow up in such absolute ignorance of whatever a gentleman is expected to know; whatever a gentleman is expected not to know, they have at their tongues' and fingers' ends.
Intellectual men, of whatever description, they regard with the most perfect indifference—an indifference too passive for contempt; they affect to wonder, or probably do wonder, what such men are for, or why people sometimes talk about them. Books they find convenient for putting under the legs of barrack-room tables, to bring them to a level, and think they are made of different sizes for that purpose; but no fast fellow was ever yet detected in looking into one of them, to see whether there was any thing inside. Such as have been taught to spell, employ part of the Sunday in deciphering the smutty jokes of the Satirist, and pronounce the jokes "d—d good," and the paper "a d—d honest paper." If they happen, by any chance, to come into contact with one of the slow school, or any body who has been taught to read, they have a method of silencing his battery, which they think "capital." If a man should say in their company, that Chaucer was a great poet, one will immediately enquire, "how much?" while another wishes to know if Chaucer is entered for the "Derby?" "How much?" is the invariable slang, whenever a man gets the bit out of his mouth, or, in other words, talks of any thing but horses.
There is no novelty in this; it is only a second edition of Dean Swift's "new-fashioned way of being witty," which, in his fashionable day, was called "a bite." "You must ask a bantering question," he informs Stella, "or tell some damned lie in a serious manner, and then they will answer or speak as if you were in earnest; then cry you, 'there's a bite.' I would not have you undervalue this, for it is the constant amusement in court, and every where else among the great people; and I let you know it, in order to have it obtain amongst you, and teach you a new refinement."
If they accept an invitation from Lord Northampton to go to one of his soirées, which they sometimes do for a "lark," their antics are vastly amusing; they put on grave, philosophic faces, and mimic the savans to the life; if the noble president, thinking he is doing the polite thing, points out to them a poet, for example, or a professor, they have a knack of elevating the shoulders, looking at the man with a pitying air, and whispering the words "poor beast," with a tone and manner quite inimitable. Indeed this is one of the few clever things they do, and on or off the stage we have never seen any thing like it.
If Dickens were to die—an event that, we hope and trust, may not occur these fifty years, the fast fellows would have some such conversation upon the event, as follows:—
A. So, Dickens, I hear, is dead.
B. How much?
C. What's that?
A. Why, Pickwick, to be sure.
B. Oh! Eh? Pickwick—Moses—Bath coach—I know.
C. Pickwick—near Chippenham? Paul Methven lives there—I know.
A. No—no—I tell you, he's a man that writes.
B. Is he? He may be. How should I know?
C. Well—it's a d——d hard case, that, at the beginning of the season, I should have lost a d——d good tiger. Has any body got a d——d small tiger for sale?
As we are in the humour for dialogue, we may as well give a verbatim report of our last interview with Lord——, who had been a fast fellow in his youth. We encountered him on the sunny side of St James's Street, the other day, tottering to Brookes's: although we don't expect you to believe it, what passed was, as we recollect it, exactly as follows:—
"Well, my Lord, I hope your gout is better?"
"Eh—how are you? Well, I think I am better, d'ye know."
"Glad to hear it."
"Thankee—thankee—d'ye know, eh, I've changed my doctor?"
"Well, and how d'ye like your new one?"
"Capitally—eh—d'ye know, he's a clever fellow. Young—eh—but clever—very. D'ye know, eh—he corresponds regularly with—eh—with Sir Humphrey Newton and Sir Isaac Davy!"
THE DREAM OF LORD NITHSDALE
BY CHARLES MACKAY
[Lord Nithsdale, as is well known, was condemned to death for his participation in the Rebellion of 1715. By the exertions of his true-hearted wife, Winifred, he was enabled to escape from the Tower of London on the night before the morning appointed for his execution. The lady herself—noble soul!—has related, in simple and touching language, in a letter to her sister, the whole circumstances of her lord's escape. The letter is preserved in the Appendix to "Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," page 313 to 329—London, 1810.]
"Farewell to thee, Winifred, dearest and best!
Farewell to thee, wife of a courage so high!—
Come hither, and nestle again in my breast,
Come hither, and kiss me again ere I die!—
And when I am laid bleeding and low in the dust,
And yield my last breath at a tyrant's decree,
Look up—be resign'd—and the God of the just
Will shelter thy fatherless bairnies and thee!"
She wept on his breast, but, ashamed of her tears,
She dash'd off the drops that ran warm down her cheek;
"Be sorrow for those who have leisure for tears—
O pardon thy wife that her soul was so weak!
There is hope for us still, and I will not despair,
Though cowards and traitors exult at thy fate;
I'll show the oppressors what woman can dare,
I'll show them that love can be stronger than hate!"
Lip to lip, heart to heart, and their fond arms entwined,
He has kiss'd her again, and again, and again;
"Farewell to thee, Winifred, pride of thy kind,
Sole ray in my darkness, sole joy in my pain!"
She has gone—he has heard the last sound of her tread;
He has caught the last glimpse of her robes at the door;—
She has gone, and the joy that her presence had shed,
May cheer the sad heart of Lord Nithsdale no more.
And the prisoner pray'd in his dungeon alone,
And thought of the morn and its dreadful array,
Then rested his head on his pillow of stone,
And slumber'd an hour ere the dawning of day.
Oh, balm of the Weary! Oh, soother of pain!
That still to the sad givest pity and dole;
How gently, oh sleep! lay thy wings on his brain,
How sweet were thy dreams to his desolate soul!
Once more on his green native braes of the Nith,
He pluck'd the wild bracken, a frolicsome boy;
He sported his limbs in the waves of the Frith;
He trod the green heather in gladness and joy;—
On his gallant grey steed to the hunting he rode,
In his bonnet a plume, on his bosom a star;
He chased the red deer to its mountain abode,
And track'd the wild roe to its covert afar.
The vision was changed. In a midsummer night
He roam'd with his Winifred, blooming and young;
He gazed on her face by the moon's mellow light,
And loving and warm were the words on his tongue.
Thro' good and thro' evil, he swore to be true,
And love through all fortune his Winnie alone;
And he saw the red blush o'er her cheek as it flew,
And heard her sweet voice that replied to his own.
Once more it has changed. In his martial array,
Lo, he rides at the head of his gallant young men!
And the pibroch is heard on the hills far away,
And the clans are all gather'd from mountain and glen.
For exiled King Jamie, their darling and lord,
They raise the loud slogan—they rush to the war.
The tramp of the battle resounds on the sward—
Unfurl'd is the banner—unsheath'd the claymore!
The vision has fled like a sparkle of light,
And dark is the dream that possesses him now;
The morn of his doom has succeeded the night,
And the damp dews of death gather fast on his brow.
He hears in the distance a faint muffled drum,
And the low sullen boom of the death-tolling bell;
The block is prepared, and the headsman is come,
And the victim, bareheaded, walks forth from his cell.—
No! No! 'twas a vision! his hour was not yet,
And waking, he turn'd on his pallet of straw,
And a form by his side he could never forget,
By the pale misty light of a taper he saw.
"'Tis I! 'tis thy Winifred!"—softly she said,
"Arouse thee, and follow—be bold, never fear!
There was danger abroad, but my errand has sped,
I promised to save thee—and lo I am here!"
He rose at the summons, and little they spoke,
The gear of a lady she placed on his head;
She cover'd his limbs with a womanly cloak,
And painted his cheeks of a maidenly red.
"One kiss, my dear lord, and begone!—and beware!
Walk softly—I follow!" Oh guide them, and save,
From the open assault, from the intricate snare,
Thou, Providence, friend of the good and the brave!
They have pass'd unsuspected the guard at the cell,
And the sentinel band that keep watch at the gate;
One peril remains—it is past—all is well!
They are free; and her love has proved stronger than hate.
They are gone—who shall follow?—their ship's on the brine,
And they sail unpursued to a far friendly shore,
Where love and content at their hearth may entwine,
And the warfare of kingdoms divide them no more.
TWO HOURS OF MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
One bright day, last June, one of the London coaches rattled at an amazing rate down the main street of a garrison town, and, with a sudden jerk which threw the smoking horses on their haunches, pulled up at the door of the Waterloo hotel. A beautiful sight it is—a fine, well appointed coach, of what we must now call the ancient fashion, with its smart driver, brilliant harness, and thoroughbred team. Then it is a spectacle pleasing to gods and men, the knowing and instantaneous manner in which the grooms perform their work in leading off the horses, and putting fresh ones to—the rapid diving for carpet-bags and portmanteaus into the various boots and luggage holes—the stepping down or out (as the case may be) of the passengers—the tip to the coachman—the touch of the hat in return—the remounting of that functionary into his chair of honour—the chick, chick! with which he hints to the pawing greys he is ready for a start—and, finally, the roll off into dim distance of the splendid vehicle, watched by the crowd that have gathered round it, till it is lost from their sight. A steam-coach, with its disgusting, hissing, sputtering, shapeless, lifeless engine, ought to be ashamed of itself, and would probably blush for its appearance, if it were not for the quantity of brass that goes to its composition. On the above-mentioned bright day in June, only two passengers go out from the inside of the Celerity. The outsides, who were apparently pushed for time, urged them to make haste; and the lady, the first who stept on the pavement, took their admonitions in good part. With only a small basket on her arm, and a dark veil drawn close down over her face, she dropt half-a-crown into the hand of the expectant coachman, and walked rapidly up the street. The gentleman, however, put off a good deal of time in identifying his carpet-bag—then his pocket seemed to be indefinitely deep, as his hand appeared to have immense difficulty in getting to the bottom of it. At last he succeeded in catching hold of some coin, and, while he dropt it into the extended palm of the impatient Jehu, he sad, "Hem! I say, coachie, who is that lady? Eh! fine eyes—hem!"
"Can't say, sir—no name in the way-bill—thank ye, sir."
"Then you can't tell me any thing about her? Prettiest critter I ever saw in my life. As to Mrs Moss"—
But before the inquisitive gentleman, who stood all this time with the carpet-bag in his hand, had an opportunity of making any further revelation as to Mrs Moss, or any more enquiries as to his unknown travelling companion, the coachman had mounted the box, and, after asserting in a very complacent tone that it was all right, had driven off, and left him in the same state of ignorance as before.
"Sleep here, sir?—Dinner, sir?—This way to the coffee-room," said a smart young man, with long hair and a blue coat, with a napkin over his arm.
"Oh! you're the waiter, I suppose. Now, waiter, I want to find out something, and I daresay you can help me"—
"This way, sir. You can have a mutton-chop in twenty minutes."
"No—listen to me—I'm going to ask you some questions. Did you see the lady that got out of the coach when I did? She's a beautiful critter; such black eyes!—such a sweet voice!—such a small hand! We travelled together the whole way from town. She spoke very little, and kept her name a secret. I couldn't find out what she came here for. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir—perfectly," said the waiter, at the same time evidently understanding nothing about it.
"Well, you see, I don't know what you think of it down here; but, for my part, I think ladies at forty-five are past their prime. Now, my next neighbour in London—Mrs Moss is her name—she's exactly that age. You hear what I am saying, waiter?"
"Yes, sir."
"Now, I don't think this young lady, from her eyes and mouth, can be more than twenty-three—a charming age, waiter—hem! You never saw her before, did you?"
"No, sir—never."
"Well, its very astonishing what a beautiful girl she is. I am retired from the lace and ribbon business, waiter, but I think she's the sweetest specimen of the fair sex I ever saw. And you don't know who she is, do you?"
"No, sir. You'll sleep here, sir, I think you said? shammaid!"
"No—I haven't said so yet," said the stranger, rather sharply.
"Oh!" said the waiter, who had not attended to a syllable the gentleman had spoken—and retired under the archway into the hotel.
"The only way to get information," mused the gentleman with the carpet-bag, still standing on the pavement, "is to have your eyes about you and ask questions. It's what I always do since I have begun to travel for improvement—I got all the waiter knew out of him in a moment—I ought to have been an Old Bailey barrister—there ain't such a cross-questioner as I am in the whole profession."
The person who possessed such astonishing powers of investigation, was a man about fifty years of age, little and stout, with a face of perfect good-nature, and presenting the unmistakeable appearance of a prosperous man. The twinkle about his eye spoke strongly of the three-and-a-half per cents, and a mortgage or two might be detected in the puckers round his mouth. I shouldn't at all care to change banker's books with him on chance.
"How lucky I haven't proposed to Mrs M.! Charming woman, but fat—decidedly fat—and a little dictatorial too. Travel, says she—enlarge your mind—why, how big would she have it?—expand your intellect—does she think a man's brains are shaped like a fan? I wish to heaven I could find out who this beautiful"—
But, as if his wish was that moment to be gratified, a small light hand was laid upon his shoulder, and, on turning round, he saw his fair fellow-traveller.
"Excuse me, sir," she said, in a very sweet but slightly agitated voice, "excuse me for addressing you, but I am emboldened by your appearance to"—
"Oh, ma'am—you're very polite—I feel it a great compliment, I assure you."
"The benevolent expression of your counternance encourages me to"—
"Oh, ma'am, don't mention it, I beg"—
"To ask your assistance in my present difficulty."
"Now, then," thought the gentleman thus appealed to, "I'll find out all about her—how I'll question her!"
"You will help me, I feel sure," continued the lady.
"Oh, certainly—how can you doubt it?—(Hem—what white teeth! Mrs. M. is a martyr to toothache.) How can I be useful, ma'am? Don't you think it's a curious coincidence we travelled together, ma'am, and both of us coming to the same town? It strikes me to be very singular; doesn't it you, ma'am?"
"I shall be glad of it, if"—
"Ah! by-the-bye—another queer thing is your applying to me—a man past the bloom of boyhood, to be sure, in fact a little beyond"—
"The prime of life," added the lady, not regarding the disappointed look with which her interpolation was received; "it is for that reason, sir, I throw myself on your kindness; you have perhaps daughters, sir, or grandchildren, who"—
"Devil a one. Gad, ma'am, I wish you heard Mrs M., a neighbour of mine—why, she's always talking of my wildness and juvenile liveliness, and all that sort of thing; an excellent woman Mrs M., but stout—certainly stout."
"Are you acquainted with this town, sir?" said the lady.
"God bless ye! read an immense account of it in the Penny Magazine ever so long ago; but whether it is famous for a breakwater, or a harbour, or a cliff, or some dock-yard machinery, I can't recollect; perhaps it's all of them together; we shall find out soon; for travelling, as Mrs M. says, enlarges the mind, and expands the intellect."
The lady looked in the face of the disciple of Mrs M. with an anxious expression, as if she repented having addressed him.
"But are you acquainted with the localities here?" she said at last. "As to myself, I am utterly ignorant of the place I have to go to; and if you knew what reason I have to"—
"Ah! that's the very thing; give me your confidence, and I can refuse you nothing."
"My confidence!—alas, the business I come on can only be interesting to the parties concerned. I came from London for one sole object; and if I fail, if any delay occurs, the consequences may be—oh, I dread to think of them!"
"You don't say so? Lord! what a thing it is to travel!"
"It was of the utmost consequence that my journey here should be unknown. I had no one to trust. Alas, alas! I have no friend in all the world in whom I could confide!"
"Hem, hem!" said the little man, moved by the earnest sadness of her tone and looks, "you have one friend, ma'am; you may trust me with any thing in the world; yes, me, Nicholas Clam, No. 4, Waterloo Place, Wellington Road, Regent's Park, London. I tell you my name, that you may know I am somebody. I retired from business some years ago, because uncle John died one day, and left me his heir; got into a snug cottage, green verandah, trellice porch, green door, with bell handle in the wall; next door to Mrs Moss—clever woman, but large—very large. And now that you know who I am, you will perhaps tell me"—
"I have little to tell, sir; I came here to see an officer who was to have landed this morning from foreign service; if I don't see him instantly there will be death—ah!"—
"Soldiers—death—ah!" thought Mr Clam; "wild fellows them officers—breach of promise—short memories—a lovely critter, but rather silly I'm afraid; I should like to see a soldier coming the sentimental over Mrs M. Well, ma'am?"
The lady perceived something in the expression of Mr Clam's face (which was radiant with the wonderful discovery he thought he had made) which probably displeased her; for she said, in a very abrupt and almost commanding manner—
"Do you know the way, sir, to the infantry barracks?"
"Not I, ma'am; never knew a soldier in my life. (Think of Mrs M. paying a morning visit to the barracks! What a critter this is!")
"Then you can't assist me, sir, as I had hoped, and therefore"—
"Oh, by no means, ma'am; I can find out where the barracks are in a moment. There's a young officer crossing the street; I'll ask him, and be back in a minute."
So saying, Mr Clam placed his, carpet-bag in safety inside the archway of the hotel, and started off in pursuit of information. While her Mercury was gone on his voyage of discovery, the lady looked at the officer he was following. He was a young handsome man of two or three-and-twenty, lounging slowly along with the air of modest appreciation of his own value to Queen and country—not to mention private dinner parties and county balls—which seems soon to become a part of the military character in a garrison town. As he turned round to speak to Mr Nicholas Clam, the lady half shrieked, and pulled her veil more carefully over her face.
"I'm lost! I'm lost!" she said; "'tis Chatterton himself! Oh, why did I allow this talkative old man to trouble himself with my affairs? If the meeting takes place before I can explain, my happiness is gone for ever!"
She turned away, and walked as quickly as she could up one of the side streets. Not daring to turn round, she was alarmed by hearing steps rapidly nearing her in pursuit; and, from the heaviness of the sound, concluded at once that there was more than one person close behind. It turned out, however, to be nobody but her portly, and now breathless companion, Mr Clan.
"Stop, for heaven's sake, ma'am! that ain't the way," he said. "What a pace she goes at! Ma'am! ma'am! She's as deaf as a post, and would drive me into consumption in a week; and this in a hot day in June, too! Mrs M. has more sense—stop!"
