Some Roundabout Papers Read online

morning performance of the equestrians, but was most eager to go

  in the evening likewise. And go he did; and laughed at all Mr

  Merryman's remarks, though he remembered them with remarkable

  accuracy, and insisted upon waiting to the very end of the fun,

  and was only induced to retire just before its conclusion by

  representations that the ladies of the party would be incommoded

  if they were to wait and undergo the rush and trample of the

  crowd round about. When this fact was pointed out to him, he

  yielded at once, though with a heavy heart, his eyes looking

  longingly towards the ring as we retreated out of the booth. We

  were scarcely clear of the place, when we heard "God save the

  Queen," played by the equestrian band, the signal that all was

  over. Our companion entertained us with scraps of the dialogue

  on our way home -- precious crumbs of wit which he had brought

  away from that feast. He laughed over them again as he walked

  under the stars. He has them now, and takes them out of the

  pocket of his memory, and crunches a bit, and relishes it with a

  sentimental tenderness, too, for he is, no doubt, back at school

  by this time; the holidays are over; and Doctor Birch's young

  friends have reassembled.

  Queer jokes, which caused a thousand simple mouths to grin! As

  the jaded Merryman uttered them to the old gentleman with the

  whip, some of the old folks in the audience, I daresay, indulged

  in reflections of their own. There was one joke -- I utterly

  forget it -- but it began with Merryman saying what he had for

  dinner. He had mutton for dinner, at one o'clock, after which

  "he had to come to business." And then came the point. Walter

  Juvenis, Esq., Rev. Doctor Birch's, Market Rodborough, if you

  read this, will you please send me a line, and let me know what

  was the joke Mr Merryman made about having his dinner? You

  remember well enough. But do I want to know? Suppose a boy

  takes a favourite, long-cherished lump of cake out of his pocket,

  and offers you a bit? Merci! The fact is, I don't care much

  about knowing that joke of Mr Merryman's.

  But whilst he was talking about his dinner, and his mutton, and

  his landlord, and his business, I felt a great interest about Mr

  M. in private life -- about his wife, lodgings, earnings, and

  general history, and I daresay was forming a picture of those in

  my mind: -- wife cooking the mutton; children waiting for it;

  Merryman in his plain clothes, and so forth; during which

  contemplation the joke was uttered and laughed at, and Mr M.,

  resuming his professional duties, was tumbling over head and

  heels. Do not suppose I am going, sicut est mos, to indulge in

  moralities about buffoons, paint, motley, and mountebanking.

  Nay, Prime Ministers rehearse their jokes; Opposition leaders

  prepare and polish them: Tabernacle preachers must arrange them

  in their minds before they utter them. All I mean is, that I

  would like to know any one of these performers thoroughly, and

  out of his uniform: that preacher, and why in his travels this

  and that point struck him; wherein lies his power of pathos,

  humour, eloquence; -- that Minister of State, and what moves

  him, and how his private heart is working; -- I would only say

  that, at a certain time of life certain things cease to interest:

  but about some things when we cease to care, what will be the use

  of life, sight, hearing? Poems are written, and we cease to

  admire. Lady Jones invites us, and we yawn; she ceases to

  invite us, and we are resigned. The last time I saw a ballet at

  the opera -- oh! it is many years ago -- I fell asleep in the

  stalls, wagging my head in insane dreams, and I hope affording

  amusement to the company, while the feet of five hundred nymphs

  were cutting flicflacs on the stage at a few paces distant. Ah,

  I remember a different state of things! Credite posteri. To see

  these nymphs -- gracious powers, how beautiful they were! That

  leering, painted, shrivelled, thin-armed, thick-ankled old thing,

  cutting dreary capers, coming thumping down on her board out of

  time -- that an opera-dancer? Pooh! My dear Walter, the great

  difference between my time and yours, who will enter life some

  two or three years hence, is that, now, the dancing women and

  singing women are ludicrously old, out of time, and out of tune;

  the paint is so visible, and the dinge and wrinkles of their

  wretched old cotton stockings, that I am surprised how anybody

  can like to look at them. And as for laughing at me for falling

  asleep, I can't understand a man of sense doing otherwise. In my

  time, a la bonne heure. In the reign of George IV., I give you

  my honour, all the dancers at the opera were as beautiful as

  Houris. Even in William IV.'s time, when I think of Duvernay

  prancing in as the Bayadere, -- I say it was a vision of

  loveliness such as mortal eyes can't see nowadays. How well I

  remember the tune to which she used to appear! Kaled used to say

  to the Sultan, "My lord, a troop of those dancing and singing

  gurls called Bayaderes approaches," and, to the clash of cymbals,

  and the thumping of my heart, in she used to dance! There has

  never been anything like it -- never. There never will be -- I

  laugh to scorn old people who tell me about your Noblet, your

  Montessu, your Vistris, your Parisot -- pshaw, the senile

  twaddlers! And the impudence of the young men, with their music

  and their dancers of to-day! I tell you the women are dreary old

  creatures. I tell you one air in an opera is just like another,

  and they send all rational creatures to sleep. Ah, Ronzi de

  Begnis, thou lovely one! Ah, Caradori, thou smiling angel! Ah,

  Malibran! Nay, I will come to modern times, and acknowledge that

  Lablache was a very good singer thirty years ago (though Porto

  was the boy for me): and they we had Ambrogetti, and Curioni,

  and Donzelli, a rising young singer.

  But what is most certain and lamentable is the decay of stage

  beauty since the days of George IV. Think of Sontag! I remember

  her in Otello and the Donna del Lago in `28. I remember being

  behind the scenes at the opera (where numbers of us young fellows

  of fashion used to go), and seeing Sontag let her hair fall down

  over her shoulders previous to her murder by Donzelli. Young

  fellows have never seen beauty like that, heard such a voice,

  seen such hair, such eyes. Don't tell me! A man who has been

  about town since the reign of George IV., ought he not to know

  better than you young lads who have seen nothing? The

  deterioration of women is lamentable; and the conceit of the

  young fellows more lamentable still, that they won't see this

  fact, but persist in thinking their time as good as ours.

  Bless me! when I was a lad, the stage was covered with angels,

  who sang, acted, and danced. When I remember the Adelphi, and

  the actresses there: when I think of Miss Chester, and Miss

  Love, and Mrs Serle at Sadler's Wells, and her forty glo
rious

  pupils -- of the Opera and Noblet, and the exquisite young

  Taglioni, and Pauline Leroux, and a host more! One much-admired

  being of those days I confess I never cared for, and that was the

  chief male dancer -- a very important personage then, with a bare

  neck, bare arms, a tunic, and a hat and feathers, who used to

  divide the applause with the ladies, and who has now sunk down a

  trap-door for ever. And this frank admission ought to show that

  I am not your mere twaddling laudator temporis acti -- your old

  fogey who can see no good except in his own time.

  They say that claret is better nowadays, and cookery much

  improved since the days of my monarch -- of George IV. Pastry

  Cookery is certainly not so good. I have often eaten half-a-

  crown's worth (including, I trust, ginger-beer) at our school

  pastrycook's, and that is a proof that the pastry must have been

  very good, for could I do as much now? I passed by the

  pastrycook's shop lately, having occasion to visit my old school.

  It looked a very dingy old baker's; misfortunes may have come

  over him -- those penny tarts certainly did not look so nice as I

  remember them: but he may have grown careless as he has grown

  old (I should judge him to be now about ninety-six years of age),

  and his hand may have lost its cunning.

  Not that we were not great epicures. I remember how we

  constantly grumbled at the quantity of the food in our master's

  house -- which on my conscience I believe was excellent and

  plentiful -- and how we tried once or twice to eat him out of

  house and home. At the pastrycook's we may have over-eaten

  ourselves (I have admitted half-a-crown's worth for my own part,

  but I don't like to mention the real figure for fear of

  perverting the present generation of boys by my monstrous

  confession) -- we may have eaten too much, I say. We did; but

  what then? The school apothecary was sent for: a couple of

  small globules at night, a trifling preparation of senna in the

  morning, and we had not to go to school, so that the draught was

  an actual pleasure.

  For our amusements, besides the games in vogue, which were pretty

  much in old times as they are now (except cricket par exemple --

  and I wish the present youth joy of their bowling, and suppose

  Armstrong and Whitworth will bowl at them with light field-pieces

  next), there were novels -- ah! I trouble you to find such novels

  in the present day! O Scottish Chiefs, didn't we weep over you!

  O Mysteries of Udolpho, didn't I and Briggs Minor draw pictures

  out of you, as I have said? Efforts, feeble indeed, but still

  giving pleasure to us and our friends. "I say, old boy, draw us

  Vivaldi tortured in the Inquisition," or, "Draw us Don Quixote

  and the windmills, you know," amateurs would say, to boys who had

  a love of drawing. "Peregrine Pickle" we liked, our fathers

  admiring it, and telling us (the sly old boys) it was capital

  fun; but I think I was rather bewildered by it, though "Roderick

  Random" was and remains delightful. I don't remember having

  Sterne in the school library, no doubt because the works of that

  divine were not considered decent for young people. Ah! not

  against thy genius, O father of Uncle Toby and Trim, would I say

  a word in disrespect. But I am thankful to live in times when

  men no longer have the temptation to write so as to call blushes

  on women's cheeks, and would shame to whisper wicked allusions to

  honest boys. Then, above all, we had Walter Scott, the kindly,

  the generous, the pure -- the companion of what countless

  delightful hours; the purveyor of how much happiness; the

  friend whom we recall as the constant benefactor of our youth!

  How well I remember the type and the brownish paper of the old

  duodecimo "Tales of My Landlord!" I have never dared to read the

  "Pirate," and the "Bride of Lammermoor," or "Kenilworth," from

  that day to this, because the finale is unhappy, and people die,

  and are murdered at the end. But "Ivanhoe," and "Quentin

  Durward"! Oh! for a half-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of

  those books again! Those books, and perhaps those eyes with

  which we read them; and, it may be, the brains behind the eyes!

  It may be the tart was good; but how fresh the appetite was! If

  the gods would give me the desire of my heart, I should be able

  to write a story which boys would relish for the next few dozen

  of centuries. The boy-critic loves the story: grown up, he

  loves the author who wrote the story. Hence the kindly tie is

  established between writer and reader, and lasts pretty nearly

  for life. I meet people now who don't care of Walter Scott, or

  the "Arabian Nights"; I am sorry for them, unless they in their

  time have found their romancer -- their charming Scheherazade.

  By the way, Walter, when you are writing, tell me who is the

  favourite novelist in the fourth form now? Have you got anything

  so good and kindly as dear Miss Edgeworth's Frank? It used to

  belong to a fellow's sisters generally; but though he pretended

  to despise it, and said, "Oh, stuff for girls!" he read it; and

  I think there were one or two passages which would try my eyes

  now, were I to meet with the little book.

  As for Thomas and Jeremiah (it is only my witty way of calling

  Tom and Jerry), I went to the British Museum the other day on

  purpose to get it; but somehow, if you will press the question

  so closely, on reperusal, Tom and Jerry is not so brilliant as I

  had supposed it to be. The pictures are just as fine as ever;

  and I shook hands with broad-backed Jerry Hawthorn and Corinthian

  Tom with delight, after many year's absence. But the style of

  the writing, I own, was not pleasing to me; I even thought it a

  little vulgar -- well! well! other writers have been considered

  vulgar -- and as a description of the sports and amusements of

  London in the ancient times, more curious than amusing.

  But the pictures! -- oh! the pictures are noble still! First,

  there is Jerry arriving from the country, in a green coat and

  leather gaiters, and being measured for a fashionable suit at

  Corinthian House, by Corinthian Tom's tailor. Then away for the

  career of pleasure and fashion. The park! delicious excitement!

  The theatre! the saloon!! the green-room!!! Rapturous bliss --

  the opera itself! and then perhaps to Temple Bar, to knock down a

  Charley there! There are Jerry and Tom, with their tights and

  little cocked hats, coming from the opera -- very much as

  gentlemen in waiting on royalty are habited now. There they are

  at Almack's itself, amidst a crowd of high-bred personages, with

  the Duke of Clarence himself looking at them dancing. Now,

  strange change, they are in Tom Cribb's parlour, where they don't

  seem to be a whit less at home than in fashion's gilded halls;

  and now they are at Newgate, seeing the irons knocked off the

  malefactors' legs previous to execution. What hardened ferocity

  in the countenance of the despera
do in yellow breeches! What

  compunction in the face of the gentleman in black (who, I

  suppose, has been forging), and who clasps his hands, and listens

  to the chaplain! Now we haste away to merrier scenes: to

  Tattersall's (ah gracious powers! what a funny fellow that actor

  was who performed Dicky Green in that scene in the play!); and

  now we are at a private party, at which Corinthian Tom is

  waltzing (and very gracefully too, as you must confess) with

  Corinthian Kate, whilst Bob Logic, the Oxonian, is playing on the

  piano!

  "After," the text says, "the Oxonian had played several pieces of

  lively music, he requested as a favour that Kate and his friend

  Tom would perform a waltz. Kate without any hesitation

  immediately stood up. Tom offered his hand to his fascinating

  partner, and the dance took place. The plate conveys a correct

  representation of the `gay scene' at that precise moment. The

  anxiety of the Oxonian to witness the attitudes of the elegant

  pair had nearly put a stop to their movements. On turning round

  from the pianoforte and presenting his comical mug, Kate could

  scarcely suppress a laugh."

  And no wonder; just look at it now (as I have copied it to the

  best of my humble ability), and compare Master Logic's

  countenance and attitude with the splendid elegance of Tom! Now

  every London man is weary and blase. There is an enjoyment of

  life in these young bucks of 1823 which contrasts strangely with

  our feelings of 1860. Here, for instance, is a specimen of their

  talk and walk, "`If,' says LOGIC -- `if enjoyment is your motto,

  you may make the most of an evening at Vauxhall, more than at any

  other place in the metropolis. It is all free and easy. Stay as

  long as you like, and depart when you think proper.' -- `Your

  description is so flattering,' replied JERRY, `that I do not care

  how soon the time arrives for us to start.' LOGIC proposed a

  `bit of a stroll' in order to get rid of an hour or two, which

  was immediately accepted by Tom and Jerry. A turn or two in Bond

  Street, a stroll through Piccadilly, a look in at TATTERSALL's, a

  ramble through Pall Mall, and a strut on the Corinthian path,

  fully occupied the time of our heroes until the hour for dinner

  arrived, when a few glasses of TOM's rich wines soon put them on

  the qui vive. VAUXHALL was then the object in view, and the TRIO

  started, bent upon enjoying the pleasures which this place so

  amply affords."

  How nobly those inverted commas, those italics, those capitals,

  bring out the writer's wit and relieve the eye! They are as good

  as jokes, though you mayn't quite preceive the point. Mark the

  varieties of lounge in which the young men indulge -- now a

  stroll, then a look in, then a ramble, and presently a strut.

  When George, Prince of Wales, was twenty, I have read in an old

  Magazine, "the Prince's lounge" was a peculiar manner of walking

  which the young bucks imitated. At Windsor George III. had a

  cat's path -- a sly early walk which the good old king took in

  the grey morning before his household was astir. What was the

  Corinthian path here recorded? Does any antiquary know? And

  what were the rich wines which our friends took, and which enable

  them to enjoy Vauxhall? Vauxhall is gone, but the wines which

  could occasion such a delightful perversion of the intellect as

  to enable it to enjoy ample pleasures there, what were they?

  So the game of life proceeds, until Jerry Hawthorn, the rustic,

  is fairly knocked up by all this excitement and is forced to go

  home, and the last picture represents him getting into the coach

  at the "White Horse Cellar," he being one of six inside; whilst

  his friends shake him by the hand; whilst the sailor mounts on

  the roof; whilst the Jews hang round with oranges, knives, and

  sealing-wax: whilst the guard is closing the door. Where are

  they now, those sealing-wax vendors? where are the guards? where

  are the jolly teams? where are the coaches? and where the youth

  that climbed inside and out of them; that heard the merry horn

  which sounds no more; that saw the sun rise over Stonehenge;