CHAPTER XXXII.
O, cousin, you know him--the fine gentleman they talk of so much intown.--Wycherly's Dancing Master.
By the bright days of my youth, there is something truly delightful inthe quick motion of four post-horses. In France, where one's steeds arenone of the swiftest, the pleasures of travelling are not quite sogreat as in England; still, however, to a man who is tired of onescene--panting for another--in love with excitement, and not yet weariedof its pursuit--the turnpike road is more grateful than the easiestchair ever invented, and the little prison we entitle a carriage, morecheerful 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 thequestion. A French valet's dignity is always involved in his master's.
"You are too good, Bedos," said I, "I shall dine at the tabled'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 manychanges 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 naturallymelancholy--Ah, ma fois tres triste!" and with these words thesentimental plate-changer placed his hand--I can scarcely say, whetheron his heart, or his stomach, and sighed bitterly!
"How long," said I, "does it want to dinner?" My question restored thegarcon to himself.
"Two, hours, Monsieur, two hours," and twirling his serviette with anair of exceeding importance, off went my melancholy acquaintance tocompliment new customers, and complain of his digestion.
After I had arranged myself and my whiskers--two very distinctaffairs--yawned three times, and drank two bottles of soda water, Istrolled into the town. As I was sauntering along leisurely enough, Iheard my name pronounced behind me. I turned, and saw Sir WilloughbyTownshend, an old baronet of an antediluvian age--a fossil witness ofthe wonders of England, before the deluge of French manners swept awayancient customs, and created, out of the wrecks of what had been, a neworder of things, and a new race of mankind.
"Ah! my dear Mr. Pelham, how are you? and the worthy Lady Frances, yourmother, and your excellent father, all well?--I'm delighted to hearit. Russelton," continued Sir Willoughby, turning to a middle-aged man,whose arm he held, "you remember Pelham--true Whig--great friend ofSheridan'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 thousandrecollections crowded upon my mind; the contemporary and rival ofNapoleon--the autocrat of the great world of fashion and cravats--themighty genius before whom aristocracy had been humbled and tonabashed--at whose nod the haughtiest noblesse of Europe had quailed--whohad introduced, by a single example, starch into neckcloths, and hadfed the pampered appetite of his boot-tops on champagne--whose coat andwhose friend were cut with an equal grace--and whose name was connectedwith every triumph that the world's great virtue of audacity couldachieve--the illustrious, the immortal Russelton, stood before me. Irecognised in him a congenial, though a superior spirit, and I bowedwith a profundity of veneration, with which no other human being hasever inspired me.
Mr. Russelton seemed pleased with my evident respect, and returned mysalutation with a mock dignity which enchanted me. He offered me hisdisengaged arm; I took it with transport, and we all three proceeded upthe street.
"So," said Sir Willoughby--"so, Russelton, you like your quarters here;plenty of sport among the English, I should think: you have not forgotthe art of quizzing; eh, old fellow?"
"Even if I had," said Mr. Russelton, speaking very slowly, "the sight ofSir Willoughby Townshend would be quite sufficient to refresh my memory.Yes," continued the venerable wreck, after a short pause,--"yes, I likemy 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 neckand a loose swagger passes him--'True Briton--true Briton.' I take careof my health, and reflect upon old age. I have read Gil Blas, and theWhole Duty of Man; and, in short, what with instructing my parrot, andimproving myself, I think I pass my time as creditably and decorouslyas the Bishop of Winchester, or my Lord of A--v--ly himself. So you havejust come from Paris, I presume, Mr. Pelham?"
"I left it yesterday!"
"Full of those horrid English, I suppose; thrusting their broad hatsand narrow minds into every shop in the Palais Royal--winking their dulleyes at the damsels of the counter, and manufacturing their notionsof French into a higgle for sous. Oh! the monsters!--they bring ona bilious attack whenever I think of them: the other day one of themaccosted me, and talked me into a nervous fever about patriotism androast pigs: luckily I was near my own house, and reached it before thething became fatal; but only think, had I wandered too far when he metme! at my time of life, the shock would have been too great; I shouldcertainly have perished in a fit. I hope, at least, they would haveput the cause of my death in my epitaph--'Died, of an Englishman, JohnRusselton, Esq., aged,' Pah! You are not engaged, Mr. Pelham; dine withme to-day; Willoughby and his umbrella are coming."
"Volontiers," said I, "though I was going to make observations on menand manners at the table d'hote of my hotel."
"I am most truly grieved," replied Mr. Russelton, "at depriving you ofso much amusement. With me you will only find some tolerable Lafitte,and an anomalous dish my cuisiniere calls a mutton chop. It will becurious to see what variation in the monotony of mutton she willadopt to-day. The first time I ordered 'a chop,' I thought I had amplyexplained every necessary particular; a certain portion of flesh, and agridiron: at seven o'clock, up came a cotelette panee, faute de mieux.I swallowed the composition, drowned as it was, in a most pernicioussauce. I had one hour's sleep, and the nightmare, in consequence.The next day, I imagined no mistake could be made: sauce was strictlyprohibited; all extra ingredients laid under a most special veto, anda natural gravy gently recommended: the cover was removed, and lo! abreast of mutton, all bone and gristle, like the dying gladiator! Thistime my heart was too full for wrath; I sat down and wept! To-day willbe the third time I shall make the experiment, if French cooks willconsent to let one starve upon nature. For my part, I have no stomachleft 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, didyou try Staub when you were at Paris?"
"Yes; and thought him one degree better than Stultz, whom, indeed, Ihave long condemned, as fit only for minors at Oxford, and majors in theinfantry."
"True," said Russelton, with a very faint smile at a pun, somewhat inhis own way, and levelled at a tradesman, of whom he was, perhaps, alittle jealous--"True; Stultz aims at making gentlemen, not coats; thereis a degree of aristocratic pretension in his stitches, which is vulgarto an appalling degree. You can tell a Stultz coat any where, which isquite 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 manwho makes the tailor, not the tailor who makes the man."
"Right, by G--!" cried Sir Willoughby, who was as badly dressed as oneof Sir E--'s dinners. "Right; just my opinion. I have always told mySchneiders to make my clothes neither in the fashion nor out of it; tocopy no other man's coat, and to cut their cloth according to my naturalbody, not according to an isosceles triangle. Look at this coat, forinstance," and Sir Willoughby Townshend made a dead halt, that we mightadmire 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?"