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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Habits and men, with remnants of record touching the makers of - both - -Author: John Doran - -Release Date: August 23, 2022 [eBook #68823] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HABITS AND MEN, WITH REMNANTS -OF RECORD TOUCHING THE MAKERS OF BOTH *** - - - - - - -HABITS AND MEN. - - - - - HABITS AND MEN, - WITH - Remnants of Record - TOUCHING - THE MAKERS OF BOTH. - - BY - DR. DORAN, - AUTHOR OF ‘TABLE TRAITS,’ ‘HISTORY OF READING,’ ‘LIFE OF DR. - YOUNG,’ ETC. - - “See, sitting here, - Just face to face with you, in cheery guise, - A real, live gossip; to your charities - Do I appeal, my friends.”—_T. Westwood._ - - _THIRD EDITION._ - - LONDON: - RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, - Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty. - 1855. - - PRINTED BY - JOHN EDWARD TAYLOR, LITTLE QUEEN STREET, - LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS. - - - - - THESE “TRIVIAL, FOND RECORDS” - TOUCHING - Habits and Men - ARE INSCRIBED TO A GOOD MAN, OF GOOD HABITS, - TO - HENRY HOLDEN FRANKUM, ESQ., - IN TESTIMONY OF THE ESTEEM AND REGARD ENTERTAINED FOR HIM - BY HIS VERY SINCERE FRIEND - - THE AUTHOR. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - BETWEEN YOU AND ME 1 - - MAN, MANNERS, AND A STORY WITH A MORAL TO IT 9 - - ADONIS AT HOME AND ABROAD, PART I. 26 - - ADONIS AT HOME AND ABROAD, PART II. 40 - - REMNANTS OF STAGE DRESSES 60 - - THREE ACTS AND AN EPILOGUE 67 - - THE TIRING-BOWERS OF QUEENS 88 - - “LA MODE” IN HER BIRTHPLACE 114 - - HATS 129 - - WIGS AND THEIR WEARERS 141 - - BEARDS AND THEIR BEARERS 158 - - SWORDS 168 - - GLOVES, B⸺S, AND BUTTONS 185 - - STOCKINGS 200 - - “MASKS AND FACES” 204 - - PUPPETS FOR GROWN GENTLEMEN 212 - - TOUCHING TAILORS 227 - - WHY DID THE TAILORS CHOOSE ST. WILLIAM FOR THEIR PATRON? 229 - - THE TAILORS MEASURED BY THE POETS 240 - - SIR JOHN HAWKWOOD, THE HEROIC TAILOR 261 - - GEORGE DÖRFLING, THE MARTIAL TAILOR 275 - - ADMIRAL HOBSON, THE NAVAL TAILOR 283 - - JOHN STOW, THE ANTIQUARIAN TAILOR 285 - - JOHN SPEED, THE ANTIQUARIAN TAILOR 296 - - SAMUEL PEPYS, THE OFFICIAL TAILOR 300 - - RICHARD RYAN, THE THEATRICAL TAILOR 309 - - PAUL WHITEHEAD, THE POET TAILOR 315 - - MEMS. OF “MERCHANT TAILORS” 322 - - CHAPTERS ON BEAUX 337 - - THE BEAUX OF THE OLDEN TIME 337 - - BEAU FIELDING 347 - - BEAU NASH 356 - - THE PRINCE DE LIGNE 370 - - BEAU BRUMMELL 378 - - DOCTORS READY DRESSED 395 - - ODD FASHIONS 402 - - - - -BETWEEN YOU AND ME. - - “Here, Sir, you’ll find, by way of prologue, - A choice imbroglio. Philosophy - Gay in her gravity; and Poesy - Casting her spangles on the theme of dress. - Lik’st thou’t not, no merry Christmas to thee!” - - OLD PLAY. - - -It is remarked by Mr. T. C. Grattan, in his ‘Jacqueline of Holland,’ -that the “suitableness of raiment and the becomingness of manners are -links in the chain of social life, which harmonize with and beautify the -whole. There is infinitely more wisdom,” he adds “in submitting to than -in spurning those necessary concomitants of civilization, which, being -artificial throughout, require the cement of elegance and refinement -to polish, if it cannot lighten, the chain.” I offer this pinch of -philosophy to those who like to be tempted by something didactic. I would -not, for the world, however, have them believe that I shall repeat the -temptation, or follow the example, in my illustrations of ‘Habits and -Men.’ And when I say “Men,” I would imply _man_ in its general sense,—a -sense in which “woman” has the better and more perfect half; for, as the -poet sings of Nature,— - - “Her ’prentice han’ - She tried on man, - An’ then she made the lasses, oh!” - -The latter, consequently, will come in for their share in these trivial, -fond records. For, have not the poets loved especially to dress and -undress them? And have not the nymphs been consenting? None have defied -them, save - - “Fair Rhodope, as story tells, - The bright, unearthly nymph who dwells - ’Mid sunless gold and jewels hid, - The Lady of the Pyramid.” - -Rhodope has been a snare to the versifiers; but I recognize in her a -lady who loved home, and dressed as well when there as her more gadding -sisters do only when abroad. - -If Rhodope be the only maid who has puzzled the poets, Butler is the only -poet who has seriously libelled the maids, and their mothers. See what -the rude fellow says of ladies in their company suits and faces:— - - “Yes, ’tis in vain to think to guess - At women, by appearances; - That paint and patch their imperfections - Of intellectual complexions, - And daub their tempers o’er with washes - As artificial as their faces.” - -It is certainly strange that women, in earlier days, when they dealt in -neither washes nor washing, should have been gravely commended for that -less commendable fashion. Thus, Thomas of Ely lays down a very nasty -maxim when he describes the toilet of Queen St. Ethelreda:—“Quæ enim lota -erat corde, non necesse erat ut lavabatur corpore” (who was so thoroughly -well-washed in heart that she never found it necessary to wash her -person). - -Very well! I only wish this lady could have been married to the Irish -Saint Angus Keledeus (_Kele De_, “God worshiper,” thence Culdees). They -would have had a nice household of it; for the gentleman in question had -the barn and the mill-work of his convent, and, as he _never_ cleaned -himself, some of the grain which stuck in his hair and about his hairy -body, used to grow as in a good soil, and then he pulled it out; gaining -a portion of his bread in this nasty field. St. Angus, all over _ears_, -would have been a novelly dressed bridegroom for Ethelreda, newly washed, -in imagination! - -“Tut!” said St. Romnald, “filthy habits are the anchors by which holy -hermits are kept fast in their cells; once let them dress well and smell -nicely, and worldly people will invite them to their parties.” Depend -upon it, when Ethelreda left off her habits of cleanliness, she wickedly -thought of seducing some St. Angus to come and be her resident confessor! - -A better example was shown by that saintly sovereign, Jayme II. of -Mayorca, who made ministers of his tailors, as George IV. made tailors -of his ministers, who set those useful dignitaries to work in superb -offices, wherein no profane person dared tread. On the garments made, no -profane person dared lay a hand; the number of suits was seven, for the -seven great festivals; and when these were completed, all the inhabitants -were compelled to celebrate the event by a voluntary illumination. - -Certainly, Ethelreda did not sit for the original of Cowley’s ‘Clad all -in White,’ wherein he says:— - - “Fairest thing that shines below, - Why in this robe dost thou appear? - Wouldst thou a white most perfect show, - Thou must at all no garment wear: - Thou wilt seem much whiter so - Than winter when ’tis clad with snow.” - -But, altogether, Cowley cannot be said to dress his ladies well. He would -banish all art, just as the nymphs in hoop-petticoats banished all -nature. Herrick is the man, to my thinking, who has hit the happy medium, -in his ‘Delight in Disorder’:— - - “A sweet disorder in the dress, - Kindles in clothes a playfulness. - A lawn about the shoulder thrown - Into a fine distraction; - An erring lace, which here and there - Inthrals the crimson stomacher; - A cuff neglectful, and thereby - Ribbons to flow confusedly; - A winning wave, deserving note, - In the tempestuous petticoat; - A careless shoe-string, in whose tie - I see a wild civility; - Do more bewitch me, than when art - Is too precise in every part.” - -Herrick was exquisitely taken by the “liquefaction,” as he calls it, of -his Julia’s robes, and his very heart was rumpled by their “glittering -vibration.” He dresses her in the airy fashion which Moore followed when -called upon to deck his Nora Creina:— - - “The airy robe I did behold, - As airy as the leaves of gold, - Which erring here and wandering there, - Pleased with transgression ev’rywhere: - Sometimes ’twould pant, and sigh, and heave, - As if to stir it scarce had leave; - But having got it, thereupon - ’Twould make a brave expansion, - And pounced with stars, it show’d to me - Like a celestial canopy.” - -Göthe, that lover of many ladies, never decks one wholly, but now and -then he makes a gift interpreting his taste, as when Lamon remarks, in -the ‘Laune des Verliebten’:— - - “Die Rose seh’ ich gern in einem schwarzen Haar.” - -The French poets put all their swains in tight gloves and loose -principles; and their nymphs are as anxious about their dress, as though -there were _soirées_ in Tempe, and a _Longchamps_ in Arcadia. Thus -Chénier’s Naïs bids Daphnis not to crease her veil, and, with a shrewd -idea of the cost of a new frock, how snappishly does the pretty thing -reply to the invitation to recline on the shady bank:— - - “Vois, cet humide gazon - Va souiller ma tunique!” - -How pure, compared or not compared with this calculating nymph, is the -Madeline of Endymion Keats. The English poet undresses his young maiden -with a “niceness” that gives us as much right to look as Porphyro:— - - “Her vespers done, - Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; - Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; - Loosens her fragrant boddice; by degrees - Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: - Half-hidden, like a mermaid in seaweed, - Pensive awhile, she dreams awake.” - -It is clear that this lady, although belonging to a more artificial -society than Naïs, thinks less of her dress, and more of her principles. -Not but that ladies have a fine eye for the snares by which they may -either catch or be caught. - -There is something in the following, from an old Spanish ballad (‘A -aquel caballero, madre’), which proves what I say, and may be useful to -gentlemen when contemplating the subject of costume:— - - To that cavalier, dear mother, - When a child, I simply told - How three kisses I would owe him: - I must pay them, now I’m old! - - I am now sixteen, dear mother: - If the noble youth should come, - And call upon his little debtor, - Sighing for him here at home;— - Should he come with feathers dancing, - Helm of steel and spurs of gold, - And claim the kisses that I owe him, - I—would pay him, now I’m old! - - “Hush, child! this is not the language - Worthy a Castilian maid, - One too promised to the altar, - Convent’s gloom, and cloister’s shade. - For thou’rt given to St. Cecil, - To her holy shrine thou’rt sold;— - Will not my sweet one read her missal?” - “Yes!—I’ll pay him now I’m old!” - -Grave commentators on this ballad suggest, that if the cavalier had not -been a superbly dressed cavalier, the little maiden would have forgotten -her vow; and in the south of Spain, when a man is inclined to become -heedless of external adornment, he is warned of the peril of losing the -three kisses of St. Cecilia’s Nun. - -But the overture to my “opera” is extending beyond due limits; and -as I have hitherto been repeating snatches from the airs of others, -I will here add, to save my honour, one of my own. It is well known -that Henrietta Maria mostly favoured the colour known as the Maiden’s -Blush,—from the rose of that pretty name. The following lines will show - - HOW THE ROSE GOT ITS HUE. - - One starry eve, as Psyche lay - Beneath a cistus bower’s shade, - Tearing the flowers in idle play, - Young Love came tripping by, that way, - And to the girl thus, laughing, said,— - - The sweetest rose that ever eye - Yet smiled upon I plucked but now; - Pure as the stars in yon blue sky - And whiter than the flowers that lie - In wreaths about thy sunny brow. - - The sweetest rose that ever spent - Its balmy store of scented bliss - About thy locks, or gently bent - Above thy bow’r, had ne’er the scent - That lies enshrined, my soul, in this. - - Oh for a name, my gentle girl, - That mortals fittingly may call - This matchless rose, of flowers the pearl!— - Look, sweet, how soft the petals curl! - A name!—and thou shalt have them all. - - While Love thus urged his pretty suit, - And to the blushing girl drew near, - He softly struck his golden lute, - As Psyche sat, entranced and mute, - Drinking the sounds with willing ear. - - And when the golden lute was hush’d, - And Love still nearer drew, to seek - His usual meed from lips that flush’d - With softer hues than ever blush’d - Upon his own sweet mother’s cheek,— - - He whisper’d something soft and low, - With arm and flower around her thrown, - That call’d upon her cheeks a glow - Which shed upon the leaves of snow - A hue still deeper than her own. - - And Love, rejoicing, mark’d the rush - Of soft and rosy light that came - Upon the flower, which caught the flush - From Psyche’s cheek, whose maiden blush - Gave to the rose both hue and name. - -Between the days when Psyche blushed on the rose, and the age when -Delamira bought her blushes at fifteen shillings the pot, there is a -long period;—nature at one end, and hoop-petticoats at the other. The -fashion of the latter had got so preposterous, that Mr. William Jingle, -coachmaker and chairmaker of the Liberty of Westminster, invented for -the service of the ladies “a round chair in the form of a lantern, six -yards and a half in circumference, with a stool in the centre of it; -the said vehicle being so contrived, as to receive the passenger, by -opening in two in the middle, and closing mathematically, when she is -seated.” Honest Jingle also “invented a coach for the reception of one -lady only, who is to be let in at the top.” For these inventions he asked -the patronage of that Censor of Great Britain, Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff,—and -therefore it must be true. However, how wide the time between the -blushes of Psyche and the era of hoops! Now it is something connected -with costume, during this interval, and subsequent to it, that I am now -about to speak. These words, between you and me, reader, have been as -the fragments of airs, which in musical introductions give us an inkling -of more fulness to come. I will only pause to add a sentiment from -Cowper;—but that would really be worse than Joseph Surface. No, reader! I -will fling in my sentiment at the end, and here invite you to consider a -subject, whose title heads the following page. - - - - -MAN, MANNERS, AND A STORY WITH A MORAL TO IT. - - “Les hommes font les lois, les femmes font les mœurs.”—DE SÉGUE. - - -“L’homme est un animal!” said a French orator, by way of peroration to -his first speech in the Chamber of Deputies; “Man is an animal!”—and -there he stopped. He found his subject exhausted, and he sat down in -confusion. Thereupon his own familiar friend arose, and suggested that it -was desirable that the honourable gentleman’s speech should be printed, -_with a portrait of the author_! - -The definition is, as far as it goes, a plagiarism from Plato. In the -Apophthegmata of Diogenes Laertius, it is stated that Plato defined -Man as an animal with two legs and without feathers. The definition -having been generally approved of, Diogenes went into the school of the -philosopher, carrying with him a cock, which he had stripped of his -plumage. “Here,” said he, “is Plato’s man!” Plato saw that his definition -needed improvement, and he added to it “with broad nails.” He might have -further said, “and needing something in place of feathers.” - -So much depends upon this substitute, and so much more is thought of -habits than of manners,—that is, morals,—and of the makers of the former -than the teachers of the latter, that it is popularly and properly -said, “The tailor makes the man.” No doubt of it; and tailors are far -better paid than tutors. The Nugees keep country-houses and recline in -carriages; the philosophers are accounted of as _nugæ_, and plod on foot -to give golden instruction for small thanks and a few pence. _Their_ -device, if they are ever so ennobled as to be thought worthy of one, -might be that of the patriotic ladies of Prussia, who, before the time -when their country became a satrapy of Muscovy, exchanged their golden -adornments for an iron ring, on which was engraved the legend, “_Ich gab -Gold um Eisen_,”—I gave gold for iron. - -This being the case, it is little to be wondered at that man is more -careful about his dress than his instruction. The well-dressed man looks, -at all events, like a man well to do; and how profound is the respect of -the world for a man who may be catalogued as “_well to do_!” That man -thoroughly understood the meaning of the term who, when on his trial for -murder, and anticipating an acquittal, invited his counsel to dinner. The -invitation was accepted, but, the verdict rendering the inviter incapable -of even ordering a dinner for himself, the intended guest frowned on the -convict, and went and dined with the prosecutor. - -Philosophy has done its best to cure man of vanity in dress; but -philosophy has been vain,—and so has man. “For a man to be fantastic and -effeminate in attire,” says Stobæus, “is unpardonable. It is next to -Sardanapalus’s spinning among women. To such I would say, Art thou not -ashamed, when Nature hath made thee a man, to make thyself a woman?” - -Seneca hath something to the same purpose, and not altogether -inapplicable in our days. “Some of the manly sex amongst us,” says he, -“are so effeminate, that they would rather have the commonwealth out -of order, than their hair; they are more solicitous about trimming and -sprucing up their heads, than they are of their health or of the safety -of the public; and are more anxious to be fine than virtuous.” Sir Walter -Raleigh asserts that “No man is esteemed for gay garments, but by fools -and women,”—an assertion which shows that his philosophy and his civility -were both in a ragged condition. Sir Matthew Hale throws the blame where -it ought to be borne, when he declares that the vanity of loving fine -clothes and new fashions, and valuing _ourselves_ by them, is one of the -most childish pieces of folly that can be. - -The philosophy of the judge is “truer steel” than that of the soldier. -But, for philosophy in describing a dress, I know nothing that can -surpass that of the poor Irishman, who, looking down at his own garment -of million tatters, smilingly said that it was “made of holes.” - -There is very good philosophy in the story of Nessus and his tunic. We -all know how the story is told in history, and that it therefore cannot -be true. Apollodorus and Pausanias, Diodorus, Ovid, and Seneca, have all -told the same tale, without guessing at the truth which lies hid in it. -It is to this effect:—When Hercules was on his way to the court of Ceyx, -king of Trachinia, in company with his “lady,” Dejanira, the travellers -came to the swollen river of Evenus. Nessus, the centaur, politely -carried the lady over, and became very rude to her on the opposite bank. -The stalwart husband, from the other shore, observing what was going -on, sent one of his shafts, dipped in the poison of the Lernæan Hydra, -right into the centaur’s heart. Nessus, while dying, presented his -shirt,—that is, his tunic,—to Dejanira, informing her that if she could -persuade Hercules to wear it, he would never behave to her otherwise -than as a gentleman. Now, as he never had yet so comported himself—for -he was a dreadful bully—Dejanira accepted the gift; and, as the hero was -soon after found flirting with his old love Iole, and was vain of his -appearance, she sent the gay garment to him, and he had no sooner donned -it than death clasped him, and the hero was transferred to where there -were so many other powerful rascals,—the halls of Olympus. So much for -fiction, and those never-to-be-trusted poets. Here is the truth. - -Nessus was a ridiculous old dandy, with a juvenile wig and reprobate -principles. He courted Hercules’ “lady,” and so flattered her that she -became fonder than ever of fashionable garments, and even accepted a -shawl from the centaur, who had ordered it in the name of the husband, -and left him to pay for it. Hercules forgot his vexation in the _beaux -yeux_ of Iole; and remembering how the “old beast,” as he used to -call the centaur, had contrived to sun himself in Dejanira’s eyes, he -adopted the fashion of Nessus; and, lightly as nymphs were dressed in -the days of Iole, he ran up a right royal bill at the milliner’s, and no -more thought of what he should have to pay than the Duke of York, when -ordering cashmeres for Anna Maria Clarke. The fall of the year however -came, and therewith the “little account,” with an intimation that a -speedy settlement would oblige. Hercules, hero as he was, felt his heart -fail him as he looked at “the tottle of the whole,” and he fell into such -extravagances that, being hunted to death by bailiffs, and his honesty -as small as that of the proprietor of an ultra-pietist paper who cheats -his editor, he took the benefit of the act, and retired to the country, -where he kept a shabby chariot, drawn by only two mangy leopards, and -ultimately died, like other heroes, bewailing his amiable weaknesses. - -But let us go further back than to mythology, in order to examine the -origin of dress. - -It may be said (and I hope without profanity) that sewing came in with -sin; or rather, it was one of the first consequences of the first crime. -Perhaps, for this reason, has a certain degree of contempt been inherited -by the professors of the art. The trade of a tailor is not honoured -with mention in any part of the Scriptures. Gardening was the early -occupation, and hence horticulture is accounted refined. Tubal Cain was -the first worker in iron; and from his time down to a very late period, -the employment which required much exercise of muscular strength had the -precedence of mere sedentary callings. The French, indeed, as becomes -a nation which prides itself as being the most particular touching the -external dressing of a man, has always confessed to a sort of tender -regard for the tailor. The vocation against which Gallic wits direct -their light-winged shafts, is that of the grocer. The _épicier_ with -them is a man whose soul does not rise above _lait de poule_ and cotton -nightcaps. He is generally the coward in farces, while heroism is not -made separable from the melancholy wielders of the needle. - -In France however we may still trace a remnant of the time when the -highest honour was awarded to the pliers of the heaviest tools, or the -workmen whose vocation had a spice of peril in it. Thus the farrier -smith, in France, still enjoys a courtesy rank which places him on a -nominal equality with the tried commanders of valiant hosts; and if -Soult was Marshal of France, so every Gallic farrier is “_maréchal -ferrant_”—the marshal of the workers in iron. - -As weavers and fullers are noticed in Holy Writ, while the tailor is -passed over in silence, it is probable that he had no distinct status -among the Jews, and that, during a long period at least, every man was -his own _costumier_. In other countries the tailor and the physician were -both slaves, and probably the first was as little or less of a bungler -than the second; for the _servus vestiarius_ could often improve the -outer man, when the _servus medicus_ could not do as much for the inner -one. - -Under the old dispensation, sewing, as I have said, followed sin; and -he who forged a bill-hook or a brand was in higher esteem than he who -lived by the exercise of the needle. Under a later dispensation we find -examples of this order of precedency being reversed. Lydia of Thyatira -was among the first who joined Paul in prayer, by the riverside at -Philippi. Her office was to make up into garments the purple cloth for -which Lydia itself was famous. With this proselyte Paul dwelt, and on her -he left a blessing. It was not so with a certain strong handicraftsman. -When Paul was once at the point of death he bethought him of an old -vicious adversary, and said, “Alexander the coppersmith did me much evil; -the Lord reward him according to his works!” And by this we not only -see that he who taught so wisely could sometimes err against his own -instructions, but we may even make this strange circumstance profitable -to us by viewing in it the proof that even the nearest to heaven are not -entirely free from the stains of earth; and that the spirit truly worthy -of immortality has never yet been found in aught that was mortal. - -And this reminds me, that while every Jew learned some trade, there -is none recorded as having learned that of a tailor. The coppersmiths -endeavour to disconnect their calling from the excommunication of Paul, -by asserting that the Alexander who did evil to Paul, by maligning -him and by broaching heresies upon the resurrection, was really a -philosopher, who was only a coppersmith for his amusement. This however -is not likely, for it was not usual to designate learned men by the -name of their adopted trades. And however this may be, it was Lydia the -maker of purple vests who obtained the blessing, while Alexander the -coppersmith inherited the curse. - -And may I here remark,—for I hope to be permitted to indulge in a good -deal of “cross stitch” in these unpretending sketches,—that the best of -men of modern times can, like St. Paul, be vigorously minded against -their opponents. I will only cite Cowper, who was more wrathful than the -Apostle, without the provocation by which the latter was judicially moved. - -Cowper is certainly the sweetest of our didactic poets. He is elevated -in his ‘Table Talk;’ acute in detailing the ‘Progress of Error;’ and he -chants the praises of ‘Truth’ in more dulcet notes than were ever sounded -by the fairest swan in Cayster. His ‘Expostulation’ is made in the tones -of a benevolent sage. His ‘Hope’ and his ‘Charity’ are proofs of his pure -Christian-like feeling;—a feeling which also pervades his ‘Conversation’ -and his ‘Retirement,’ and which barbs the shafts of his satire without -taking away from their strength. The same praise is due to the six books -of the ‘Task,’ of which perhaps the _Garden_ is the least successful -portion. If however we be disposed to find fault at all with anything -in his sentiment or expression, it would be in this,—that while he -celebrates in warm praises the delights of his own peaceful and retired -life—a life which, on the respectable authority of the old medical -writer Celsus, I may call as hurtful to the body as it is profitable or -necessary to the mind (“Literarum disciplina, ut animo præcipue omnium -necessaria, sic corpori inimica est”), there is some illiberality in -his declaring that the various occupations of other and more active men -are either frivolous or criminal. Cowper patiently enjoys holding the -ravelled thread for ladies to wind it on to their bobbins, but he sneers -at the party who sits down to chess or stands up to billiards. He will -praise air and exercise, if you will only take them in company with -_him_, in covered walks where there is what he so well and quaintly calls - - “An obsolete prolixity of shade.” - -But if you enjoy your air and exercise in field sports, you are more -ignoble than your groom, and a greater brute than the victim you pursue. -Again: he acknowledges change of scene to be beneficial to the animal -economy; but he intends thereby a change from one parish to another. -You must not go to France for change, without being undeniably anything -but a gentleman and a Christian. He is ready too to eat game and dine -on venison, but he would not, for the world, be so guilty as to course -a hare or shoot a buck. Finally, he would listen with all imaginable -pleasure and rapture to the strains of Handel, were they only composed -to the glory and praise of Damon and Dolly, rather than, as they are, to -the eulogy of the Messiah and in illustration of His sacrifice. - -But why, it may be asked, this piece of patchwork with Cowper’s name -thereon? Well, Cowper was something of a tailor in his way, and could -sew a button on his sleeve as adroitly, if not as any tailor in town, at -least as any sailor in the fleet. And in this he was something akin to -Pope Pius VII. when prisoner at Fontainebleau. - -What a heavy captivity was that!—not so much for the prisoner, as for -those who were compelled to listen to the long and dreary and pointless -stories of the good-natured and weak old man. When the officers who -had this Pope in charge, were conducting him from Rome to Paris, they -on one occasion shut him up in a coach-house, where he remained seated -in his carriage, while his captors dined. Cardinal Pacca says of this -Pope, who was an admirable tailor when necessity pressed him, that, -during the eighteen months he was resident at Fontainebleau, he could -never be prevailed upon to quit his own suite of apartments. He, and the -Cardinals who accompanied him, were employed in conjugating the verb -_s’ennuyer_. He loved a little gossip, and hated books; but the captive -had a solace—one worthy of the dignity of Diocletian, when he cultivated -cabbages. Savary, Duke de Rovigo, who was chief gaoler over the chief -Pontiff, says, of the latter, that “he did not open a book the livelong -day; and he occupied himself in things which, if I had not myself seen, -I never should have believed; stitching and mending, for instance, -holes and rents in his clothes, sewing a button on his breeches, and -washing with his own hands his dressing-gown, on which he had a habit of -allowing his snuff to fall in large quantities.” Savary is especially, -and naturally, astonished that the supreme Pontiff preferred his amateur -tailoring to enjoying the books in the great library of Fontainebleau. -Poor man! he did not like reading, but he did like killing time at the -point of the needle. The tailors of his community are doubtless proud -of such a patron. The story rests on Savary’s authority; and while -Cardinal Pacca abuses him for telling it, his Eminence does not deny its -authenticity. - - * * * * * - -But we must not allow the Pope and his pursuits to take us away from the -consideration of sacred things. Reverting therefore to the Jews, it may -be said of them that if they did not possess the tailor as a professor, -they had a sufficient variety of dress to perplex the domestic ministers -of fashion. There is quite as much perplexity for those who have to -write about it. The Jews, like the modern children of the Prophet, would -not tolerate the representation of any living figure, and the antiquary -has therefore no chance of consulting a Hebrew ‘Journal des Modes.’ -The monuments of nations distant from Palestine cannot be accepted as -authority when they are said to represent the Jewish people, for we have -no assurance that the people _are_ thereon represented; or if they be -Jews, that they are, in slavery, wearing a national costume. - -Of one thing however there is a certainty. The Jews _had_ a national -costume; and, except in ceremonial dresses and some female appendages, -it had very little resemblance indeed to the costume of the Egyptians. -The material of Jewish garments was manufactured at home; the skilful -hands of the women spinning and weaving the raw material afforded by -the flocks. Not _all_ the women appear to have been given to the useful -work. There were some fine ladies among the multitude that came out -of Egypt, and these had an aristocratically foolish contempt for the -spinners and tailoresses of the tribes. But I would especially recommend -my fair readers to remember the sacred record, which ennobles labour, -where it says:—“All the women that were _wise-hearted_ did spin with -their hands, and brought that which they had spun, both of blue, and of -purple, and of scarlet, and of fine linen;” and again it is said,—and -it sounds like God’s blessing upon the daughters of toil,—“And all the -women whose _hearts stirred them up in wisdom_ spun goats’ hair.” No -doubt these women, whose hearts were the thrones of wisdom, were primeval -tailoresses. And much value was set upon the habits which they made, the -shaping of which, I may add, presented little difficulty. The principal -article of dress was an ample woollen garment,—a cloak by day, and a -couch by night. It served two purposes, like Goldsmith’s stocking, which, -at night, he drew from his feet to place on his head. Much value, I have -said, was attached to this garment; as, for instance: “If thou at all -take thy neighbour’s raiment to pledge, thou shalt deliver it to him by -that the sun goeth down. For that is his covering only; it is the raiment -for his skin: wherein shall he sleep? And it shall come to pass, when he -crieth unto Me, that I will hear; for I am gracious.” - -At Beni Hassan, in Egypt, there are some painted representations of men -who are supposed to be the counterfeit presentment of Jews fresh from -their own country, and therefore in undoubted Jewish costume. The men -are variously attired: they are all sandalled. Some wear only short -tunics, others a cloak over the tunic. This cloak or plaid, for it is of -a striped and figured pattern, and is described as resembling the fine -grass-woven cloth of the South Sea, is worn over the left shoulder and -under the right arm, leaving the latter free for action. Other figures -are clad in fringed shirts, or tunics of the same material as the plaid, -reminding one of the command given unto Moses in the fifteenth chapter -of Numbers: “Speak unto the children of Israel, and bid them that they -make them fringes in the borders of their garments throughout their -generations, and that they put upon the fringe of the borders a ribbon of -blue.” And again, in Deuteronomy: “Thou shalt make thee fringes upon the -four quarters of thy vesture, wherewith thou coverest thyself:” and it -will be remembered that a formal observance of this command gave ground -for censure, when the Jews were, at a later period, reproached because -“all their works they do for to be seen of men; they make broad their -phylacteries, and enlarge the borders of their garments.” - -The garments in the paintings at Beni Hassan are of the very simplest -construction. The Hebrew maker of them could hardly have committed the -trifling mistake made by Andrew Fern, the weather-brained tailor of -Cromarty, who used, says Hugh Miller, “to do very odd things, especially -when the moon was at the full, and whom the writer remembers from the -circumstance that Andrew fabricated for him his first jacket, and that -though he succeeded in sewing on one sleeve to the hole at the shoulder, -where it ought to be, he committed the slight mistake of sewing on the -other sleeve to one of the pocket-holes!” There are no pocket-holes -visible in the Jewish garments. - -The Jews soon learned to enlarge their fringes. In the Valley of Bab el -Malook, near Thebes, Belzoni discovered a tomb in which is represented -the triumph of Pharaoh Necho, after the victory over the Jews at Megiddo. -The Jews, among the captives, look very much like Highlanders, with -nothing on but kilts kept down about the knees by leaded bunches of -ribbons,—a fashion not unknown to modern Ballerinas, who wear “very thin -clothing, and but little of it.” The captives, however, have probably -been stripped of their upper garments, which the conquerors may be -supposed to have sold to the tailors of Misraim, whereupon to model new -fashions for the modish dwellers by the purple Nile. - -The Rabbins had some curious ideas touching the original form of Adam, -and the peculiar dress made for him and Eve before the Fall. Bartolozzi, -in his ‘Bibliotheca Rabbinica,’ notices the tradition that the father of -mankind was originally furnished with a tail, but that it was cut off -by his Maker, because he looked better without it. Another tradition -asserts that, before the fall, Adam and Eve had a transparent covering, -a robe of light, of which remnants are left to mankind in the nails of -the hands and feet. Let me add, for the sake of those who are fond of -adopting primeval colours, that the original hue of the father of man is -said to have been a bottle-green. When Stulz furnished Mr. Haynes with -his celebrated pea-green coat, the _schneider_ only made him as closely -resembling as he could to Eliezer the Tanaite, in his bright green -gabardine. And Eliezer if a good patron to tailors, and a wearer of gay -colours, was also one of the most learned of men. It is said of him, that -if all the firmament were changed into parchment, and the entire ocean -into ink, it would not suffice to write all that he knew; for he was the -author, among other brief works, of three hundred volumes, solely upon -the subject of sowing cucumbers. Perhaps Stulz wished to make the wooer -of Miss Foote look as like a philosopher as possible, for Eliezer was not -the only sage who walked the world in verdant suit. When Amelia Opie paid -her visit to Godwin in Somers’ Town, the teacher of the peoples wore over -a fiery crimson waistcoat a bottle-green coat, the colour of the original -man, from whom Godwin of course very much doubted whether he really -_were_ descended. - -The Jews, as rather given to luxury in dress, would have been excellent -patrons of the tailors, but for Christian jealousy. In Spain and -Portugal, the rich Hebrews were the unqualified delight of the most -orthodox of tailors—who loved to dress even more than they did to burn -them. But the ultra-pietism of the Queen Regent at Valladolid, in the -year 1412,—a year when the prospects of the unfortunate descendants of -Israel were particularly gloomy,—put a clog upon trade, without, in any -degree, accelerating religion. The counsellor of the Queen was Brother -Vincent Ferrer, the inveterate enemy of the Jewish nation. The two -together fulminated a decree, in the name of the infant monarch, Don -John, which in substance declared that the Jews should live apart, and -exercise no trade or calling that was either respectable or profitable. -The tailors of Castile would not have been much troubled at this decree, -for their old customers had saved money enough to make the fortunes of -the entire trade, had it not been for one of the concluding clauses, -which did more injury to Christians than to Jews. By these clauses Jews -were forbidden to wear cloaks, and were restricted to long robes, of poor -materials, over their clothes. The Jewesses were ordered to wear common -mantles reaching to their feet, and with hoods to be worn over the head. -Disobedience to these clauses was to be visited by “the forfeiture of all -the clothes they may have on, to their under garments.” An additional -clause fixed against them the canon of a sumptuary law; and no tailor -dared to supply to a Jew a suit, the cloth of which cost upwards of -thirty maravedis. If the tailor offended against this decree, the Church -admonished him, but the law scourged the Jew. The first time a Hebrew -donned a suit worth more than the thirty maravedis, he forfeited the -suit, and was sent home in his shirt. For a second offence, he forfeited -his entire wardrobe; but Justice kept him warm by administering to him -a hundred lashes, vigorously applied by the hand of an executioner, who -imagined that the more blood he drew the better Heaven would be pleased. -For a third indulgence in forbidden finery the Jew was mulcted of all -he possessed; “but,” says the gracious Queen Regent, “it is my pleasure -that, if the Jews choose, they may make coats and cloaks of the clothes -which they now possess.” How lucky for Baron Rothschild that he is not -compelled, like his predecessors, to carry his cast-off clothes to his -tailor, and have one new coat made out of two old garments! - -The Persian Jews were as ill-content at having their tailors’ bills -regulated by the Government as were those of the Peninsula. When the -Persian Caliphs, who would allow nobody to be well-dressed but the -faithful, closed the colleges at Babylon, and expelled the professors, -it is said that nobody wept for the latter so much as the handicraftsmen -who used to adorn their outward persons. Of these expelled professors, a -corsair captured at sea Rabbi Moses, his handsome wife, and their son, -Rabbi Hanoch. On their way to Cordova, some Tarquinian-like overtures -were made to the lady, who, walking up to her husband, inquired if those -drowned at sea would be resuscitated at the resurrection? The Rabbi -smiled, and answered with the text:—“The Lord said, I will bring again -from Bashan, I will bring again from the depths of the sea.” Thereupon -the Hebrew Lucretia plunged into the waves, and her husband into a -reverie, in which the calmly-pleasant abounded. - -The Jews of Cordova redeemed the other captives, and the first visit of -Rabbi _père_ was to a tailor, of whom he ordered an outfit of sackcloth. -The honest man was disgusted with his customer’s taste, and valued below -cost-price a philosopher who declared that his logic was always more -conclusive in sackcloth than in habits spun from finer webs. Attired in -his new suit, he entered the Jewish college, where a learned dispute -was being carried on with equal warmth and obtuseness. A few words -from the mean stranger had an effect like the sun upon a fog, and the -president quitting his chair, the man in sackcloth was voted into it by -acclamation. The tailor, who had followed out of curiosity, ran to the -captain of the corsair, and told him that his late captive was a rare -man, of whose value he had been ignorant; and therewith the captain -would fain have had the sale cancelled, but the Caliph of Cordova -would not listen to such a proposition. Hanoch, the son of Moses, was -even more fortunate than his sire, for he espoused a daughter of the -House of Peliag. Hanoch displayed such liberality on the occurrence of -this union, that for a long time the corporation of tailors, whom he -especially benefited on this occasion, were accustomed to name one son -in their respective families after so liberal a patron of the craft. The -two Jewish households on that day were long celebrated at the hearths -of those who made their dresses. The wedding feast was held at Zahara, -near the city, and not less than seven hundred Israelites rode thither in -costumes that would have dazzled the Incas. Ask a well-to-do Cordovese -tailor as to the state of his vocation, and, if he has not now forgotten -the once popular legend, he will answer, “It is almost as flourishing, -Sir, as in the days of Hanoch, whom our predecessors cursed as a Jew, -and blessed as a customer.” It was a neatly cut distinction, and fitted -exactly. - -Deformity of principle, as well as deformity of person, may sometimes -be the mother of Fashion. Thus it is stated by an old French writer, -that “the use of great purfles and slit coates was introduced by wanton -women;” but he adds, with great unction, that the fashion of these -lemans had been adopted by the princesses and ladies of England; and -with them he trusts that it will long remain. The same author shows -how a fair lady, by following the fashion thus lightly set, became the -victim of Satan himself. It must be premised that the author’s daughters -had been very desirous of indulging in furred garments, and purfles, -and slashed coats; and as the father saved himself from a long bill at -the dressmaker’s by telling the following story, I calculate upon the -gratitude of all sires similarly beset, if the telling of it here, and by -them to their respective young ladies, should be followed by the desired -consequences,—which I do not at all anticipate. - -A certain knight having lost his wife, and not being at all sure as to -the locality in which her spirit rested, applied to a devout hermit, -who picked up a living by revealing that sort of secret. In our own -days, the Rev. Mr. Godfrey professes to get at the same mystery by dint -of table-turning. Well; the reverend gentleman’s ancestor, the hermit, -thought upon the question by going to sleep over it; and when he awoke, -he informed the knight that he had been, in a vision, to the tribunal -of souls, and that he had there learned all about the lady in question. -He had seen St. Michael and Lucifer standing opposite each other, and -between them a pair of scales, in one of which was placed the lady’s -soul, with its select assortment of good deeds; and in the other, all -her evil actions. A fiend, with all her garments and jewellery in his -possession, was looking on. The beam of the balance had not yet made a -movement, when the impetuous St. Michael was about generously to claim -the soul thus weighed. Thereupon Lucifer urbanely remarked, that he would -take the liberty of informing his once-esteemed friend of a fact probably -unknown to him. “This woman,” said he, “had no less than ten gowns and -as many coats; and you know as well as I do, my good Michael, that half -the quantity would have sufficed for her requirements, and would not have -been contrary to the law of God.” - -St. Michael looked rather offended at its being supposed that he knew -anything about women and their gear, and suggested that too much -intercourse with both had been the ruin of his ex-colleague. - -“Fier comme un Archange!” was the commentary of the deboshed Lucifer, -who, according to some old fathers, tempted Eve in very excellent French. -However that may be, he added, “the value of one of this pretty wanton’s -superfluous gowns or coats would have clothed and kept forty poor men -through a whole winter: and the mere waste cloth from them would have -saved two or three from perishing. Touche-fille,” he said, addressing the -fiend who carried the finery, “throw those traps into the scale.” The -fiend obeyed, by casting them in where the lady’s bad actions lay; and -straightway down sank that scale, and upward flew the beam which bore -the soul and its ounce of virtues. This was done with such a jerk that -the soul itself fell into the outspread arms of Touche-fille, who made -off with his prey, without waiting for further award. Lucifer looked -inquiringly at St. Michael; but the latter observed, that though his -opponent’s aide-de-camp had been somewhat too hasty, he would not dispute -the case any further. “But what, may I ask, do you intend to do with her?” - -“She shall have a new dress daily, and fancy herself ugly in all.” - -“Umph!” said Michael, “you certainly are the most exquisite of torturers.” - -“And Michael, despite his modesty, _does_ know what most vexes a woman!” - -“Go to ⸺;” whither, the last person addressed had not time to say. He was -interrupted by Lucifer, who remarked:— - -“I have business upon earth. My affairs at home are well cared for in my -absence by a regency.” - -And so they parted; and the moral of the tale is, that luxury in dress -tends to lead to the Devil. And though it be lightly said, it is also -truly said. Let us look through the book of patterns, wherein we may -trace the varieties of costume, its fashion and its follies, and see how -what was irreproachable today becomes ridiculous tomorrow. - - - - -ADONIS AT HOME AND ABROAD. - -PART I. - - “L’habit est une partie intégrante de l’homme; il agit sur nos - sens, et détermine notre jugement.”—LA BRUYERE. - - -Our ancestors, in early days, had what may be called early ways. They -were in no respect superior to New Zealanders in a savage state. -Civilization has however copied some of their customs, and old ladies who -paint their cheeks and necks are not much further advanced than their -ancestors, who coloured themselves all over, and _that_ not out of vanity. - -Strabo says that the people in the west of England shaved their chins, -but cherished mustachios, wore black garments, and carried a stick. This -description might serve for half the gentlemen who are to be seen in -Regent Street and Rotten Row during the “season.” But I suppose one _may_ -take the liberty to doubt that the Cradocks of today really resemble so -closely as the description would seem to warrant, their progenitors the -Caradocs of other times, who “looked like furies,” says Strabo, “but were -in fact quiet and inoffensive people.” - -The early Welsh bards, we are told, dressed in sky-blue; the modern bards -of the million are content to breakfast on it: the British astronomers -wore green, which was not indicative of what the colour might have stood -for,—a verdant knowledge of the science. When the Romans planted their -conquering eagles on our soil, the old British chieftains resisted them -and their fashions. Tacitus says that it was the sons of the chieftains -who first adopted the Roman mode; and no doubt the old gentlemen were -disgusted when they beheld their unpatriotic young heirs wandering about -without their _braccæ_, and sporting the tunic before whose presence -liberty and trousers had disappeared, but not for ever. - -The Saxons brought in their own fashions, and some of these still -prevail; the smock-frock, for instance, is the old Saxon tunic without -the belt. Such a dress was never known in Ireland nor in Scotland: the -Saxons kept for whole centuries to a fixed fashion, as may be seen in -any illustrated work on costume. In this respect they were only less -tenacious than the Persians, whose garments passed from father to son -as long as they could hold together. It would be difficult, I fancy, to -persuade any modern young Anglo-Saxon to draw on the _scanc-beorg_, or -shank-coverers, of his respected and deceased “governor.” It is only -the mantles of our Peers that descend hereditarily upon the shoulders -of succeeding generations; and some of these mantles look dingy -enough to date their origin from the time when Henry III. established -Tothill-fields Fair, in order to spite the Londoners. The latter, it -will be remembered, were compelled to close their shops for an entire -fortnight during the holding of the fair in Westminster; and the man on -Tower Hill who wanted to furnish his outward or inward person with the -smallest article was compelled to resort for it to the neighbourhood of -the Abbey, or to do without till the fair was raised. - -The taste of the Anglo-Saxons was rather of a splendid character, but -sometimes questionable. A lady with blue hair, for instance, could -not have been half so pleasant to look at as a lady with blue eyes; -though the custom of dyeing the hair blue was perhaps scarcely more -objectionable than that of the young ladies and gentlemen of Gaul, who -washed theirs in a chalky solution, in order to make it a more fiery red -than it had been rendered by nature. I may add that, of the tasteful -Anglo-Saxons, the nuns were the most especially tasteful; and the -gorgeous attire of the sisters, with other attractions, seems to have -stirred the very hearts of some of the most stony of prelates. - -Many of the latter however were rigidly severe in their censures against -the luxurious dressing of lively Saxon nuns; but their objurgations take -very much the form of that delivered by Tartuffe when he handed his -kerchief to Dorine:— - - “Couvrez ce sein que je ne sçaurais voir: - A de tels objets les yeux sont blessés, - Et cela fait venir de coupables pensées.” - -Though it be necessary to consider climate and temperature in the matter -of dress, we have had weather, even in England, from the severity of -which no dress could protect the wearer. Thus, in the year 851, the -winter became so suddenly cold and inclement, and went on with such -increasing severity, that clothing afforded no warmth to the frame, and -the people were widely smitten by paralysis. They suffered excruciating -anguish in the limbs; generally the arms and hands were first seized -upon by the disease, and those limbs usually became altogether withered -and useless. The paralysis respected neither rank, age, nor sex; the -highest dignitaries of the Church did not escape, though, of course, -they miraculously recovered. The clothiers of the period appear to have -been as much puzzled to discover a material for useful wear that would -meet the contingency, as a modern tailor would find it difficult to -take measure of the pulpy, shapeless, boneless being which Professor -Whewell, in his ‘Plurality of Worlds,’ thinks may be existing in Jupiter. -And he has a right to think so; for, on our own earth, have we not had -animals whose bones were on the outside, and whose inward parts were -all of cartilage? They would have been pretty playthings for Jupiter’s -emphatically soft nymphs and unvertebrated swains! - -If the nuns of the Anglo-Saxon times were given to gorgeousness, the -clergy were not at all uninclined to dandyism. Boniface himself denounced -those priests who wore broad studs and images of worms, as servants of -Antichrist. Garments so adorned are looked upon by the descendants of -this great Anglo-Saxon missionary as the undoubtedly original “M. B. -coats.” - -The Danes introduced fashions that sadly perplexed the simple tailors of -all Anglia. The former, in the days of their paganism, were attired in -garments as black as the raven which soared on their national standard. -When they came to England they learned to surpass the Anglo-Saxons -themselves in the gaiety of their apparel and manners. They even took to -combing their hair once a day; became so effeminate as to wash weekly; -and changed their body-linen, if not as often as they might, still -more frequently than was their wont of old. “By these means,” says old -Wallingford, “they pleased the eyes of the women, and frequently seduced -the wives and daughters of the nobility.” Alas, that virtue should not be -proof against even a half-washed seducer! - -One of the greatest of the North Sea chieftains derived his name from his -dress, and Ragner Lodbroch means Ralph Leatherbreeches. The Lethbridges -of Somersetshire are _said_ to be descendants from this worthy. They -might go further in search of an ancestor and fare worse. Lodbroch -delighted in blood and plunder; wine he drank by the quart; wealth he -acquired by “right of might;” he believed in little, and feared even -less. A family anxious to assert its nobility could hardly do better than -hold fast by such a hero. Many a genealogical tree springs from a less -illustrious root. - -The submission with which England received laws of fashion from France -is seen in the circumstance that even before the Conquest the English -imported the “mode” from beyond Channel, and universally adopted it. -This was the case both in speech and dress. The Saxon tongue became as -mute at the court of Edward the Confessor as the Flemish language has -around the throne of Leopold of Belgium. The respectable sires however -of the period did not make themselves so “outlandish” in their garb as -did their sons; yet when William tumbled on the sands at Pevensey, half -the hostile array prepared to resist his coming, as well as those who -looked on and awaited the course of events, were familiar with his form -of speech and accustomed to his fashion of dress. The fact that when -William was agitated he invariably occupied himself in lacing and untying -his cloak, is at least as well worth knowing as that the great Coligny -under similar circumstances used to insert two or three toothpicks into -his mouth, and there champ them into pulp. Let us add, that the Normans -shaved close and washed thoroughly; and the dirty Saxons might have found -consolation in the circumstance that their throats were cut by cleanly -gentlemen. - -They were a costly people however, those Normans; and they not only -ruined the Saxons, but themselves, by the extravagance of their dress, -and the ever-varying fashions to which they bore an alacrity of -allegiance. Some of our wealthiest men of Norman descent, or fancying -themselves to be so, adopt in these days a fashion common enough in the -period of the Norman Kings, wearing a plumed helm on parade for show, and -a “wide-awake” elsewhere for comfort. The Normans even took the venerated -smock-frock of the Saxons, and modifying it a little, and lining it with -fur for the winter, they wore it as a surcoat over their armour, and -called it by the name of _bliaus_. Any gentleman therefore who wears a -blouse and a wide-awake may fancy himself, if he please, as being attired -like a Norman knight. Well, in spite of the strength of his fancy and -the sameness of the articles in question, he will be as little like to -Norman cavalier “as I to Hercules.” - -I have said that the Normans generally were remarkable for the splendour -and variety of their costume; I may add that some of the Saxons were in -no degree behind them. There is Becket, for instance, the champion of -the Saxons and advocate of the Commons. When that remarkably humble man -went on his famous progress to Paris, the rustics observed, as he rode -meekly along, that the king of England must be a marvellous personage -indeed, seeing that his Lord Chancellor looked more like a king on his -throne than a traveller in the saddle. He was as stately in dress at -home as abroad; and he never forgave King Henry for tearing from his -shoulders his splendid new scarlet mantle lined with fur, to fling it to -a shivering beggar at his side. Excellent practical lesson, it may be -observed. Well, it assuredly was all the practical charity ever evinced -by the king. And moreover it was inappropriate. We all laughed when the -angelic Irving subscribed his gold watch to some benevolent fund; and we -should feel no particular increase of respect for our Sovereign and the -Lord Primate if they were to stand at Temple Bar, and the former were -to distribute the wardrobe of the latter among the mendicants who pass -beneath that hideously ridiculous arch. - -Foppery in dress was at its height in the reign of Henry III., when men -half-ruined themselves in order that they might dress in vestments of -the magnificent material called cloth of Baldekins, or of Baldeck, the -usually received term for Babylon. The rich Cyclas of this time were -also named from the locality where the material was manufactured,—a -custom common enough, as may be seen in the names Worsted, Blanket, -Cambric, Diaper (d’Yprès), Bayonet, and many others. The general love of -dress, and the wealth manifested by the grandeur of the latter, made -Innocent IV. to speak of England as a “garden of delights,” and a “truly -inexhaustible fountain of riches.” From this fountain his Holiness drank -many a draught; and they who were compelled to supply it wished it might -choke him. But Innocent made cheap compensation to England by conferring -on it the signal honour of adopting its old national “wide-awake,” -and after dyeing it red, conferring it on his Cardinals. The scarlet -wide-awake was first worn at the Council of Lyons, in 1245. The Cardinals -did not exhibit their accustomed vigilance when they permitted the -fashion of this covering to glide from that of the wide-awake into that -of the “broad-brim” of the Society of Friends. But perhaps it is because -of its present fashion that Mr. Bright, who loves Russia and hates the -press, has such respect for Rome and such welcome for her aggressions. - -“Why do you not wear richer apparel?” once asked a familiar friend of -Edward I. “Because,” said the sensible king, “I cannot be more estimable -in fine than I am in simple clothing.” If the monarch had only shown as -much sense in other matters, he would have been a more profitable king -to the state, however little beneficial he may have been to tailors. It -was, of course, the fashion now to be rather simply dressed; but there -were occasional departures from the rule: such as when the young Prince -Edward was invested as a knight, on which occasion the Temple Gardens -were crowded with the young nobility, his “companions,” who assembled -there to receive a magnificent distribution of purple robes, fine linen -garments, and mantles woven with gold. The two latter were furnished by -the merchant-tailors; and these, no doubt, blessed the donor as heartily -as the trade would now do, were her Majesty to assemble the heirs and -younger sons of Peers, have them measured in public, and dressed at her -expense for the benefit of trade. There are many younger sons who would -be as rejoiced thereat as the tailors themselves. - -Old Kit Marlowe, and doubtless from good authority, has graphically -described not only Edward the Second, but that fine gentleman, his -favourite Gaveston. Of the latter he says:— - - “I have not seen a dapper Jack so brisk; - He wears a short Italian hooded cloak - Larded with pearl, and in his Tuscan cap - A jewel of more value than the crown.” - -And of Edward, Mortimer is made to say:— - - “When wert thou in the field with banner spread? - But once; and then thy soldiers march’d like players, - With garish robes, not armour; and thyself, - Bedaub’d with gold, rode laughing at the rest, - Nodding and shaking of thy spangled crest, - Where women’s favours hung like labels down.” - -If the Norman Kings up to the period of Edward I. had encouraged a costly -extravagance of dress, there was another Norman habit which had spread -among the people generally, and quite as much to their cost,—the wretched -habit of swearing. To that people might well be applied the assertion, -that they were covered with curses as with a garment. The Saxons were -astounded at the variety and intensity of these oaths. They had not been -accustomed to such profanity; but as the conquerors, and particularly -the kings, swore whenever they spoke, why to use oaths was to put on the -air of a conqueror and gentleman, and so a species of Norman pride kept -oaths in vigour among the _élite_ of society until a very recent period; -but, as Mr. Robert Acres remarks, “the best terms will grow obsolete, and -Damns have had their day.” How we progressed through execratory terms -until this consummation was arrived at, is very tersely told in an old -epigram of Sir John Harrington’s:— - - “In elder times an ancient custom was - To swear, in weighty matters, by the mass; - But when the mass went down, as old men note, - They swore then by the cross of this same groat. - And when the cross was likewise held in scorn, - Then by their faith the common oath was sworn; - Last, having sworn away all faith and troth, - Only ‘G—d damn them’ is their common oath. - Thus custom kept decorum by gradation, - That losing mass, cross, faith, they find damnation.” - -Henry I. was surrounded by a crowd of friends, whose dresses were -splendid and whose principles were detestable,—not to say “devilish.” -These were the “Effeminati.” They were like the “mignons” of the French -King Henri, and acquired their appellation from the fact of dressing -nearly after the fashion of women. Their tunics were deep-sleeved, and -their mantles long-trained. The peaks of their shoes were not only -enormously long, but twisted so as to represent the horns of a ram or the -coils of a serpent. Their peaks, introduced by Fulk, Earl of Anjou, to -conceal his misshapen feet, were stuffed with tow; and certainly, were -any earl or other gentleman now to enter a drawing-room thus remarkably -shod, he would himself be taken in tow (if I may be so bold as to say -so), and conveyed before a tribunal _de lunatico inquirendo_. The -Effeminati, like the French “mignons,” wore their hair long, smooth, and -parted in the middle; and they were not only unpleasantly unnatural to -look at, but were horribly so in their deeds. - -The foreign knights and visitors who came to Windsor in Edward the -First’s reign, and brought with them a continual succession of varying -fashions, turned the heads of the young with delight, and of the old with -disgust. Douglas, the monk of Glastonbury, is especially denunciative -and satirical on this point. He says that in the horrible variety of -costume,—“now long, now large, now wide, now straight,”—the style of -dress was “destitute and devert from all honesty of old arraye or good -usage.” It is all, he says, “so nagged and knibbed on every side, and all -so shattered and also buttoned, that I with truth shall say, they seem -more like to tormentors or devils in their clothing, and also in their -shoying and other array, than they seemed to be like men.” And the old -monk had good foundation for his complaint; and the Commons themselves -having, what the Commons now have not, a dread of becoming as extravagant -as their betters in the article of dress, actually sought the aid of -Parliament. That august assembly met the complaint by restricting the -use of furs and furls to the royal family and nobles worth one thousand -_per annum_. Knights and ladies worth four hundred marks yearly, were -permitted to deck themselves in cloths of gold and silver, and to wear -certain jewellery. Poor knights, squires, and damsels were prohibited -from appearing in the costume of those of higher degree. As for the -Commons themselves, they could put on nothing better than unadorned -woollen cloth; and if an apprentice or a milliner had been bold enough -to wear a ring on the finger, it was in peril of a decree that it should -be taken off,—not the finger, but the ring,—with confiscation of the -forbidden finery. - -The consequence was that the Commons, being under prohibition to put on -finery, became smitten with a strong desire to assume it; and much did -they rejoice when they were ruled over by so consummate a fop as Richard -of Bordeaux. All classes were content to do what many classes joyfully do -in our own days,—dress beyond their means; and we find in old Harding’s -‘Chronicle’ that not only were - - “Yemen and gromes in cloth of silk arrayed, - Sattin and damask, in doublettes and in gownnes,” - -but that all this, as well as habits of “cloth of greene and -scarleteen,—cut work and brodwar, was all,” as the Chronicler expresses -it, “for unpayed;” that is, was _not paid for_. So that very many among -us do not so much despise the wisdom afforded us by the example of our -ancestors as didactic poets and commonplace honest writers falsely -allege them to do. And those ancestors of Richard the Second’s time were -especially given to glorify themselves in parti-coloured garments of -white and red, such being the colours of the King’s livery (as blue and -white were those of John of Gaunt); and they who wore these garments, -sometimes of half-a-dozen colours in each, why they looked, says an old -writer, “as though the fire of St. Anthony, or some such mischance,” had -cankered and eaten into half their bodies. The long-toed shoes, held up -to the knee by a chain and hook, were called _crackowes_, the fashion -thereof coming from Cracow in Poland. The not less significant name of -“devil’s receptacles” were given to the wide sleeves of this reign, for -the reason, as the Monk of Evesham tells us, that whatever was stolen was -thrust into them. - -The fashion of clothes has long ceased to mark the position of the -wearer. On this subject, Fuller says in his ‘Church History,’ when -treating of the time of Edward III., that “some had a project that -men’s clothes might be their signs to show their birth, degree, or -estate, so that the quality of an unknown person might, at the first -sight, be expounded by his apparel. But this was at once let fall as -impossible: statesmen in all ages, notwithstanding their several laws to -the contrary, being fain to connive at men’s riot in this kind, which -maintaineth more poor people than their charity.” - -Distinction in dress, it will be remembered, was not allowed by More in -his Utopia. “All the island over,” he says, “they make their own clothes, -without any other distinction than that which is necessary for marking -the difference between the two sexes, and the married and unmarried. -The fashion never alters; and as it is not ungrateful nor uneasy, so it -is fitted for their climate, and calculated both for their summers and -winters. Every family makes their own clothes; but all among them, women -as well as men, learn one or other of the trades formerly mentioned.” A -costume suitable for all conditions of the seasons, were a consummation -that will long be among the things to be devoutly wished for, and never -attained. - -It was once the fashion to wear coats, the material for which had not -long before been on the back of the sheep. For rapidity of work in this -way, I know nothing that can compete with the achievement of Coxeter of -Greenham Mills, near Newbury. He had a couple of South Down sheep shorn -at his factory, at five o’clock in the morning; the wool thus produced -was put through the usual processes; and by a quarter past six in the -evening, it resulted in a complete damson-coloured coat, which was worn -at an evening party, by Sir John Throckmorton. A wager for a thousand -guineas was won by this feat, with three-quarters of an hour to spare. -The sheep were roasted whole, and devoured at a splendid banquet. In one -day they afforded comfort to both the inner and outward man. - -We have often been told, that “Beauty, when unadorned, is adorned the -most;” and there is much truth in that wholesome apothegm. Beauty -indeed needs to be dressed; but Prudence should be her handmaiden. In -illustration of the excellence of this counsel, I may quote what happened -to two young ladies and one lover in the days of chivalry. - -In those days there lived an old noble, rich in two daughters, and in -nought besides. Of these, he promised one to a young knight, who was -wealthy and idle, and who—strange characteristic of young and gallant -knight!—was well content to be saved the trouble of wooing. - -On a certain fine morning the sire made the same announcement to his -girls which the father of Dinah made to that now celebrated and unhappy -young lady,—namely, the necessity of decking themselves in their most -seductive array, as there was a lover on the road who would dine with -them that day. Now, if the morning was fine, there was also an eager and -a nipping air abroad; but the elder of the two damsels, disregarding the -temperature, and thinking only how best to display her slender waist -and graceful shape, put on a “cote hardie;” and in this close-fitting -garment, without an inch of fur to lend it warmth, she accompanied her -sister to the portal, to bid welcome to the lover, looking for a lady of -his love. But that sister was attired with reference to the condition of -the thermometer, if her father had one, which is exceedingly doubtful. -She was warmly clad; and if her figure was concealed by her mantle, the -result of such covering was, that her young blood, in circulating, left a -rose upon her cheeks, and did not fix itself, in obstinate stagnation, as -in her more airy sister’s case, on the tip of the nose. - -Now a red nose is not fascinating; and the knight’s choice was soon -made. He gave his hand to the maiden who had shown most sense in the -choice of attire, and a very merry wedding was the speedy consequence. -As for what turned up in the way of further results, it was, I believe, -chiefly the nose of the unsuccessful candidate, which became “retroussé -en permanence”. The moral of the tale is respectfully recommended to the -notice of all young ladies who seek to catch ardent knights on wintry -mornings. - -If the men in the days of Edward III. wore “tails behind,” as well as -beards before, the ladies were not behind them in extravagance—in tails; -and indeed in other matters. For a lady to ride on a palfrey, and not on -a charger, would have been considered as derogatory as for a bridesmaid, -in our days, to “spoil her prospects” by going to a wedding in a -one-horse fly. The damsels of this age very much affected the dress of -the men, and we have seen the same affectation in our own time; and this -fashion was pushed to such an extreme, that they even carried two tiny -daggers in the pouches of their embroidered zones. Their head-dress still -lingers among the female peasantry of Normandy, and may be recognized in -the species of mitre cap, of enormous height, from the summit of which -streamers float in the air like pennants from the masts of some “tall -amiral.” It may be added, that if, in many respects, the dresses of the -women resembled those of the men, their deeds, too, were like theirs; and -these were often (like the dresses) none of the cleanest. - -We will discuss the progress of these matters in a new chapter. - - - - -ADONIS AT HOME AND ABROAD. - -PART II. - - “La modestie, la plus touchante des vertus, est encore la plus - séduisante des parures.”—MAD. COTTIN: _Mathilde_. - - -The Jews were undoubtedly an ill-fated people. In London, in the -olden time, whenever any class had a grievance, the work of redress -was commenced by slaying the Hebrews. In the reign of Henry III. the -municipality of London and a portion of the nobility were dreadfully -incensed against Queen Eleanor; and to show their indignation, they not -only plundered and murdered scores of common Israelites, but the City -Marshal and Baron Fitz-John repaired to the residence of Kok ben Abraham, -the wealthiest Hebrew in the city, where the noble lord ran his sword -through the body of the child of the synagogue, laughing the while as if -the jest were a good one. Certainly, this was a strange method of showing -a political bias; and it would be no jest now if Lord Winchelsea, for -instance, angry at the desire of the Crown to admit Jews into Parliament, -were to rush down to the city and plunge his paper-cutter into the -diaphragm of poor Baron Rothschild. - -In the case above alluded to, not only were some four hundred of the -devoted race robbed and killed, but the mob, satiated with savagery, -determined to wind up their well-spent evening with a frolic. Accordingly -they turned out of their beds all the Jews, of various ages and both -sexes, and compelled them to walk the streets throughout the entire -night, with nothing on but their “bed-gowns.” This was scant dress -enough in those times, and there was no active police to afford the -victims protection. I notice this incident, because it comes fairly -under the head of costume. I think, moreover, that all the police in -the city at the present time would be puzzled what to do, were the -last night of an election, returning “Sir Solomon” at the head of the -poll, to be signalled out by a riot, the climax of which presented all -the Levys, Goldschmidts, Isaacs, and Marx, of “Simmery Axe,”—wives and -husbands, sons and daughters,—compulsorily parading through Cheapside -in their night-gear. Between the blushes of Miss Tryphena Levy, and -the indignation of Mr. Penuel Isaacs her admirer, the gallant and -loud-laughing Division X. would hardly know which victim to succour -first. Such a _cortège_ however would probably bring into fashion the -“_bonnets de nuit à la Juive_.” - -Our gallant knights of old thought it no degradation to receive clothes -at the hands of the king. When Henry IV. dubbed some four dozen the day -before his coronation, he made presents to all of long green coats, with -tight sleeves, furred, and verdant hoods: the cavaliers must have looked -like cucumbers. The sumptuary laws of this reign had this additional -severity in them, that they decreed imprisonment during the King’s -pleasure against any tailor who should dare to make for a commoner a -costume above his degree. The tailors, like wise men, did not ask their -customers whether they were gentle or simple; and burghers dressed as -before, more splendidly than barons. - -There was this difference between the two wretched monarchs, John and -Richard III. John was curious about his wife’s dress, and careless -touching his own; whereas Richard (who was not half so bad as history and -Mr. C. Kean represent him) was perhaps the most superbly royal dandy that -ever sat on an English throne: George IV. was the mere _Dandini_ to that -_Prince Ramiro_. Henry VII., again, was utterly void of taste, and seems -to have wanted a nurse more than a valet. - -The author of the ‘Boke of Kervynge’ says to the “proper officer” of -this king, in a sort of advice to servants, “Warme your soveregne his -petticotte, his doublet, and his stomacher, and then put on hys hozen, -and then hys schose or slyppers; then stryten up hys hozen mannerly, tye -them up, and lace his doublet hole by hole.” - -We have an illustration of the national feeling with regard to dress in -Henry VIII.’s time, in the story of Drake, the cordwainer. - -John Drake, the Norwich shoemaker, was resolved to dress, for once, like -a knight; and accordingly he betook himself to Sir Philip Calthrop’s -tailor, and seeing some fine French tawney cloth lying there, which the -cavalier had sent to have made into a gown,—gentlemen then, as now, -it seems, sometimes found “their own materials,”—the aspiring Crispin -ordered a gown of the same stuff and fashion. The knight, on calling -at the tailor’s, saw the two parcels of “materials,” and inquired as -to the proprietary of the second. “The stuff,” said the master, “is -John Drake’s, the Norwich shoemaker, who _will_ have a gown of the same -fashion as your valiant worship.” “Will he so?” asked proud Sir Philip; -“then fashion mine as full of cuts as thy shears can make it, and let -the two be alike, as ordered.” He was obeyed; but when John Drake looked -wonderingly upon his aristocratic garment, and saw the peculiar mode -thereof, and was moreover told the reason there_for_, he rubbed his -bullet-head vexedly, and remarked, “By my latchet, an it be so John Drake -will never ask for gentleman’s fashion again.” - -I have spoken in my ‘Table Traits’ of how a French knight gained a -livelihood by making salads; I may notice here that a Flemish frau, -Dingham van der Plafze, did the same by starching ruffs in London, -in Queen Elizabeth’s time. She gave lessons to the nobility at four -or five pounds the course for each pupil, and an additional pound for -showing them how to make the starch. The nobility of course patronized -her; being a foreigner, the duchesses accounted her “divine.” People -of the commonalty, with as much wisdom, esteemed her as a devil; and -starch itself was looked upon as a sort of devil’s broth. The women who -wore ruffs were looked upon as anything but respectable; and the men -who placed around the neck the “monstrous ruff, of twelve, yea sixteen, -lengths apiece, set three or four times double,” were accounted of as -having made “three steps and a half to the gallows.” - -James I., and his subjects who wished to clothe themselves loyally, -wore stupendous breeches. Of course the “honourable gentlemen” of the -House of Commons were necessarily followers of the fashion. But it led -to inconveniences in the course of their senatorial duties. It was an -old mode revived; and at an earlier day, when these nether garments were -ample enough to have covered the lower man of Boanerges, the comfort of -the popular representatives was thus cared for:—“Over the seats in the -parliament-house, there were certain holes, some two inches square, in -the walls, in which were placed posts to uphold a scaffold round about -the house within, for them to sit upon who used the wearing of great -breeches stuffed with hair like wool-sacks, which fashion being left the -eighth year of Elizabeth, the scaffolds were taken down, and never since -put up.” So says Strutt; but doubtless the comforts of the members were -not less cared for when the old fashion again prevailed. The honourable -gentlemen must have looked as if they were worshipping Cloacina rather -than propitiating the god of Eloquence. - -“When Sir Peter Wych,” says Bulwer, in his ‘Pedigree of an English -Gallant,’ “was sent ambassador to the Grand Seigneur, from James I., -his lady accompanied him to Constantinople, and the Sultaness having -heard much of her, desired to see her; whereupon Lady Wych, attended by -her waiting-women, all of them dressed in their great vardingales, which -was the court dress of the English ladies of that time, waited upon her -highness. The Sultaness received her visitors with great respect; but, -struck with the extraordinary extension of the hips of the whole party, -seriously inquired if that shape was peculiar to the natural formation of -Englishwomen; and Lady Wych was obliged to explain the whole mystery of -the dress, in order to convince her that she and her companions were not -really so deformed as they appeared to be.” Lady Wych probably did not -look more astounding to the Turks than the Marchioness of Londonderry did -to those of some thirty years ago, when she traversed the courts of the -Sultan’s palace in the full undress of a lady of the “Regent’s Drawing -Room.” Both these ladies were ambassadresses, and they remind me of the -English nobleman in the reign of Anne, who was informed that he had been -appointed representative of his sovereign at the court of the Sultan. -“Oh!” he exclaimed, “I can never undertake it, I should look so absurd -and awkward in women’s clothes!” He seriously thought that to represent -his mistress he must be dressed as she was! But I shall say more of Anne -hereafter. I have here to exhibit Oliver; Charles, as we all know, was a -gentleman, at all events in dress. In _that_ respect Cromwell differed -from him. - -“The first time that I ever took notice of Oliver Cromwell,” says Sir -Philip Warwick, “was in the beginning of the Parliament held in November, -1640, when I vainly thought myself a courtly young gentleman, for we -courtiers valued ourselves much upon our good clothes. I came one morning -into the house well clad, and perceived a gentleman speaking whom I -knew not, very ordinarily apparelled, for it was a plain cloth suit -which seemed to have been made by an ill country tailor. His linen was -plain, and not very clean; and I remember a speck or two of blood upon -his little band, which was not much larger than his collar. His hat was -without a hatband; his stature was of good size; his sword stuck close to -his side.” Altogether it is clear that Oliver was a trifle slovenly, and -sometimes unsteady enough of hand to cut himself when shaving. - -About the year 1660-1, we find our old friend Mr. Pepys gradually soaring -in the sky of fashion. He had been content with camlet, then he gets him -a suit of cloth with broad skirts, and adds the unheard-of atrocity of -rakish buckles to his shoes. Subsequently he enshrines his little person -in silk; ultimately rises to the dignity of a velvet coat; and on a -“Lord’s Day,” in February, he writes down that “this day I first began to -go forth in my coate and sword, as the manner now among gentlemen is.” -“Among gentlemen!” quotha; and his sire the tailor was yet alive, and his -cousin Tom Pepys was an honest turner, and sold mousetraps! - -A velvet coat was not for every-day wear by a clerk in the Admiralty, and -Pepys had his by him a full half-year before he had the heart to surprise -the world and gratify himself by the wearing of it. Nor could Peers walk -every day in velvet and embroidery in Coleman-street, seeing that the -cost of a suit was not under £200. They were content to go occasionally -like the King at the Council Board—in a plain common riding-suit and a -velvet cap;—not half so fine as the livery of Pepys’s own boy, “which is -very handsome, and I do think to keep the black and gold lace upon grey, -being _the colour of my arms_, for ever.” The “colour of _his arms_!” -This reminds me of the rejoinder of Russell, the porter at the old -Piazza, who, on being asked if his coat-of-arms was the same as that of -the Duke of Bedford, replied that as for their arms they might be pretty -well alike, but that there was a deal of difference between their coats! - -Pepys was however as proud as a popinjay, as the manner then among -gentlemen was; and his man Will imitated his master. _Tel maître, tel -valet._ See what he says of an occurrence which he notices on “Lord’s -Day,” June 8, 1662. “Home, and observe my man Will to walk with his -cloak flung over his shoulder, which, whether it was that he might not -be seen to walk along with the footboy, I knew not, but I was vexed at -it; and coming home, and _after prayers_, I did ask him where he learned -that immodest garb; and he answered me that it was not immodest, or some -such slight answer, at which I did give him two boxes on the eares, -which I never did before.” But the transgressor forgot his fault, in his -gratification a few Sundays after in going to church with his wife,—“who -this day put on her green petticoate of flowred sattin, with the white -and black gimp lace of her own putting on, which is very pretty.” I fear -that our ancestors thought as much upon matters of dress at church as -any of their descendants. To what an extent this feeling was carried may -be seen in the case of Pepys, who, seeing Captain Holmes in his pew in a -new gold-laced suit, was so chagrined that a disquisition upon damnation -failed to put him into spirits. The feelings of both husband and wife -were very sensitive touching costume; for does he not tell us, on one -occasion, that on a certain visit being paid them, they “were ashamed -that she should be seen in a taffeta gown when all the world wears moyre”? - -The gentleman’s eyes indeed had just been regaled by a sight of the -“Russian Embassador,”—“in the richest suit for pearl and tissue that ever -I did see.” The envoy appears to have been an exceedingly well-dressed -barbarian; and the Muscovite officials of our own day are in no respect -behind him. Felony and mendacity would seem to be accounted of as -_péchés mignons_ by those gentlemen who wear polished boots and profess -honest principles, with coats like Count d’Orsay’s, and hearts beneath -them like Jack Sheppard’s. After all, the pearl and tissue of the Russ -was not half so tasteful as Lord Sandwich’s “gold-buttoned suit, as the -mode is;” and Pepys took to the fashion, buying fine clothes, and half -afraid to wear them, yet rejoicing that he is not now “for want of them, -forced to sneak like a beggar.” A camlet suit for common wear then cost -him four-and-twenty pounds! But Pepys had fits of extravagance as well as -economy. The former however were generally born of patriotism: witness -his buying “a coloured silk ferrandin suit, for joy of the good news we -have lately had of our victory over the Dutch.” - -About the time above specified, the Court of Spain was remarkable for -its gravity of dress. The king and grandees wore simple mantles of -Colchester baize; and in winter, the mantles of the señoras were of no -more costly material than white flannel. Thereupon English and Dutch -handicraftsmen repaired to Madrid, in order to establish a manufactory -of these articles. The men engaged were sober, religious men; and they -had with them Psalters and Testaments, and they were given to be glad in -spiritual songs, and to solace their weariness with a refreshing draught -from the Gospels. Thereupon the Inquisition fell upon them, destroyed -their houses, and imprisoned the workmen. Had these been Atheists, the -“Holy Office” would not have molested them in their manufactory of -baizes and flannels; but as they dared to worship God in sincerity of -heart and independence of mind, the Cahills and Wisemans of the pure and -enlightened Peninsula ruined them in bodily estate, and sent their souls -to Gehenna. - -Louis XIV. was quite as arbitrary and absurd on a matter of fashion. -Charles II. of England was the inventor of the “vest dress.” It consisted -of a long cassock which fitted close to the body, of black cloth, -“pinked” with white silk under it, and a coat over all; the legs were -ruffled with black ribbon, like a pigeon’s leg; and the white silk -piercing the black made the wearers look, as Charles himself confessed, -very much like magpies. But all the world put it on, because it had been -fashioned by a monarch; and gay men thought it exquisite, and grave men -pronounced it “comely and manly.” Charles declared he would never alter -it, while his courtiers “gave him gold by way of wagers, that he would -not persist in his resolution.” Louis XIV. showed his contempt for the -new mode and the maker of it, by ordering all his footmen to be put into -vests. This caused great indignation in England, but it had a marked -effect in another way: for Charles and our aristocracy, not caring to -look like French footmen, soon abandoned the new costume. - -This reminds me of a foolish interference of Louis XVI. in a matter of -dress. In the days of our grandfathers there was nothing so fashionable -for summer wear as nankeen. No gentleman would be seen abroad or at home -in a dress of which this material did not go to the making of a portion; -and as we ever fixed the fashion on questions of male costume, the mode -was adopted in France, and English nankeens threatened to drive all -French manufactured articles of summer wear out of the market. The king -however surmounted the difficulty: he ordered all the executioners and -their assistants to perform their terrible office in no other dress but -one of nankeen. This rendered the material “infamous;” and many a man -who deserved to be hanged, discarded the suit because a similar one was -worn by the man who did the hanging. So Mrs. Turner, the poisoner, being -executed in the reign of James I. in a yellow starched ruff, put to death -the fashion of wearing them. - -Picturesqueness of costume went out with chivalry; and few things could -be uglier than an Englishman of James the Second’s or of William and -Mary’s days, except an Englishman of our own tight and buttoned period. - -A hundred years ago it would have been unsafe to have sold a plaid -waistcoat in either Rag Fair or Houndsditch. In 1752 Mr. Thornton said -in the House of Commons, that “he believed it true, plaid waistcoats had -been worn by some wrong heads in the country; but in the parts where he -lived he saw no occasion for an army to correct them” (he was speaking -against a standing army), “for some that had attempted to wear them had -been heartily thrashed for doing so.” In the same year it is worthy of -remark that we were exporting gold and silver bullion to the Continent; -not indeed at the rate at which we are now importing it, especially -the former, but still in quantities that seem almost incredible. The -metal-import question as it stood then excites a smile in those who -read it now. For example, among the current news given by our juvenile -friend, Sylvanus Urban, in his volume for 1752, we learn that “a parcel -of waistcoats embroidered with foreign gold and silver (which were lately -seized at a tailor’s house, who must pay the penalty of £100, pursuant to -Act of Parliament), were publicly burnt in presence of the custom-house -officers and others.” - -The steeple head-dresses of Anne and the first George’s days came under -the notice of Addison, in the ‘Spectator.’ He compares them with the -_commodes_, or _towers_, of his time. Speaking of the former, he tells -us that the women would have carried their head-structures much higher -had it not been for the preaching of a monk named Concete. The good and -zealous man preached with more effect than Rowland Hill did, when he -inveighed from the pulpit against Mrs. Hill’s top-knots. So logically -did he prove that steeple head-dresses were devices of the devil, that -they who wore them were the devil’s daughters, and that after this life -the everlasting home of the latter would be with their father, that -the ladies, in a fit of religious enthusiasm, cast off the denounced -decorations during the summer, and made a bonfire of them after it was -over. It must have been a pretty fire in which pride was burned, for the -congregation amounted to something like ten thousand women, with as many -male hearers; from which it is to be supposed that the preaching took -place in the open air. If only half the ladies committed their caps to -the flames, it was, no doubt, a glad sight to the makers of the caps. -_They_ were sure that if fashion went out in one blaze, it would rise -phœnix-like from the flames of that fire or another. For a time however, -these exaggerated head-dresses were excommunicated; and it was as unsafe -for a lady to appear in one in public, as it would be for a lady to make -a tour through the liberty of Dublin on the 12th of July, clad entirely -in materials of Orange hue, and singing at the top of her voice the -exasperating song of ‘Boyne Water.’ She would assuredly be pelted, as -_they_ were pelted by the religious and unfashionable rabble, who, years -ago, if they could tolerate sin, were shocked at the sight of tall gay -caps, which had been denounced by a short grave friar. But the milliners -had not long to wait unemployed. As soon as the monk had turned his -back, the needlewomen were again set to work; and “countless ’prentices -expired” in the efforts made to execute the orders. “The women,” says -Monsieur Paradin, “who had, like snails in a fright, drawn in their -horns, shot them out again as soon as the danger was over.” - -When Walpole had been to King George the Second’s Levee and Drawing-room, -in 1742, he wrote of what he witnessed in this lively fashion:—“There -were so many new faces that I scarce knew where I was; I should have -taken it for Carleton House, or my Lady Mayoress’s visiting day, only -the people did not seem enough at home, but rather as admitted to see -the King dine in public. ’Tis quite ridiculous to see the numbers of old -ladies, who, from having been wives of patriots, have not been dressed -these twenty years; out they come, in all the accoutrements that were in -use in Queen Anne’s days. Then the joy and awkward jollity of them is -inexpressible. They titter, and wherever you meet them, they are always -going to court, and looking at their watches an hour before the time. I -met several on the birthday (for I did not arrive time enough to make -clothes), and they were dressed in all the colours of the rainbow: they -seem to have said to themselves twenty years ago, ‘Well, if ever I do go -to court again, I will have a pink and silver, or a blue and silver;’ and -they keep their resolution.” - -Walpole is quite right in designating the gaiety of the women as an -awkward jollity. Rough enjoyment was a fashion at this time with the -fair. Mrs. Sherwood, in her pleasant Autobiography, adverts to this -subject in speaking of her mother’s early days, when undignified -amusements were not declined by ladies of any age. One of these she -describes as consisting of the following sort of violent fun. A large -strong table-cloth was spread on the upper steps of the staircase, and -upon this cloth the ladies inclined to the frolic seated themselves in -rows upon the steps. Then the gentlemen, or the _men_, took hold of the -lower end of the cloth, attempting to pull it downstairs; the ladies -resisted this with all their might, and the greater the number of these -delicate creatures the longer the struggle was protracted. The contest, -however, invariably ended by the cloth and the ladies being pulled down -to the bottom of the stairs, when everything was found bruised, except -modesty. ‘High Life below Stairs’ could hardly have been too rampant in -its exposition, if it really reflected what was going on above. We can -hardly realize the matter. We hardly do so in merely fancying we see good -Lord Shaftesbury Admiral Gambier, Baptist Noel, and Dr. M’Neil engaged -in settling Miss Martineau, Catherine Sinclair, the “Authoress of Amy -Herbert,” and Mrs. Fry on a table-cloth upon the stairs, and hauling them -down in a heap to the bottom. It would be highly indecorous; but, I am -almost ashamed to say, I should like to see it. - -In 1748 George II. happened to see that gallant French equestrian, the -Duchess of Bedford, on horseback, in a riding-habit of blue turned up -with white. At that time there was a discussion on foot, touching a -general uniform for the navy: the appearance of the Duchess settled the -question. George II. was so delighted with her Grace’s appearance, that -he commanded the adoption of those colours; and that accounts perhaps -for the fact, that sailors on a spree are ever given to getting upon -horseback, where they do not at all look like the Duchess whose colours -they wear. - -Taste was undoubtedly terribly perverted in this century. Some ladies -took their footmen with them into their box at the play; others married -actors, and their noble fathers declared they would have more willingly -pardoned their daughters had they married lacqueys rather than players. -A daughter of the Earl of Abingdon married Gallini the ballet-master, -of whom George III. made a “Sir John”; and Lady Harriet Wentworth did -actually commit the madness of marrying her footman,—a madness that had -much method in it. This lady, the daughter of Lord Rockingham, transacted -this matter in the most business-like way imaginable. She settled a -hundred a year for life on her husband, but directed her whole fortune -besides to pass to her children, should she have any; otherwise, to her -own family. She moreover “provided for a separation, and ensured the -same pin-money to Damon, in case they part.” She gave away all her fine -clothes, and surrendered her titles: “linen and gowns,” she said, “were -properest for a footman’s wife;” and she went to her husband’s family in -Ireland as plain Mrs. Henrietta Sturgeon. - -It is characteristic of the manners of this period, that Lady Harriet -Wentworth, in marrying her footman, was not considered as having so -terribly _dérogé_ as Lady Susan Fox, Lord Ilchester’s daughter, who in -the same year, 1764, married O’Brien the actor, a man well to do, and -who owned a villa at Dunstable. The actor had contrived something of -the spirit of farce in carrying out his plot. He succeeded so well in -imitating the handwriting of Lady Susan’s dearest friend, Lady Sarah -Bunbury, that Lord Ilchester delivered the letters to his daughter with -his own hand, and without suspicion. The couple used to meet at Miss -Read’s, the artist;—that is, Catherine Read, who painted whole bevies -of our grandmothers, and whose portraits of young Queen Charlotte and -of that dreadful woman Mrs. Macauley (represented as a Roman matron -weeping over the lost liberties of her country) were the delight of both -connoisseurs and amateurs. - -The meetings of the lovers became known to the lady’s proud sire, and -terrible was the scene which ensued between the “père noble” and the -“ingénue.” The latter however promised to break off all intercourse, -provided she were permitted to take one last farewell. She waited a day -or two, till she was of age; and then, “instead of being under lock and -key in the country, walked downstairs, took her footman, said she was -going to breakfast with Lady Sarah, but would call at Miss Read’s; in the -street, pretended to recollect a particular cap in which she was to be -drawn; sent the footman back for it, whipped into a hackney chair, was -married at Covent Garden Church, and set out for Mr. O’Brien’s villa at -Dunstable.” - -This marriage was, as I have said, thought worse of than if the -bridegroom had been a lacquey. The latter appear to have been in singular -esteem, dead or living. Thus we read that the Duchess of Douglas, in -1765, having lost a favourite footman rather suddenly in Paris, she had -him embalmed, and went to England, with the body of “Jeames” tied on in -front of her chaise. “A droll way of being chief mourner,” says Walpole, -who adds some droll things upon the English whom he encountered in -journeying through France. When half a mile from Amiens, he met a coach -and four with an equipage of French, and a lady in pea-green and silver, -a smart hat and feather, and two _suivantes_. “My reason told me,” says -the lively Horace, “it was the Archbishop’s concubine; but luckily my -heart whispered that it was Lady Mary Coke. I jumped out of my chaise, -fell on my knees, and said my first Ave Maria, gratiâ plena!” - -The esteem of the ladies for their liveried servitors does not appear to -have been in all cases reciprocal, if we may believe a circumstance which -took place at Leicester House, the residence of the Prince of Wales, in -1743, when one of his Royal Highness’s coachmen, who used to drive the -maids of honour, was so sick of them, that he left his son three hundred -pounds upon condition that he never _married_ a maid of honour! - -There was laxity both of manners and dress as time went on; and as we -were an ill-dressed, so were we an ill-washed people. In the latter half -of the last century we were distinguished as the only people in Europe -who sat down to dinner without “dressing” or washing of hands. Indeed we -were for a long time “not at all particular.” - -Fashions, cleanly or otherwise, often come by the clever exercise of -wit. Thus the Russian confraternity made little fortunes through a -well-timed joke perpetrated by Count Rostopchin. And the joke was cut -after the following fashion. The Emperor Paul had an undisguised contempt -for Russian princes, and loved to lower their dignity. He was one day -surrounded by a glittering crowd of them, attired in gold lace and dirty -shirts, when he carelessly asked his favourite Count Rostopchin, how -it happened that he had never gained the slight distinction of being -created a prince. “Well, your Majesty,” said the Count, “it arises -entirely from the circumstance that my ancestors, who were originally -Tartars, came to settle in Russia just as winter was setting in.” “And -what of that?” asked Paul. “Why,” answered the Count, “whenever a Tartar -chief appeared at court for the first time, the sovereign left it to his -option either to be made a prince or to receive the gift of a pelisse. -Now as it was hard mid-winter when my grandfather arrived at court, he -had sense enough to prefer the pelisse to the princeship.” This satire -gave the fashion to the Rostopchin cloaks, of which our grandfathers who -travelled in Russia used to tell long stories, that were not half so good -as Rostopchin’s brief wit. - -Here was a fashion arising from a joke; but they have been as often -“set” by very serious causes. Some two hundred and fifty years ago, the -prevailing colour in all dresses was that shade of brown called the -“couleur Isabelle,” and this was its origin. A short time after the -siege of Ostend commenced in 1601, Isabella Eugenia, Gouvernante of the -Netherlands, incensed at the obstinate bravery of the defenders, is said -to have made a vow that she would not change her chemise till the town -surrendered. It was a marvellously inconvenient vow, for the siege, -according to the precise historians thereof, lasted three years, three -months, three weeks, three days, and three hours; and her highness’s -garment had wonderfully changed its colour before twelve months of the -time had expired. The ladies and gentlemen of the court resolved to -keep their mistress in countenance, and after a struggle between their -loyalty and their cleanliness, they hit upon the compromising expedient -of wearing dresses of the presumed colour finally attained by the -garment which clung to the Imperial Archduchess by force of religious -obstinacy—and something else. - -Mrs. Sherwood offers us, in her posthumous ‘Life,’ a fair picture of -the fashion and simplicity of the good old country rector in the last -century, as regards the adorning of the outer man. Her father, the Rev. -Dr. Butt, was Rector of Kidderminster; he is the hero of the story, which -Mrs. Sherwood shall tell herself. - -“My father was invited to dine at Lord Stamford’s, at his seat at -Enville, not very distant from Kidderminster. - -“It was the custom, when he was to go out, for some competent person -to arrange his best cloth suit on a sofa in his study, his linen and -stockings being in a wardrobe in the same room. On this day he was -very much engaged in writing. However, thinking that he would be quite -prepared when apprised that John and the horses were ready, he laid down -his pen at an early hour, and dressed himself, laying his old black -suit, neatly folded, as was his wont, on the sofa, from whence he had -taken the best one; this being done, to make the best of his time, he -sat down to write again, till admonished that the horses were waiting. -‘Bless me!’ he cried, ‘and I not dressed!’ and he hurried himself to put -on again fresh linen and another pair of silk stockings, whilst, as his -old coat and waistcoat, which lay where the new ones ought to have been, -came most naturally to hand, they were put on, and a great coat over -all concealed the mischief from John and my mother; and away he drove, -reaching Enville but a little time before dinner. My father happened to -know Lord Stamford’s butler, an old and valued servant; and as he stopped -in the hall to take off his great coat, Mr. Johnson, having looked hard -at his attire, said, ‘My dear Sir, you have a large hole in your elbow, -and the white lining is visible.’ ‘Indeed!’ said my father; ‘how can that -be?’—and, after some reflection, he made out the truth as it really had -happened. ‘Well!’ said Mr. Johnson, not a little amazed with the story, -‘come to my room, and we will see what is to be done.’ So he took my -father, who was in high glee at the joke, into his own precincts, and -brushed him, and inked his elbow, and put him into better order than the -case at first seemed possible (_sic_). When all was complete, he said, -‘Now, Sir, go into the drawing-room; set a good face on the matter; say -not a word on the subject; and my life for it, not a lady or gentleman -will find you out.’ My father promised to be vastly prudent; and as he -was always equally at home in every company, on the principle of feeling -that every man was his brother, he was not in the least disturbed by -the consciousness of his old coat and inked elbow. Thus everything -went on prosperously until dinner was nearly over. My dear father, -having probably, as usual, found the means of putting everybody in good -humour about him, he turned towards the butler, and said, ‘Johnson, it -must not be lost!’ The good man frowned and shook his head, but all in -vain. ‘It is much too good, Johnson,’ he added; ‘though you are ever so -angry with me, I must tell it.’ And then out came the whole story, to -the great delight of the whole noble party present, and to the lasting -gratification of my father himself; for he never failed to be highly -pleased whenever he told the story; and it was no small addition to the -tale, to tell of the scolding he got, before he came away, from the -honest butler, whose punctilio he had most barbarously wounded.” - -Since the beginning of the present century, the laws of fashion have been -more stringent, those of taste ever execrable. Taste, in its true sense, -and as applied to costume, has never of late been - - “The admiration - Of this short-coated population,— - This sew’d-up race, this button’d nation,— - Who, while they boast their laws so free, - Leave not one limb at liberty; - But live, with all their lordly speeches, - The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.” - -Even George IV. and his favourites could not bless or curse the nation -with a taste for dress. After all, we are better off in that respect -than the Italians of the last century, who were accustomed to walk abroad -without hats, and with parasols and fans; and we do not desire to see -Kensington Gardens like that at Schesmedscher, near Bucharest, of the -figures on which gay stage the correspondent of the ‘Daily News’ thus -graphically speaks:— - -“From three o’clock in the afternoon till an hour after sunset the place -is crowded with boyards, boyardines, and the sons and daughters of the -same, shopkeepers, peasants, gipsies, officers, and cadets, without -any distinction of rank, but all dressed regardless of expense, and -swaggering in thoroughly peacock pride. We have matter-of-fact people, -practical people, go-ahead people, ingenious people, etc., but without -exception this is the ‘dressiest’ people of Europe. To see the manner -in which the young people fig themselves out here, one might imagine -that millinery, hosiery, and tailors’ goods were a profitable investment -of capital. When one has been awhile in the East one generally ceases -to wonder at varieties of costume; but the _beau monde_ of Bucharest -in holiday attire might well rouse the most nonchalant or phlegmatic -into surprise and attention. Fashions of dress seldom remain long in -one’s memory. The man who this year enters the Park with a terribly -broad-brimmed hat does not remember for a moment that twelve months -previously he would have been miserable had he worn one with a brim more -than an eighth of an inch wide. It needs engravings to call up really -vivid recollections of what one’s-self, as well as every one else, wore -ten, twenty, or thirty years ago; and Bucharest recalls very vividly a -certain class of engravings. Every one is familiar with those splendid -works of art which represent his Majesty George III. reviewing the -Middlesex Volunteers in Hyde Park, the Pump Room in Bath, Charing-cross -at the period of the erection of Nelson’s Column, or any other remarkable -scene as it appeared in the days of that illustrious individual, Mr. -Brummell. Your readers well remember the broad-crowned Caroline hats, -the short-waisted coats, the long-tailed surtouts, the ‘pumps’ and -Hessian boots, in which fashionables strutted at that period. All this, -and more, is to be seen here. Young men walk about in sky-blue cutaway -coats with brass buttons and shockingly short skirts, trousers almost as -tight as the ancient pantaloons, and cream-coloured kid gloves. Others -appear on promenade with coats whose tails descend to their heels, and -others again in all the brilliancy of the latest Paris fashions. The -contrast and _mélange_ are curious and infinitely amusing, and the -display of jewellery is immense. In short, in London I would take the -proudest man in the place for a linendraper’s shopman in his Sunday -clothes. It is in the article of gloves however that most extravagance is -displayed. White or cream-coloured is the colour _de rigueur_. Present -yourself to a Wallachian lady to pay a visit, with your hands cased in -anything more durable, and you excite as great a sensation as if you -walked into a London drawing-room in top-boots. Nor must you go about the -town on foot; a _birtcha_, or two-horse open hackney carriage or calèche, -at two zwanzigers an hour, is indispensable. The vehicles are however -generally very good and clean, and the drivers civil; disputes about -fares are unknown.” - -A portion of the above looks like a scene in a pantomime, and this -induces me to offer a remnant or two of remark connected with stage -costumes. - - - - -REMNANTS OF STAGE DRESSES. - - “All these presentments - Are only mockeries, and wear false faces.” - - CHAPMAN’S ‘BUSBY D’AMBOIS.’ - - -There were few people who wore such a stage-look in the last century as a -country squire in London. Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff speaks of one whom he had -just seen in the Park. He was of a bulk and stature, we are told, larger -than the ordinary; “had a red coat, flung open to show a gay calamanco -waistcoat; his periwig fell in a very considerable batch upon each -shoulder; his arms naturally swung at an unreasonable distance from his -sides, which, with the advantage of a cane that he brandished in a great -variety of irregular motions, made it unsafe for any one to walk within -several yards of him.” - -If this was the public dress of a country gentleman, the town fops had -their own costume for their own stage. There was the dapper gentleman, -with his cane hanging to the fifth button. The smart fop rejoiced in -red-heeled shoes and a hat hung, rather than cocked, upon one side of the -head. The set of “a good periwig made into a twist” denoted the “fellow -of mettle.” The coffee-house politician was known by the moustache of -snuff on his upper lip; and the lords of acres, as I have just remarked, -by their glaring scarlet coats. - -The walks looked like a masquerade scene at a time of high carnival, and -bad taste reigned undisturbed. Reformers however sought to amend it; -and Paul Whitehead, the tailor-poet, used to say that the taste of the -nation depended upon Garrick! Davy’s own taste was very questionable in -some respects, for he played Macbeth in the then costume of a general -officer, with scarlet coat, gold lace, and a tail-wig. All the other -actors were attired in similar dresses; and if Malcolm, on seeing Rosse -at a distance, exclaimed, “My countryman!” he was quite right to exclaim, -on seeing an English recruiting sergeant advance, “and yet I know him -not!” But Rosse might have said as much of Malcolm. It was Macklin who -first put Macbeth and all the characters into national costume, when he -played the chief character himself, in 1773; and all the thanks he got -for it was in the remark that he looked like a drunken Scotch piper—which -he did. But Macbeth in kilts is nearly as great an anomaly as when he is -in the uniform of a brigadier-general; and even Mr. Charles Kean, though -he exhibited the Thane short-petticoated, seemed glad to get into long -clothes and propriety as soon as the Thane had grown into a king. - -Macklin was a comedian rather than a tragedian, and it is singular that -it is to another comic actor we owe the correct dressing of Othello. -It was in the latter character that Foote made his first appearance in -London, at the Haymarket, in 1744. He was announced as a “gentleman” -whose Othello “will be new dressed, after the manner of his country.” -Mr. Wright would now play the character with about as much propriety -and equal success, or the want of it. Foote is said to have looked very -much like the black boy with the tea-kettle in Hogarth’s ‘Marriage à la -Mode.’ “Bring the tea-kettle and lamp!” was Quin’s exclamation, when he -saw Garrick enter, blacked as Othello. And we may note that, at this -time, if a stage-manager were not acting in any piece represented during -the evening, he was exempted from coming before the audience, whatever -confusion might reign in the house. He was said to be not dressed. Austin -never so much offended Garrick as when he bought a cast-off dress, the -exact counterpart of that worn by Garrick himself in Lothario, and in -which Austin intended to accompany Roscius on the stage. It was assumed -on purpose to annoy Garrick, who wanted Austin to increase the number of -companions who should surround the gallant, gay Lothario; and Austin’s -method of obedience made Davy eager to excuse his humble friend’s -attendance. - -A better illustration of stage costume is afforded us in the story of (I -think) Bensley. He had to play Henry VI. in ‘Richard the Third.’ After -the monarch’s death in the early part of the play, he had to appear -for a moment or two as his own ghost, in the fifth act. The spirits -were at that time exhibited _en buste_, by a trap. Now our Henry was -invited out to supper, and being anxious to get there early, and knowing -that little more than his shoulders would be seen by the public, he -retained his black velvet vest and bugles; but, discarding the lower -part of his stage costume, he drew on a jaunty pair of new, tight, -nankeen pantaloons, to be as far dressed for his supper company as he -could. When he stood on the trap, he cautioned the men who turned the -crank not to raise him as high as usual, and of course they promised -to obey. But a wicked low comedian was at hand, whose love of mischief -prevailed over his judgement, and he suddenly applied himself with such -goodwill to the winch that he ran King Henry up right to a level with -the stage; and moreover gave his majesty such a jerk, that he was forced -to step from the trap on to the boards, to save himself from falling. -The sight of the old Lancastrian monarch in a costume of two such -different periods,—mediæval above, all nankeen and novelty below,—was -destructive of all decorum both before the stage and upon it. The -audience emphatically “split their sides;” and as for the tyrant in the -tent, he sat bolt upright, and burst into such an insane roar, that the -real Richard could not have looked more frantically hysterical had the -deceased Henry actually so visited him in the nankeen spirit. - -Mrs. Barry is said to have been a very elegant dresser; but, like most -of her contemporaries, she was not a very correct one. Thus, in the -‘Unhappy Favourite,’ she played Queen Elizabeth, and, in the scene of the -crowning, she wore the coronation robes of James the Second’s queen; and -Ewell says that she gave the audience a strong idea of the first-named -Queen. Anne of Modena, with the exception of some small details, was -dressed as little like Elizabeth as Queen Victoria was dressed like -Anne. Royal dresses in earlier days were not turned to such base uses. -Wichtlaf, King of the Mercians, gave his purple coronation robes to the -monks of courteous Croyland; and they wore the same, cut up into copes -and chasubles, at the service of the altar. Goodman, the comedian, -who left the stage towards the close of the seventeenth century, was -originally a Cambridge student, celebrated for his extravagance in dress, -and for his being expelled for cutting and defacing the picture of the -Duke of Monmouth, Chancellor of the University. He took to the stage, and -was successful; but his salary was not sufficient to enable him to dress -as he liked, and consequently he was “compelled,” as he himself said, -“to take the air.” The light comedian, when the play was over, mounted a -horse, turned highwayman, and was brought thereby so near to the gallows, -that it was only the sign manual of James II. that saved his neck. The -famous Duchess of Cleveland, “_my_ Duchess,” as Goodman used to call her, -ought not to have left her handsome favourite in such a mean condition. - -His condition was so mean, that he and a fellow comedian, named Griffin, -lived in one room, shared the same bed, and had but one shirt between -them. This they wore alternately. It happened that one of them had to pay -a visit to a lady, and wished to wear the shirt out of his turn; and -this wish so enraged the other, that a fierce battle ensued, which ended, -like many other battles, in the destruction of the prize contended for, -and the mutual damage of the combatants. - -Jevon was another of the actors of this period who was noted for his -dress and easy manners. The latter were particularly easy. As an example -of it, I may remark that one day, as he entered a club room, he took a -clean napkin from one of the tables, and wiped therewith his muddy shoes. -The waiter begged him to wait till he fetched a coarser cloth. “No, thank -you, my lad,” said Jevon, “this will serve me well enough. I’m neither -proud nor particular.” - -Wilks the actor was the great ruler in matters of dress about this time. -He was exceedingly simple in his tastes off the stage, but he was the -best-dressed man upon it; and what he adopted was universally followed. -An eminent critic, writing of this actor in 1729, says:—“Whatever he did -on the stage, let it be ever so trifling,—whether it consisted in putting -on his gloves, or taking out his watch, lolling on his cane, or taking -snuff,—every movement was marked by such an ease of breeding and manner, -everything told so strongly the involuntary motion of a gentleman, -that it was impossible to consider the character he represented in any -other light than that of reality; but what was still more surprising, -that person who could thus delight an audience from the gaiety and -sprightliness of his manner, I met the next day in the street hobbling -to a hackney coach, seemingly so enfeebled by age and infirmities, that -I could scarcely believe him to be the same man.” This splendid dresser -exercised charity in a questionably liberal manner. He was a father to -orphans, and left his widow with scarcely enough to find herself in -cotton gowns. - -Our provincial theatres exhibit some strange anomalies with regard to -costume, and there the sons and daughters of today have middle-aged -sires wearing the costume of the time of George I. But the most singular -anomaly in dress ever encountered by my experience was at a small theatre -in Ireland, not very far from Sligo. The entertainment consisted of -‘Venice Preserved,’ and the balcony scene from ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ The -Venetian ladies and gentlemen were attired in every possible variety -of costume; yet not one of them wore a dress that could have been -distinguished at any period as being once worn by any people, civilized -or savage. Jaffier and Pierre however presented the greatest singularity, -for they were not only indescribably decked, but they had but one pair -of buskin boots between them; and accordingly, when it was necessary for -both to be in presence of the audience, each stood at the side-scene with -a single leg protruded into sight and duly booted! When a soliloquy was -to be delivered, the actor came forward, as easy in his buskins as though -they belonged to himself, and were not enjoyed by a partner, _à la_ Box -and Cox. Nor was this all. The appointments of the entire house were of -the same character. The roof was of tiles, the seats in the pit were of -potato-sacks and sacks of potatoes; and never did I laugh so much at a -tragedy as when a torrent of rain fell upon audience and actors, and -Juliet went through the balcony scene in a dirty bed-gown, and under a -cotton umbrella. - -I may observe that this Juliet, though unmarried, was spoken of as “Mrs.” -and not “Miss,” for the reason that she was old enough to _be_ the -former. This was invariably the rule on our own stage a century and a -half ago; and Cibber, in the ‘Lady’s Last Stake,’ calls two of his female -characters _Miss_ Notable and _Mrs._ Conquest, though both are unmarried; -but the former is hardly old enough to be a bride, and the latter might -have had daughters of her own. Another coincidence struck me in the Irish -theatre. The performances were announced as for the benefit of a certain -actor _and his creditors_. I should have set this down to Irish humour, -had I not remembered having read that Spiller, in 1719, had made the same -announcement at Lincoln’s Inn Fields. - -But enough of these remnants. I leave them, to portray an illustrative -drama, the chief character in which was enacted by one who was great in -costume; and who may therefore claim to have his story, hitherto told but -to the select few, placed upon our record. - - - - -THREE ACTS AND AN EPILOGUE. - - “My youth - Pass’d through the tropics of each fortune, I - Was made her perfect tennis-ball; her smiles - Now made me rich and honour’d; then her frowns - Dash’d all my joys, and blasted all my hopes.” - - _THE HUNTINGDON DIVERTISEMENT, - played at Merchant Tailors’, 1678._ - - -ACT I. - -“Balthazar,” said a fine-looking lad in the prison of Orléans, “you are a -brute!” - -By way of reply to this testimonial to character, the gaoler struck -the boy with his heavy bunch of keys on the head. The blow sent young -Edmond staggering against the wall. He recovered himself, however, and -dauntlessly repeated— - -“Balthazar, you are nothing better than a brute!” - -And Edmond Thierry was right. Balthazar was not only a brutal gaoler, but -he took delight in his vocation. He had abandoned the honest calling of -a “marbrier,” to take upon him the duties of guarding the victims whom -Republican suspicion had consigned to captivity, and whom it destined to -death. There is no doubt but that Balthazar was a brute. - -But brute as he was, his prisoners despised him. They endured, but they -defied him. His hand might smite, but his ferocity could not subdue them. -They _would_ be happy, and their determination only rendered him the more -ferocious. From the old Briton gentleman, Pantin de la Guerre, to little -Edmond Thierry, there was not one whom he would not daily cuff, and cuff -all the harder from the conviction that they dared not, for their lives, -strike again an officer of the Republic, one and indivisible. - -Balthazar then was incontestably a brute; and young Thierry had just told -him so, for the third time, when the youthful Madame de Charry opened -the door of her cell and entered the gallery. The latter was secured at -either end by an iron grating, which was always locked; but the cells -themselves, twelve in number, with three or four occupants in each, were -barred and fastened only at night. The “citizens” inhabiting them were -untried aristocrats; and until the law condemned them to death, they were -allowed the liberty of an obscure gallery, from which they could not by -any means escape to freedom. - -The proud beauty who, albeit so young, had been some months a widow, was -passing on her way to an adjacent cell, but she paused for an instant to -kiss young Edmond on the brow, and to address some words of remonstrance -to Balthazar touching his treatment of the little King of the Gallery, as -Thierry was called. - -“May our holy mother the guillotine hug him as she did our other king, -Capet!” said Balthazar. “The little reptile taunted me, because his -father has escaped from Amiens and reached England; and he refused, -moreover, to carry the pretty message I gave him from the public accuser, -and addressed to you, citoyenne.” - -The boy’s eyes filled with tears. They sprang, like the twin fountains of -Benasji, from a divided source. Joy sent them gushing at the thought of -his father’s escape; and sorrow paid its tribute at the peril which was -then threatening his good friend, Madame de Charry. - -That lady loosened her bracelet, readjusted it on her marble arm, and -asked, as she did so, what the public accuser could possibly have to say -_to her_. - -“Ah! ah!” roared Balthazar, the brute; “he invites you to honour the -tribunal with your presence tonight; and the _faucheuse_ with the broad -knife will send you an invitation to another party tomorrow.” - -“Be it so,” said the young beauty, without apparent emotion. “In the -meantime, _vive le Roi_! And now, my little King Edmond, let us leave -citizen Balthazar to his reflections, and come with me to the _soirée_ of -Madame de Bohun.” - -“They will cut off your head!” cried Balthazar, with a candour meant for -cruelty. - -“_They!_” said the lady, with great sweetness; “not if they are gallant -gentlemen. They will be the very _canaille_ of butchers indeed, if they -strike off so pretty a head as mine: _n’est-ce pas, mon roi?_” said she -to Edmond. - -But the boy’s heart was too full to answer, for he loved the charming -Stoic of Orléans. His courage, however, was not buried beneath his -emotion; for as he entered the cell of the Countess de Bohun, he turned -and gave the huge Balthazar a kick on the right shin, which made the tall -savage turn pale. The giant vowed vengeance at a better opportunity, and -he limped away to his kennel, cursing the authorities for keeping alive -a Royalist child at the expense of the Republic, and for the particular -annoyance of their own _citoyen officiel_. - -It was a singular world that, which Balthazar held in durance within his -stronghold of Orléans. It was an aristocratic, pleasure-seeking world: -within one confined gallery all the pomps and vanities of the earth,—all -the weaknesses of nature,—all the vices and some of the virtues of -humanity reigned triumphant. The sword of Damocles hung over every head, -but the symbol was taken for the _oriflamme_ of pleasure. The fashions -and pursuits of the old world were not forgotten within the prison walls. -The rich arranged their domiciles with as much care and anxiety as though -the boudoirs they fitted up in their dungeons were taken for a fixed -term of years, instead of an uncertain tenure of minutes. Fashion had its -rigid laws, Etiquette was enshrined, and _Ennui_ denounced. The duties, -dresses, and pleasures of the day were distinctly defined; and the duties -generally consisted in getting ready the dresses for the better enjoyment -of the pleasures. The separation of castes was rigorously observed, and -common misfortune was not permitted to level ranks; the noble captive -might be courteous to the commoner in captivity, but he would not -associate with him. The wife of a noble would not visit the cell which -contained the spouse of a professional man. During the day visits were -not only regularly made between parties of the same degree, but were -punctually returned; else discord arose thereat. Contests at chess, -trials at cards, games at forfeits, shuttlecock, and ball, were matters -of daily occurrence during the days, weeks, or months that preceded -condemnation or enlargement. The high-caste nobility got up pic-nic -dinners amongst themselves. Those who were of the very top cream of even -that high caste found tea for large parties. Music was no rarity; singing -awoke the echoes of every cell. In short, the habits, customs, manners, -morals, frivolities, fashions, and virtues of the upper classes were -openly practised. The greatest care was exhibited in matters of toilet. -As republican simplicity grew more republican and more simple without, -aristocratic fashions waxed more royal and more sumptuous within. A head -after the fashion of Brutus, was never seen upon noble shoulders. Among -the ladies there was a mania for flowers, feathers, and many-coloured -ribbons. Some wore their own hair, and some wore wigs, but in either -case the hair was curled and powdered, and the fair wearer was rouged, -Spanish-whitened (where _blanc d’Espagne_ was to be procured), pencilled, -and plastered into all the beauty that could be achieved by burying her -own beneath poisonous paint, black-lead, and adhesive _mouches_. - -At Orléans the necessity for _some_ change of air, and for taking _some_ -exercise, caused the younger people, on certain days of the week, when -permitted, to have recourse to the vast courtyard of the prison. Fashion -here reigned as she had been wont to do at the Tuileries. Here were given -concerts _al fresco_; and _les graces_ became the favourite game of the -hour. It even occasionally happened—for Love, like Virtue, _will_ make -his way into strange places—that affections were aroused, and attachments -between young hearts worthy of a purer locality sprang up, throwing a -charm over the wearisomeness of captivity. Death stood on permanent -guard, looking over the wall of that vast prison; and his gaunt, long -arm often plunged into the crowd below, and dragged up a victim. But -each individual there, caring little for the teaching of the past or -the prospects of the future, endured and yet forgot everything. Each -considered every fellow-captive exposed to death, but none was without -hope for himself. Like the selfish Neapolitans, who, when they see a -neighbour borne to the grave, shrug their shoulders, and cry, “Salute -a noi!” so did the Orléans prisoners, on losing an old companion, bury -sympathy for the departed in congratulations at their own escape. - -It was early in a summer’s afternoon when Madame de Charry, with Edmond, -entered the cell whose oldest occupant and recognized proprietor was -the Countess de Bohun, a lady who had once borne the honoured name of -De Girardin. A large party was assembled, and, save the locality, the -hour, and the absence of lights, there was little to distinguish it from -a party in the Chaussée d’Antin. Some were at cards, some were looking -at pictures, some were circulating scandal, and a few were sipping _eau -sucrée_, heightened as to flavour with a little capillaire. François -Vouillet, the son of a chair-mender, was there playing the guitar. His -poverty had not saved him from the suspicion of holding aristocratic -opinions, nor had his misfortune procured for him any commiseration -from the aristocrats. He attended among them as a hired musician, and -he played for the dinner which he could not purchase. The appearance of -the new-comers interrupted the song, for a shout of _Vive le Roi_ hailed -the arrival of Edmond, and the most courteous welcomings that of his -companion. M. de Bohun, who was attired in a flannel dressing-gown, and -the only individual in the cell not in full dress, advanced to Madame de -Charry and gallantly kissed her on the brow. - -“You are becoming Republican in your tastes,” said that exquisite lady, -as she pointed to the flannel _robe de chambre_. - -“Madame,” said the Count, laughing, “I am twice as aristocratic as the -Prince de Ligne, the very quintessence of a knight and a nobleman. It -is not two years since we visited him at Vienna, and he received the -Countess and myself in no other dress than his shirt.” - -“Oh!” exclaimed all the ladies at once. - -“It is true,” exclaimed Madame de Bohun, corroboratively, “and yet short -of the truth: he had one arm withdrawn from the sleeve, and within it he -took my own, and led me into the apartment of his young daughter-in-law.” - -It was within an hour of the evening period for locking up, when the -wife of Balthazar entered the room with but scant attention to ceremony, -and telling Edmond as she passed him, that she had just well-beaten her -husband for his cruelty towards the “little king” of the prison, she -advanced towards Madame de Charry and whispered something in her ear. -With all her courage, the fair creature slightly trembled; but she arose, -begged the Chevalier Fabien to play out her cards, and promised speedily -to return. An inquiring look was directed to her by all the company, -but she gave it no reply, either by word or gesture. She left the cell, -accompanied by the gaoler’s wife, and followed by Edmond. The latter, in -speechless fear, saw her descend to the courtyard between two gendarmes. -The wicket was locked upon him, but from the window he beheld her rudely -pushed into a building in which the revolutionary tribunal was wont to -hold its bloody sittings. - -The “little king” burst into tears, a weakness of which he became -half-ashamed when he felt the arm of the gaoler’s wife passed round his -neck, and heard words of condolence fall from the lips of the subduer of -the prison tyrant. - -From this period they stood in utter silence for a quarter of an hour, -at the end of which time they saw Madame de Charry brought out from the -building and made to enter a cart, which was driven and backed up to -the steps expressly to receive her. At the sound of a broken glass and -a boy’s scream, her face, pale and dignified, was turned to the window, -through which Edmond had thrust his head. She smiled the sweet smile of -a dying saint, and the radiancy of a martyr seemed to glow around her as -she pointed to heaven, and with her eyes still fixed on the boy, uttered -the words, “Espérance! Adieu!” In another moment the cart received -two more victims, and, with its load of courageous misery, soon after -disappeared beneath the archway that led to the exterior of the prison. -Before the chimes of the cathedral had struck the next quarter, three -lives had been sacrificed, and Monsieur de Fabien had just won the game -with his cousin’s cards. - -“Citizen Fabien!” roared the voice of Balthazar at the door of the cell. - -“May I not speak a word with Madame de Charry before you lock us up for -the night?” said the Chevalier. - -“The Citoyenne Charry has been dead these ten minutes,” answered the -brute with his usual bluntness, “and Citizen Fabien will never be locked -up here again.” - -“Bah!” said the Chevalier, who not only felt sick, but looked so. - -“The authorities are at the door, ready to read to you the decree which -discharges you from custody. The tribunal is growing tender; it has -demanded but three lives today. It sees no ground for accusing you, -and it has ordered the Citizen Edmond Thierry to find his way to his -father,—if he can. The ungrateful villain nearly threw me on my back as I -opened the wicket to set him free.” - -“Ladies and gentlemen,” said De Fabien, who suddenly recovered both his -courage and his colour, “I wish you a good night, and luck like mine. I -am now eligible to the _bals à la guillotine_, for I have had a relative -who has been beheaded.” - -“Poor Madame de Charry!” exclaimed the sympathetic ladies, as the tears -ran down their cheeks with laughing at the Chevalier’s drollery. - -“Poor _me_!” said M. de Bohun, “for now Edmond is gone, who will sew on a -button for me, or mend a rent in my clothes?” - - -ACT II. - -The Dean of St. Patrick’s has immortalized an Irish festival of the -eighteenth century, by declaring that - - “O’Rourke’s noble feast will ne’er be forgot - By those who were there,—or those who were not.” - -Some such memories will cling for ever about the last of the great -European Congresses,—that of Vienna. It will be a costly reminiscence -for Europe as long as the world endures; and no one is likely to forget -the assembly of monarchs and statesmen who, after arranging the affairs -of the universe, amused themselves by enacting the French vaudeville of -‘La Danse Interrompue,’ and, in the very middle of that ominously-named -piece, received intelligence that Napoleon had escaped from Elba, and had -thus interrupted their dance indeed. - -Among the most useful of the personages who figured at Vienna during -the celebrated period of 1814-15 there was none whose utility could -be compared with that of a gay and generous young Frenchman, who was -known by the _sobriquet_ of “the King of Good Fellows.” He did not serve -much, it is true, for the furtherance of political purposes; but he was -always indispensable, and never missing, when a ball, a masquerade, a -concert, or a pic-nic was in question, and some difficulty opposed its -successful accomplishment. Little was known of him, save that he had been -attached to the French Legation at Lisbon; but whispers were circulated -to the effect that in the days of the exile of the French nobility, he -had earned a livelihood in London by application of the needle, while it -was more loudly asserted that he had given lessons on the guitar in the -English capital, and that he and his father had played duets, under the -patronage of Banti, at the Pantheon. Two or three out of the dozen of -Talleyrand’s discreet secretaries confidently affirmed, that when a boy -he had been confined in the prison of Orléans, “on suspicion of being -suspected” by the Republic. But Baron Thierry himself was profoundly -silent on his antecedents; and he was wont to say that the memories of -the past were of a very unsubstantial nature, and that his designs for -the present and the future were to make the most of all opportunities, -and get a crown, if he could, since one might perhaps be had at the mere -cost of setting up a pretension to it. - -People laughed at the idea of Baron Thierry becoming a monarch; but at -such mirth the baron assumed a gravity that was very majestic, and which -looked like determination. - -“Who is that pretty child whom your Majesty keeps so close to your side -tonight?” said a lady to Thierry at a ball given by Wellesley Pole. The -lady was remarkable for her natural beauty and her bad taste. She wore -her husband’s “Garter” as an ornament round her head, and _Honi soit qui -mal y pense_ glittered in diamonds upon her radiant brow. - -“She is the half of an imperial princess,” replied the Baron, in a -whisper; “and she and I are characters in a romance of an hour. Watch us -well, and you will see the _dénouement_.” - -The Baron had scarcely uttered the words when the lovely and childless -Czarina of Russia passed by his side. The Czarina paused for a moment at -an open window, and then stepped on to the balcony overlooking a handsome -garden. No one accompanied, and no one followed her. The Baron however -occupied the centre of the window, and the angelic-looking child, at his -bidding, passed on to the balcony, and stood by the imperial lady’s side. -Lady Castlereagh, and some three or four persons who were aware that -Thierry was contriving something for the especial gratification of the -Czarina, contrived to witness what passed without appearing to do so. - -The scene that ensued was curious, touching, and rapid. The Czarina burst -into tears, kissed the wondering child with a fiery and uncontrollable -emotion, and gazed upon her with an almost frantic look of mingled love, -jealousy, and despair. The Baron slightly coughed, the Czarina re-entered -the _salon_, and the spectators appeared unconscious of anything but the -imperial presence, and the reverence due to it. Lady Castlereagh alone -heard her say to the Baron, as she passed. “Thanks for your courtesy, -Monsieur le Baron. Tell her mother I envy and forgive her!” - -“Who is her mother?” asked Lady Castlereagh. - -“Madame Krudener, the mistress of Alexander, the pious Czar. The Czarina -has just kissed her rival’s child, and her heart is breaking that she is -not the mother of it.” - -The night that succeeded was a brilliant one at the imperial palace -of Austria. In a small room adjoining the great gallery was assembled -a strange group. A very handsome young man, in the costume and with -the attributes of Jupiter, was walking to and fro, eating a slice of -pine-apple, and declaring that the Count de Wurbna was mad. A somewhat -older but a fine-looking personage, easily recognizable as Mars, was -lying recumbent on a sofa, repeating the declaration that De Wurbna -was mad. These two theatrical deities were, in their mortal positions, -no other than Prince Leopold of Saxe-Coburg and the Count de Zichy. De -Wurbna was seated on a stool, bending forward to fasten his sandal. His -dress, his lyre, and his insignia told at once that he was Phœbus Apollo. -There was nothing like insanity about him; but when he raised his head, -the beholder was constrained to confess that there _was_ something about -him very unlike the lover of Daphne and Coronis. In fact, he wore a -very formidable pair of mustachios. However appropriate this adornment -might be to the Apollo Corybassides, who disputed the dominion of Crete -with Jupiter himself, it little suited the fair son of Latona, the only -one of all the gods whose oracles were in general repute throughout the -world. Be this as it may, the Viennese Apollo, whose transcendent beauty -had designated him as the only man who could fittingly represent the -graceful god, strictly refused to sacrifice his cherished moustache. -Madame de Wilhelm, the destined Venus of the _tableaux vivans_ about to -be represented, had suggested that his head should be turned from the -spectators; but the proud Minerva of the night, the Countess Rosalie -Rzewouska (the original of M. Sue’s Fleur de Marie), declared that the -suggestion lacked wisdom, and that, if adopted, Miss Smith, the daughter -of the Admiral Sir Sidney, would spoil her Juno, and laugh outright, as -she did at everything. - -“I thought Thierry could do anything,” said Jupiter. “He has -superintended the getting up of all our costumes; and he engaged, a -fortnight ago, to render De Wurbna reasonable.” - -Apollo caressed his very objectionable hirsutory adornment, humming as he -did so, “Du, du liegst mir im Herzen.” He smiled as Mars asserted that -if Thierry had entered into any such engagement, Apollo would be shaved, -and the heathen goddesses in raptures. The ubiquitous and indefatigable -Baron had, at all events, done his best, but hitherto he had failed. At -the eleventh hour however he thought of the claim which he had on the -Czarina Elizabeth, for whom he had contrived the strange gratification -of kissing the daughter of her husband’s mistress. He procured an -audience, and stated the predicament into which he and the court-players -were thrown by the obstinacy of Apollo. The Czarina had recourse to her -sister of Austria, but the two imperial ladies knew not how to solve the -difficulty. The Emperor of Austria was called in, and then the difficulty -began to wear an aspect less redoubtable. - -The mythological deities were yet disputing in their luxurious -green-room, when an officer of the Imperial Guard appeared at the door, -and summoned De Wurbna to the imperial presence. The latter flung a cloak -over his shoulders and hastened to obey. - -“My dear fellow,” said the officer, “you will not appear before the -Emperor in those mustachios!” - -“Why not?” said the son of Latona, who began to suspect a mystification. - -“Because of this morning’s general order, which commands the entire guard -to which we belong to be shaved.” - -De Wurbna had already remarked the smooth lip of his Hungarian comrade, -but, still doubting, he proceeded to wait upon his master the Emperor. - -“I’ll wager a whole chest of Latakia,” said Mars, “that this is a feat of -Thierry’s accomplishing. He is well named the ‘King of Good Fellows,’ for -he knows how to meet every emergency. He deserves to get a crown in the -general scramble.” - -“He _is_ a good fellow,” said Prince Leopold, “but he is about as likely -to get a crown as I am.” - -“Who knows?” asked De Zichy, who cared little for crowns, and felt no -envy at kings. “There may be half-a-dozen political earthquakes before -another score of years have been added to the register; and another -remodelling of kingdoms may strangely affect the market for monarchs.” - -In another moment Apollo entered, half laughing, half ashamed, and -entirely shaven. The Emperor had really issued an order that the Guard -should be shaved; De Wurbna had forthwith submitted, and, in his private -quarters, he consummated the heavy sacrifice. The decree however, which -had been issued to please the imperial ladies, only lasted for a day. It -nevertheless served its purpose; and never was such honour done to the -diplomatic abilities of Thierry, as when the mimic Olympus discovered -that by his aid a king of men had subdued a refractory deity, and that -the consistency of a mythological _tableau_ was saved from shipwreck. - -The representation went off with extraordinary _éclat_. The only persons -among the spectators who were not enraptured with the spectacle, were the -obese King of Würtemberg, who was sound asleep in his chair, and who was -never awake except at dinner-time; his son, the Crown Prince, who was -breathing out his soul in the ear of the young Duchess of Oldenburg; and -that youthful widow herself, whose eyes beamed with a lustre born, not of -the outward show, but of inward feeling. - -With these exceptions, all were delighted; and when Thierry, in the -intervals of the performance, took up his guitar and discoursed eloquent -music, the entire audience declared that they had never heard so -exquisite a voice, nor seen so king-like a fellow. - -The loudest in his praise, and the best-dressed man among the eulogizers, -was the nonagenarian Prince De Ligne; an old dandy, of whom his tailors -made, as nearly as dress could do it, a comparatively young-looking -man. He was more carefully dressed than ever on this eventful night. It -was the night on which he went through the snow, to keep, at least he -said so, an assignation of a tender nature on the ramparts, and where he -was kept waiting so long in vain by his Cynthia of the minute, that he -caught a cold which, within a very short space of time, carried him into -a bronze coffin, and covered him up in a marble tomb. All Vienna laughed, -except the tailors; for though he patronized these, he never paid them. - -Thierry was standing by the burying-place when he first heard of the -return of Napoleon. - -“Well,” thought he, “there are no crowns to be had here. The kingdom of -good-fellowship is a sorry monarchy. Perhaps something may turn up under -the Corsican.” - - -ACT III. - -The “Corsican” however had run out his brief second imperial career, -when one of the many who had hoped to profit by his rise was prostrated -by his fall. The name of this one was Thierry. With the world before him -where to choose, he turned his steps to South America, and went in search -of a people who might happen to be in want of a king. It was always -his fortune, or misfortune, wherever such a servant of the people was -required, to present his credentials only after the situation was filled -up. He was at Poyais just a week subsequent to the attainment of the -caciqueship of that pseudo El Dorado by Gregor M’Gregor. He was in Hayti -when the garrison of St. Marc revolted against Christophe the king, and -when the citizens and troops of Cape Haytien invited Boyer to relieve -them of royalty and the Marquises of Marmalade. He heard the pistol shot -at Sans Souci which terminated the career of Christophe and his house; -and he witnessed the abject submission of the sable heir-apparent, who -has not only since honoured Great Britain with his presence, but who has, -at the invitation of the law, submitted (some six or seven years ago) to -the rotatory penalties and the weak gruel of Brixton, for forgetting his -royal dignity, and, with it, common humanity. - -The Haytians were resolved upon enjoying a republic and new rum; and -they declined a proposal to accept Thierry, and a promise of French -protection. The crown-seeker, disgusted with the bad taste of the dingy -republicans, passed over to Mexico. Things were promising there to all -adventurers but himself, and Iturbide snatched an imperial crown from -his hopes, if not from his hands: the wanderer, nevertheless, continued -to look about him, and the opening revolt at Soto la Marina, against -this same Iturbide, was hailed in his secret thoughts as an avenue to a -throne. He saw the fallen potentate, under the escort of General Bowo, -embark at Antiguo, near Vera Cruz, and, with his family and followers, -sail in an English ship for Leghorn. With all his throne-mania, however, -when Iturbide returned in the following year (1824) to Mexico, to be shot -the night after his landing at Padilla, Thierry could not help thinking -that if the Mexican republican government had awarded _him_ twenty-five -thousand dollars _per annum_, he would rather, with such a revenue, have -risked European fevers at Leghorn, than have reigned in that quarter of -the world where the bark grows that cures them. - -He wandered further abroad, but the Indian tribes of South America deeply -declined him as a prince. The islanders of the Southern Ocean laughed -a negative in his face, and sent him away with a lapful of yams and a -sentence of perpetual banishment. At length the erratic king-player fell -among the Marquesas. The good-natured people were willing to make him -whatever he desired; and in return for teaching them some useful matters -touching the fashion of garments, and for profitable exercise of his -medical experience, they really constituted him king of one of their -smallest islands, called Nebuhwa. - -But, see what is human nature! The new king became speedily tired of his -new dignity; and after a brief but not inglorious reign, he abdicated -with but little outlay of ceremony. He embarked one night in a French -vessel, one of those political appliances which is always sure to find -itself by accident wherever it has been ordered by design. His Majesty’s -subjects bore their loss with philosophy, and cared so little for -dynasties that they did not seek for a successor. Some old South Sea -whalers however shook their heads portentously, vowed that the fellow -was a political agent, and that he would turn up again somewhere for the -benefit of himself and his employers. - -Well! in the summer of 1839, a weary party of New Zealand travellers -were on their way from Hokianga to the Bay of Islands. They were one -night proceeding up the river in a canoe, to a native settlement, where -the foot-track to the Bay of Islands then commenced. They were drenched -through with rain, and were desirous of finding food and shelter. - -“There is a light on that eminence,” said one of the party, an English -medical man, to the natives in the boat; “does any one live there?” - -The natives laughed, and intimated that the light came from King Edmond’s -palace. - -“Who is King Edmond?” - -“Not know. Frenchman. Not Wesleyan; not Bishop’s man. Come from Sydney;” -were the four distinct replies received from the natives. - -“From Sydney?” said the Doctor; “then it is no other than Thierry; the -fellow was there in ’35. He proclaimed himself, ‘by the grace of God King -of Nebuhwa and sovereign chief of New Zealand,’ and he showed documents -to prove that he had the support of Louis Philippe and his Government. -He drew upon the same French Government, and raised a considerable sum -of money by the sale of the bills, which were discounted by some queer -people, considering they came from so far north as Aberdeen; and which, -on being forwarded to their destination, were, as might be expected, -returned dishonoured. Nevertheless, with the proceeds he got together a -body of retainers, chartered a ship, and came over to Hokianga.” - -“What did the resident say to it?” asked a young engineer, of a native at -his side. - -“What resident speak, Mister Chalton? He no speak! he go mad! Church -missionaries go madder; and chiefs maddest of all. Write to Queen -Victoria; Queen speak:—‘New Zealand chiefs all independent. King Thierry -no king.’ Church missionaries almost mad like chiefs, cause Thierry speak -Hokianga land belong to him.” - -“No wonder!” said the doctor, “for his Majesty declared that the Church -missionaries had sold it to him, years before, for twenty tomahawks! What -did he do at Hokianga?” - -“Make fine coat for naked Zealander,” said one of the natives, with a -grin. - -“A royal tailor, by Jove!” exclaimed the medicus. - -After some further discussion upon this strange personage, the travellers -agreed to make for his island palace, and ask hospitality. Leaving two -natives in charge of the boat and luggage, under the guidance of the -other two the English travellers made their way, with difficulty, over -stumps of trees and decayed logs, to the royal residence. On reaching the -palace, they found, to their dismay, that it had nothing to distinguish -it from the huts of the natives, save one solitary glazed window. At the -back there was a hole, which served for a door; a Kawri board was fixed -against it, and to this the four travellers applied their knuckles. -They had not long to wait; the board was removed by an ill-dressed man, -of perhaps fifty years of age, who welcomed them into a tolerably neat -kitchen, well-warmed by a blazing fire. To an inquiry as to whether they -could see the Baron, he announced himself as Baron, and Sovereign Chief -of New Zealand. He reiterated his welcome; introduced them to his wife, -who confidently believed that her husband was a sovereign, because he had -told her so twenty times a day for the last three years; and he finally -asked them if they were fond of music. - -The guests pleaded guilty to the taste, but they also honestly confessed -that they were exceedingly hungry. - -“You shall have all we possess,” said the ex-King of Nebuhwa. “Kätchen,” -added he to his consort, “get the bread, and bring out the Beethoven.” - -The Queen took the loaf and the duet out of a large fish-kettle which lay -in one corner of the apartment. The King placed upon the table a guitar, -four pewter plates, a violin, and a piece of cheese. Their Majesties -dispensed their hospitality with much grace, a quality that is seldom -wanting where there is goodwill. They apologized for the absence of wine, -spirits, and beer, but they praised the virtues of the water of Hokianga. -The beverage having been poured into horns, and each guest supplied -with cheese and bread, her Majesty, at a signal from the King, who had -assumed the violin, took up the guitar, and in a minute they were deep in -the melodious mysteries of Beethoven. That Titan’s music on the guitar -was something of an anomaly; but the truth is, that the lady’s copy was -written for the piano, and it was her German ingenuity that adapted it -to the only instrument she possessed. The guests had long terminated -their repast, and ventured, as the duet proceeded, to make an occasional -remark, which was speedily hushed by the _chef d’orchestre_, who would -tolerate no commentaries during the interpretation of so splendid a text. -The duet was finished only to be recommenced; detached passages were -repeated over and over again; and the guests meanwhile were awed into -absolute silence by the look, speech, and action of their host. It was -a singular exhibition in a singular locality:—Beethoven in New Zealand, -and free-born Englishmen subdued at Hokianga by the despotism of a French -monarch in a foreign territory. - -“You play superbly, Baron,” at length said one of the four travellers. - -“Sir,” said the sovereign chief, “it is impossible to play ill on such -an instrument as this. I adore my wife; I love my subjects, whom I would -dress like Parisians if they would only heed me; but I venerate my -violin.” - -“He has caught heathenism, and worships his fiddle,” whispered Chalton to -a missionary on his right hand. - -“This violin, Sir,” resumed the Baron, “has seen as many lands as the -Wandering Jew. It had been all over the world before it got into the -hands of Platt; and it has been all over the world since it left them.” - -“And who is Platt?” said the missionary. - -“Platt, Sir,” answered the Baron, “was one of the first violin-players -in England; but he was afflicted with modesty, and consequently was only -known to his friends. He led your Duke of Cumberland’s private band at -Kew,—and what a well-dressed band that was! it did honour to its tailor; -and it had a European reputation for excellence. I wish I were as rich as -a duke, and possessed so great a _maestro di capella_.” - -The Baron then proceeded to enlarge upon his position and prospects, -entered into discussion on his rights, and pronounced himself a sterling -king, in spite of Lord Stanley, the British Queen, or the English -Ministry. “I would make these islanders,” said he, “the best-dressed -people out of France,—and if they could but acknowledge my principles, I -would myself furnish them with paletots; but they denounce my tyranny, -and laugh at me when I offer to put them into the dignity of trousers.” - -To hear this mock potentate speak of his people, his dominions, religious -toleration, the rights of man, and the duties of monarchs, one might -have concluded that he really was a recognized sovereign, with an actual -kingdom, a people to protect, parties to reconcile, a faith to uphold, -and responsibilities to oppress him. Beyond his musical instruments, his -solitary instrumental duet, his fish-kettle, an old ‘Journal des Modes,’ -and some needles, he can scarcely be said to have had at this moment a -single possession incontestably his own. - -As the party of travellers, after sleeping in the hut, proceeded on the -following morning to their boat, they were accompanied to the beach by -their entertainer, who expressed his hopes of meeting with them again. -But this was not to be. - - -THE EPILOGUE. - -Four years afterwards, a solitary English traveller, named Chalton, -was standing in the centre of a wide district, near to where the -last-mentioned guests had spent a summer night in 1839. He was apparently -in search of some locality, and two chiefs were closely watching him. A -couple of Wesleyan natives were not far off. They were assisting him in -making a survey for a road. - -“There used to be a hut on that hill in the distance,” said he to one of -the chiefs. - -“King Thierry’s hut,” answered both the chiefs at once. - -“True,” rejoined the inquirer; “why is it no longer there?” - -“Zealanders’ gods are not sleeping,” replied one of the chiefs. “Thierry -and his priests were cruel to his people. The island spirits told us, in -our dreams, to punish him. We burned the hut down last moon.” - -“And Thierry and his wife?” asked the astounded engineer. - -“The good lady perished in the flames. The people from the other side of -the island saved King Thierry.” - -“Ah!” exclaimed Chalton, partly relieved; “what are they going to do with -him?” - -“Oh, nothing!” cried the chiefs, somewhat eagerly. - -“The Government will not let the people keep him a captive.” - -“The Government can’t get him,” said one of the chiefs. - -“And the tribe haven’t got him,” said the other. - -“Why, what have they done to him?” - -“Hem!” growled somewhat unctuously the elder chief of the two, “they have -eaten him!” - -Such is said to have been really the fate of the little prisoner who used -to mend the garments of M. de Bohun in the prison of Orléans; of the -_costumier_ of the court masquerades at the Congress of Vienna; and of -the wandering adventurer in distant seas, where he could find no one who -would either acknowledge his fiats or accept his fashions. He was unable -to establish himself in the world either as monarch of men or as makers -of their habits. - -And having thus spoken of a mock king, let us consider now our English -liege ladies at their respective toilets. - - - - -THE TIRING-BOWERS OF QUEENS. - - “I could accuse the gaiety of your wardrobe - And prodigal embroideries, under which - Rich satins, plushes, cloth of silver, dare - Not show their own complexions; your jewels, - Able to burn out the spectators’ eyes, - And show like bonfires on you, by the tapers: - Something might here be spared, with safety of - Your birth and honour, since the truest wealth - Shines from the soul, and draws up just admirers.” - - SHIRLEY. - - -Let us not presume to look into the primitive boudoirs of the Queens -before the Conquest, and only reverently into those of the sovereign -ladies who succeeded. “Tread lightly, this is sacred ground!” is an -injunction not to be forgotten in this locality. - -The first Queen after the Norman invasion, Matilda of Flanders, who was -pummelled into loving her ungallant wooer William, had a costly wardrobe. -Before her death she disposed of the most valuable of her garments by -will, and named therein the dressmaker who had provided them for her, -a species of advertisement that ought to have made Madame Alderet’s -fortune. “I give,” says the royal testatrix, “to the Abbey of the Holy -Trinity my tunic, worked at Winchester, by Alderet’s wife; and the mantle -embroidered with gold, which is in my chamber, to make a cope. Of my two -golden girdles, I give that which is ornamented with emblems, for the -purpose of suspending the lamp before the great altar.” The abbey named -was at Caen, and the nuns connected therewith came in for all Matilda’s -petticoats,—no indifferent legacy, for they were stiff with gold and -dust. She was an elegant dresser, as far as outside show was concerned. - -Rufus was a bachelor, and the ladies who frequented his uproarious court -were remarkable for their adoption of garments which very much disgusted -the sober ladies of Saxon times. Matilda of Scotland, wife of Henry I., -being graceful of form, was given to wear tight kirtles, and may be -said to have brought in tight lacing. Henry’s second wife, Adalicia of -Louvaine, imitated the fashion set by her predecessor. On the King’s -death, she espoused the hereditary cupbearer, William de Albini, surnamed -Fortembras; and if she dressed a trifle less gloriously in her bower -at Arundel Castle, she at least became there the mother of a numerous -progeny, who grew up and gave the fashions to the entire county of Sussex. - -The third Matilda, she of Boulogne, wife of Stephen, was the first of -our Queens who introduced simplicity of dress. On ordinary occasions she -was perhaps less plainly dressed than the very elegant inmates of that -very elegant “St. Katherine’s College,” which still commemorates her -benevolence, and whose inmates are doubtless a cause of some astonishment -to the spirit of that gentle lady. - -Eleanora of Aquitaine, ex-wife of Louis XI. of France, and consort of -Henry II. of England, was extravagant in the article of dress, and -loved to see her ladies around her splendidly attired. She ran their -purses hard, for, like Marie Antoinette, she was exceedingly fond of -private theatricals; and the barons who groaned over the cost of their -own armour, looked grim at the bill of outlay for materials which, be -it said for the honour of the parties concerned, were made up for the -most part by the young ladies themselves. In those days, people used to -resort to the pleasant and sweet-smelling village of Bermondsey, to see -the well-dressed Eleanor walk in the quaint gardens there. The idea of -Bermondsey being pleasant and sweet-smelling is one now to smile at. It -is in these times the seat of ill odours, amid which however many a quean -still walks and keeps her state,—and a very sad state it is. - -Berengaria, the spouse of the first Richard, is one of the two Queens -of England who never _were_ in England. Her tiring maidens found in -her a gentle lady who gave grace to, rather than borrowed it from, -what she wore. It may be added that she wore nothing that was not wet -with her tears; for her royal spouse was like most knights of his day, -ready to make and ready to break all vows of fidelity, and indeed all -promises, of whatsoever quality. But Richard was not parsimonious, like -his brother John, who kept poor Isabella of Angoulême as poorly dressed -as a scrivener’s wife; and who wrote down what cloth she was to have -for her garments, and on what allowance of shoes she was to stand, all -with the shopkeeping sort of correctness which is to be found in no king -save Louis Philippe. Isabella however had some rich appurtenances in -her wardrobe, for we find that when her son, the little Henry III., was -crowned, the royal circlet not being procurable for the purpose, the -boy was at length crowned with the gold throat-collar belonging to his -mother’s gala suit. - -That same Henry III. was as gorgeous a dresser as his father, but he -loved to see not only his wife, the fair Eleanor of Provence, whom he -gallantly married without a dower, but also her ladies, as gorgeously -attired as himself. Had he been as careful of paying for their dresses -as he was in the selection of them (he was a dreadful fop, and would -discuss lace and frippery with a lady with as much unnecessary knowledge -as any Belgian _petit-maître_ of modern days), he might have passed -reproachless. But he was one of those men who, after squandering their -own money, squander that which they hold in trust: and then cheat their -own tailors and their ladies’ milliners with a composition of five -shillings in the pound. Henry, his Queen, and court glittered like -dragon-flies, thought nothing of “settling day,” and turned up their -noses at their more honest and less gaily-dressed kindred. The result -was what might be expected. They got into pecuniary difficulties, and -descended to the commission of intense meanness. They invited themselves -out daily to dine with the wealthy aristocracy of London, whose dinners -they ate and whose plate they carried away with them as a gift or a loan. -In fact, Henry and Eleanor established a fashion which is far from being -obsolete, so great is the authority for its observance. The extravagant -are always mean,—mean and dishonest; they first cheat their creditors, -and then _would_ cheat their more judicious relatives, were the latter -weak enough to be persuaded that the very attempt is a compliment. I -could not of course, but you, good reader, _can_ put your finger on a -score of people who are like Henry and Eleanor in this,—living beyond -their means, and looking to their more honest friends for aid to relieve -them from the consequences of their knavery. Exactly; I see you smile as -your eye falls on that pair of cousins of yours,—the lady all flounce, -and the cavalier irreproachable in dress, and in nought besides! He has -just asked you, a man with eight children, four hundred a year, and two -servants, to put your name to that little bill. But you have been singed -at that fire before, and you now decline. My dear Sir, if you will not -allow yourself to be cheated by your extravagant relations, you cannot -expect to be on good terms with _that_ part of your family. But you will -find compensation for the loss of such a luxury at your own hearth and -in your own heart. Why should you wrong those who cluster about both to -help worthless people, who, if they could, would further do as Henry and -Eleanor did, pawn the “Virgin Mary” to pay their jewellers’ bills. That -precious couple compelled the sheriffs of various counties to furnish -them with linen for their royal persons. Had _I_ been a sheriff at the -time, they should have had huckaback, compared with which they would have -found a hair-shirt a positive luxury! - -And let me hope, young ladies, that you will not confound this Eleanora -with her of the following reign, that Eleanora of Castile, who was -surnamed the “faithful,” and who was the glorious first wife of Edward -I. She showed what an excellent eye she had to comfort, by introducing -into the cold, damp dwellings of the day, tapestry hangings to protect -the inmates from chill and moisture. She was the royal mother of all -good English housewives; although she did a little scandalize the sober -matrons by wearing long curls adown her peerless neck, _after_ she was -married. - -There were some, too, who did not complacently admire her habit of -dressing in public; but it was only a public of ladies. It was for -Elizabeth, in later days, to attire herself in presence of men. In -Eleanor’s oriel at Caernarvon Castle, ladies were presented to the -daughter of Castile, while her tirewomen combed and braided her renowned -long tresses. A contemporary poet thus describes the scene:— - - “In her oriel there she was, - Closed well with royal glass; - Filled it was with imagery, - Every window by and by;”— - -the poetry of which is of as poor a quality as was probably the glass in -the oriel. We must not forget to add, that there was as much sewing as -romping, and an abundance of both among the young princesses (of whom -there was a noisy abundance too) in the “Maiden’s Hall” at Westminster -Palace; and that Eleanor is immortalized as the only sovereign who -bequeathed “a legacy to William, her tailor.” - -When she died, Edward made solemn oath of sempiternal grief, and in a -week or two, took to flirting. Ultimately he espoused Marguerite of -France; and the match was so happy a one that the two consorts bore -their respective arms in one scutcheon, in testimony of their _entente -cordiale_. Those particular gentlemen, the heralds, were in a sort of -_delirium tremens_ at this innovation; but they were almost as little -cared for then as now. Marguerite and Edward were a worthy couple. -Edward, indeed, slaughtered all the inhabitants of Berwick for calling -him “Longshanks;” but nobody thought the worse of him for _that_. As for -Marguerite, she is distinguished for her taste,—her double taste, in -dressing becomingly, and paying regularly. She never omitted acquitting -a debt at proper time, but once; and this so alarmed John of Cheam, her -creditor and goldsmith, that out of fear that the fashion of long credit -was coming in again, he besought the king, “for God’s sake, and the soul -of his father, King Henry, to order payment.” The prayer was heeded; and -I may further notice, as creditable to Marguerite especially, that she -willingly consented to be Queen without a coronation, as the then present -poverty of the finances offered an obstacle to the ceremony. - -Isabelle of France, the consort of Edward II., was a lady of another -quality. Her outfit, when it was displayed in London, perfectly astounded -the beholders. The Queen of Fairyland could have had nothing more -splendid; and mortal wives could not have been more usefully endowed. -The ladies of households, as they talked the matter over at their own -chimneys, expatiated on the hundreds of yards of linen for the bath, and -the six dozen French nightcaps. These were pronounced “loves;” and every -unmarried daughter, whose heart wore the figure of a bachelor knight, -determined that when another night arrived, her head should wear nothing -less than a “_coiffe de nuit à la Reine_.” - -Philippa of Hainault, Queen of Edward III., ranks among the reasonable as -well as the glorious ladies. She was simple in her dress and gentle to -the maids who decked her. While she dressed not beneath her dignity, she -was mindful that a plain dignity suited best a Queen whose crown had been -pawned, for the same reason that less noble persons pawn their spoons. In -her later days, she fell into dropsy and a loose style of covering it. - -Richard II. pledged half his own jewels to pay for his bride and -bridal,—the former was Anne of Bohemia. This lady was not only a member -of the Order of the Garter, but she was attended by ladies who were also -associates of that noble company,—pleasanter associates there could not -have been; and I wish that the fashion were still observed, and that I -could enumerate some of my fair friends on the roll; and then we might -ride double to the festival, for - - “This riding double was no crime - In the great King Edward’s time. - No brave man thought himself disgraced - By two fair arms about his waist; - Nor did the lady blush vermilion, - Dancing on the lover’s pillion. - Why? Because all modes and actions - Bow’d not then to Vulgar Fractions; - Nor were tested all resources - By the power to purchase horses.” - -There is little said about Anne’s style of dressing; but two things are -told of her, better worth the telling. She ruled her husband without -his ever suspecting it, and she did this by a soft voice and gentle -ways;—this to the newly-espoused ladies. The second circumstance was -not publicly known until after her death. It was told at her grave-side -at Westminster, by Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, who stated, that -this good Queen passed her leisure hours in reading the Scriptures in -the vulgar tongue. This was perhaps in the Bohemian tongue; for Bohemia -possessed a translation long before England. - -Richard’s second wife, Isabella of Valois, was as inordinately fond -of dress as her husband was; and never, perhaps, were royal couple so -profusely provided with means whereby to look well in the eyes of men. -But she was but a little child, and he, man-grown, treated her as a -daughter. Little did Isabella have cause to wear in England but the -trappings of woe; and the gems of tears, ever set in her eyes, were -brighter than the jewels in her famous casket, and about which, the -two Crowns ultimately quarrelled with no more dignity than a couple of -Abigails. - -Queen Joanna of Navarre, spouse of Henry IV., and her ladies, appear to -have been attired at her coronation after much the same fashion as was -observed at the crowning of Queen Victoria. In after-days Joanna, who was -terribly “near,” dressed as ladies do who labour under that infirmity: -even her mourning for the King was calculated like a widow of small -means; and a black cloth gown at seven shillings and eightpence per yard, -with one and sixpence for the making, and shoes at sevenpence per pair, -tend to show that the royal widow furnished herself at what may be called -the “mitigated affliction department.” - -How Katherine of Valois was wooed by Henry V. may be seen in Shakspeare. -The record is probably as true as much that is penned down by those other -poets, the chroniclers. She is the second Queen of England who passed -from the couch of a king to that of a soldier; and Katherine founded a -new line of sovereigns when she gave her hand to Owen Tudor. Like all -Frenchwomen, she dressed with taste; and she deserved a better fate -than to be left, as her body was, during so many years, a spectacle for -sightseers in Westminster Abbey. Her corpse, removed from her tomb during -repairs, in the reign of her grandson, Henry VII., was never restored. It -became mummified, and, in a coffin with a loose lid, was open to the eye -and touch. People kissed it for twopence, until the year in which Louis -XVI. was beheaded, and thrones began to tumble. The Revolution showing -to what complexion royalty might come, the body of Katherine was deemed -no longer profitable as a morsel, nor indeed as an investment, to those -self-denying men, the Dean and Chapter. At the end of the last century, -when it became the fashion to sweep away kings and queens, and nobody -would pay to see their wretchedly-dressed mummies, the body of Katherine -of France was unceremoniously swept off, too, into the general dust-hole -covered by Westminster Abbey. - -When old King René married his daughter Margaret of Anjou to Henry VI., -he did what many modern fathers do, and spent upon the festival a sum -which would have served the bride and bridegroom for household expenses -for a year. Margaret possessed little but the clothes in which she stood; -and she remains known as the most indifferently clad and the worst-fated -of all our sovereign ladies. But she was a woman of too much heart and -intellect to care more about coifs and kirtles than they deserved. - -It was one of her maids of honour, Elizabeth Woodville, who shared the -throne of Edward IV.,—a _mésalliance_ in every respect, and unfortunate -to all parties. She however astonished the good people of Reading by the -“bravery” of her attire, when she first appeared there as England’s Queen. - -Anne of Warwick’s whole reign with Richard III. was one of almost -uninterrupted sickness, and she more often wore the garb of the invalid -than the costume of a queen. The daughter of Elizabeth Woodville, the -good Elizabeth of York, wife of Henry VII., was a lady who was never -better dressed than at her coronation banquet in Westminster Hall, -where the King was a spectator and not a guest. She sat in a kirtle of -purple velvet, furred with ermine bands in front; and the Lady Katherine -Gray and Mistress Ditton went under the table, and sat at the Queen’s -feet; while the Countesses of Oxford and Rivers knelt on each side, -and now and then “held a kerchief before her Grace.” The milliners -especially prayed for benison on this Queen, and justly; for never had -the dressmakers so fair and so faithful a patroness. She was provident -of what she well paid for; and Elizabeth did not think it beneath her to -pay sixteen pence to her tailor, Robert Addington, “for _mending_ eight -gowns of divers colours, for the Queen’s Grace, at 2d. apiece.” She -also occasionally pawned her plate, when she was pressed for money; but -altogether she was not an improvident Queen. - -Elizabeth’s young daughter, Mary, sometime Queen of France, but who -ultimately died Duchess of Suffolk, was a sportive child in a cumbrous -dress. At four years of age she was provided, according to a warrant -still existing, with kirtles of tawny damask and black satin; gowns of -green and crimson velvet, edged with purple tinsel; and, as if to show -that only outside appearance was cared for, lined with nothing more -costly than simple black buckram. She was the widow, almost as soon -as she was the wife, of Louis XII.; and, after a marriage of some two -months’ duration, she expressed her grief by retiring to the Hôtel de -Cluny, where, clothed in white, and confined in a darkened apartment -lighted by wax tapers, she kept mourning state during six long, heavy -weeks. - -Of the wives of Henry VIII. it is told that Katherine of Arragon entered -London wearing “a broad round hat.” She rose at five, and she used to -say that dressing-time was murdered time; and she wore the habit of -St. Francis of the third order, of which she was a member, beneath her -ordinary attire. Anne of Boleyn was a lady of another quality. She was as -long at her mirror as any modern maiden of them all; and, when arrayed -for conquest, perhaps no woman was ever more decidedly armed against the -peace of mankind. Her costume was almost daily varied, the only permanent -fashion being the hanging sleeve, to conceal the double tip of the -little finger of her left hand; and the kerchief over the neck, on which -was a slight mark, which she had worn from her birth. Of course, kerchief -collar-bands and hanging sleeves were adopted by all who recognized in -Anne the undisputed Queen of Fashion. - -Jane Seymour, who married Anne’s husband the day after he had beheaded -Anne herself, was far from having the taste of her predecessor. She -enjoyed the better fortune of dying a natural death, and Henry wept for -her, poor man! because he lost the opportunity of otherwise disposing of -her. When Anne of Cleves first presented herself to him, she was attired -in abundance of petticoats, “after the Dutch fashion.” The King was -horrified at such fashion, but sturdy Anne wore more petticoats, in the -same national mode, on her wedding-day; nor was it till the morrow that -she put off her national dress and assumed one shaped according to the -English mode, and which, we are told, made her look more tolerable than -she was before. She had the most splendid wardrobe of all Henry’s Queens, -with the worst taste in dress. She was fonder of experimental cooking -than of dress,—was more made for a buxom hostess than a Queen, and was -most fortunate _as_ Queen when she laid down her dignity and retired with -a pension, and a neck secured against the King’s violent affection for -it. Katherine Howard was in most things her very opposite, in taste for -dress as well as in observance of duty; and Katherine Parr, the sixth -wife, was superior to both. The first Protestant Queen of England and -preserver of Cambridge University was not only a scholar but a “very -woman,”—in which phrase I recognize one with a whole string of virtues -and accomplishments. She was a perfect mistress of the needle (Queen -Adelaide herself was not a greater); and her taste in dress was shown by -her uniting magnificence of material with simplicity of form. She was -the third of our Queens who descended from royalty to wed with a “mere -nobleman;” but as Lady Seymour, good Queen Katherine was still the Queen -of Hearts, and when the ivy peered into her coffin at Sudeley Chapel, -and wound a wreath about her unconscious head, she gained a crown which -caused her less uneasiness than that she had worn as living Queen. - -It is a trait worth noticing, both in Mary Tudor and in the times, -that she purchased six bonnets at £1 apiece, and two frontlets at -10_s._, at the shop of Lady Gresham, the actual Lady Mayoress, who was -a near relation of the Boleyns. So that Mary was not ashamed of humble -relations, nor a Lady Mayoress too proud to keep a shop. This was when -Mary was only the “Lady Mary,” or Princess. When she became Queen she -was not disinclined to wrap her dignity in all the glory, gold and -brocade could give it. Her taste was not always of the best, and young -ladies will shudder as they hear that when Mary was married, she marred -a superb wedding costume, _à la Française_, by wearing a black scarf -and scarlet shoes! True, young ladies, this was worse than burning -Protestants;—which, after all, she sanctioned less from inclination than -that she had bloody men around her, who put compulsory strain upon her -tastes and feelings. For one Dr. Cahill, who gloats over the “glorious -idea” of massacring Protestants, there were a score then, not only with -the inclination but the power to give it effect; which, fortunately, -_our_ friend of gloomy notoriety does _not_ possess. - -I have above said, the “shop” of Lady Gresham. Until the 10th or 12th of -Elizabeth there were but few silk-shops at all in London, and those were -invariably kept, or served, by females. The supply too was very scanty. -Stowe, the antiquarian tailor, says that citizens’ wives in general were -then constrained to wear knit caps of woollen yarn; silver thread, lace, -and silk being very scarce, and only the very wealthy being able to -purchase garments of which these materials formed a part; and even then, -the husbands of ladies who desired to deck themselves in costly apparel, -were obliged to prove that they were “gentlemen by descent.” - -When the Princess Elizabeth lost her mother, her wardrobe, which was -none of the most brilliant before, became of very mean condition. -Lady Bryan wrote to Cromwell that “she hath neither gown nor kirtle, -nor petticoat, nor no manner of linen, nor forsmocks, nor kerchiefs, -nor rails (night-dresses), nor body stichets, nor handkerchiefs, nor -sleeves, nor mufflers, nor biggins” (the last two signifying day caps -and night caps), and the whole list showing that the little lady was -as ill provided for as any villein’s daughter in the land. No wonder -that she was at an early period smartly touched by rheumatism. When she -came to the court of Edward VI. she was remarkable for the simplicity -of her dress; it was religiously grave, as prescribed by the polemical -‘Journaux des Modes’ edited by Calvinistic divines. Dr. Aylmer, in his -‘Harbour for Faithful Subjects,’ says:—“The King, her father, left her -rich clothes and jewels; and I know it to be true, that in seven years -after his death she never in all that time looked upon that rich attire -and precious jewels but once, and _that_ against her will; and that there -never came gold or stone upon her head till her sister forced her to lay -off her former soberness, and bear her company in her glittering gayness; -and then she so bore it that all might see that her body carried what -her heart disliked. I am sure that her maidenly apparel which she used -in King Edward’s time, made the noblemen’s wives and daughters ashamed -to be dressed and painted like peacocks, being more moved with her most -virtuous example than all that ever Paul or Peter wrote touching the -matter.” - -The needle was the solace of Elizabeth in her captivity in the Tower -and at Woodstock, and the instrument of her pastime in the days of her -greatness. Taylor, a very properly named poet to have sung the praise of -the needle, says of her in his poem:— - - “When this great Queen, whose memory shall not - By any turn of time be overcast,— - For when the world and all therein shall rot, - Yet shall her glorious fame for ever last,— - When she a maid had many troubles past, - From gaol to gaol by Marie’s angry spleen, - And Woodstock and the Tower in prison fast, - And after all was England’s peerless Queen; - Yet howsoever sorrow came or went, - She made the needle her companion still, - And in that exercise her time she spent, - As many living yet do know her skill. - Thus she was still, a captive or else crown’d, - A needlewoman royal and renowned.” - -She grew in love with costly suits when she became independent of church -and grave churchmen; and the officers of her wardrobe were continually -recording in their journals that there were “lost from her Majesty’s -back” gold enamelled acorns, buttons, aylets or eylets, with which her -dresses were sprinkled; or rubies from her hat, or diamonds, pearls, -and tassels of gold; but always from the royal back, whence they were -cut by the over-loyal, as the Russian princess the other day stole the -great jewel from the Moscow “Virgin,” out of piety and a taste for -gems. She kissed the figure, and carried away the precious stone in her -mouth. When the Scottish Queen, Mary of Lorraine, came to visit Edward -VI., she deluged the court with new French fashions; “so that all the -ladies went with their hair frowsed, curled, and double-curled, except -the Princess Elizabeth, who altered nothing,” says Aylmer, “but kept her -old maiden shamefacedness.” In latter days Elizabeth had other ways; -and we read with astonishment of her never-to-be-forgotten eighty wigs, -with her “weeds (costume) of every civilized country,” and her appearing -in a fresh one every day. After all, it is questionable if she was a -better “dresser” than the fair Gabrielle, of whom the chivalrous Unton -writes to Elizabeth that she was “very silly, very unbecomingly dressed, -and grossly painted.” But this was a courtier speaking of one woman to -another, and his testimony is to be taken with reserve. Elizabeth was -in another respect more like Marie Antoinette, for she had a dairy at -Barn-Elmes, where she played the milkmaid, as the poor Queen of France -used at Trianon. - -If we may trust La Mothe Fénelon, Leicester was as much the Queen’s -“maid” as her Master of the Horse. The French Ambassador says, that -the public was displeased with the familiar offices he rendered at her -toilet. He was in her bed-chamber ere she arose; and there, according -to the reports of men who denounced his privileges merely because they -were not their own, he would hand to her a garment which did not become -the hands of a Master of the Horse, and would dare to “kiss her Majesty -when he was not even invited thereto,” but when, as he very well knew, -“he was right welcome.” For Elizabeth took all she could get, even -“nightcaps,” which were among the presents sent to propitiate her by -the Queen of Scots. She took with both hands; and gave, as she herself -truly said, only with the little finger. She ever graciously received -new-year’s gifts that enriched her wardrobe; and was especially wroth -with the Bishop of London for preaching too strictly against vanity of -attire. When she saw Harrington in a frieze jerkin, she declared that the -cut liked her well, and she would have one like it for her own wear; but -she spat on Sir Matthew Arundel’s fringed suit, with the remark,—“The -fool’s wit is gone to rags. Heaven spare me from such gibing!” A queen of -later days would not think of assuming the fashion of Lord Palmerston’s -paletot, nor spoil the uniform of a bran-new deputy-lieutenant, -as Elizabeth did Sir Matthew Arundel’s embroidery. I believe our -Gracious Sovereign never went further in this direction than to laugh -good-humouredly at the Duke of Wellington’s hair when he had had it newly -cropped, as was his wont, into the appearance of short bristles on a -scrubbing-brush. - -If it be true that Leicester helped her at her toilet, he was the only -happy individual who enjoyed the privilege. At least, in her mature years -she had a horror of being seen _en déshabille_. Essex once came upon her -unexpectedly in the hands of her tiring-maids, and hardly escaped with -his ears. Talbot, the Earl of Shrewsbury’s son, also once beheld her in -her night-gear, as she stood at a window to look out at a May morning. -The _Virgo, magis quam tempestiva_, hurried away with such blushes as she -could call up at forty-five. Twenty years before she would have shown -less haste and more discretion; at forty-five, in her “night-stuff” at -sunrise,—no Gyges would have thanked Candaules for letting his eye rest -on so questionable a vision. - -Even in her midday glories, she was no attractive sight as she grew in -years. See her going to prayers, when her threescore years had thrice -as many nobles to honour them, and _she_ walking amid all, wrinkled, -small-eyed, with teeth that made her smile hideous, and with not only -false hair, but that hair red. Hurtzner, who saw her on one of these -occasions, says:—“Her bosom was uncovered, as all the English ladies -have it till they marry, and she had on a necklace of exceeding fine -jewels.... She was dressed in white silk, bordered with pearls of the -size of beans; and over it a mantle of black silk, shot with silver -threads; her train was very long, the end of it borne by a marchioness; -the ladies of the court followed next to her, very handsome and -well-shaped, and for the most part dressed in white.” - -The older she grew, the more splendidly she bedizened herself,—as -decaying matter puts on variety of colour. “She imagined,” says Bacon, -“that the people, who are much influenced by externals, would be -diverted, by the glitter of her jewels, from noticing the decay of her -personal attractions.” The people were not such simpletons, and they -saw plainly enough that she was dying, in spite of the majesty of her -exquisitely braided periwig. - -Anne of Denmark, the next Queen of England, did not look queenly even in -Elizabeth’s robes. Her taste in dress was extremely bad. She patronized -especially the huge farthingales, high behind, low before, and swelling -out into unlimited space on all sides. These monstrous dresses were kept -in countenance by the as monstrous padded costumes of the courtiers; and -it was not very unusual for a bevy of the bearers of them to stick fast -in the narrow passages, whence only dexterity could decently disentangle -them. The King issued a proclamation against the farthingales; but the -ladies, to show their contempt for his authority in matters of fashion, -continued to wear them till he died,—and _then_ left them off. Spirited -women! - -King Charles wore a white mantle at his coronation, and when his poor -hearse, poorly attended, crossed the yard of Windsor Castle, the snow -descended upon it, and covered the coffin as it was taken out with its -silently-falling flakes; and so, from crown to grave, Charles was, as -his servants used to call him, “the White King.” His consort, Henrietta -Maria, was fond of the colour,—that in which Mary Tudor had mourned. But -poor Henrietta, less fortunate than the sister of Henry VIII., gay and -graceful as she was at her husband’s court, was too ill-conditioned in -France to dress becomingly even in weeds. She was one of the founders of -good taste in England; and in her exile she wore contentedly the coarsest -stuffs. But then Louis XIV. buried her splendidly at his own cost; and -Charles II. and his people spent twice as much in a six months’ mourning -for her as would have sufficed to have kept her and her household for -ever. - -When Katherine of Braganza landed in England as Queen Consort of Charles -II., she excited mirth by the stiff outlandish fashion in which her -luxuriant tresses were done up by her Majesty’s “barber,” and her -exceedingly ugly maids of honour. Indeed she had as little taste for -dress as she had for the fine arts; though she _had_ a taste for music. -In full court dress, however, she looked a handsome woman,—without -studying how she might best become so. Pepys has recorded that he saw her -and the King dining together once, on which occasion she wore a loose -white wrapping gown, as was supposed to become her imaginary condition; -and Pepys adds, that she looked handsomer in it than in her robes of -state and ceremony. - -Mary Beatrice of Modena, the wife of James II., is remarkable for her -detestation of _rouge_, and for her wearing it in obedience to her -husband’s wishes. Ladies will be pleased to make a note, not so much -of the fact as of the motive. Father Seraphine, her Capuchin confessor -gave an impudent stare of horror when he beheld it; and as she murmured -something about the paleness of her complexion, he exclaimed,—and in -the very face of the King too,—“Madam, I would rather see your Majesty -yellow or green than rouged;” at which the good lady fell a laughing, as -servilely as a barrister at a judicial bad joke, such as Baron Alderson’s -light puns, with which he cuts short heavy suits. - -This is almost the only trait of interest told in connection with her -toilet. It was simply observed that in England she dressed as became her -state; and in exile, as became a lady whose dower was stolen by William -III. and appropriated to his own use. Apply it as he would, he could -never look so well as the owner. She cared little for that of which -Elizabeth thought so much; and when, in after-days, it was remarked that -she dressed as plainly as a citizen’s wife, and wore no jewels, it was -known that she had sold her jewels, to profit her son. As often happens -with mothers who despoil themselves to benefit their boys, the gift -profited neither the recipient nor the giver. The splendour of the silver -ornaments of her toilet was well known; and the ladies of France could -well appreciate the sacrifice, which was in truth no sacrifice to her who -made it. - -Queen Mary II., if she rolled joyously over the couches from which her -affectionate father had just before been rolled off, the unfilial romp -was, at least, a _private_ bit of ingratitude. She did not, like her -sister Anne, go to the play in a dress covered with orange ribbons. - -Mary, in her later days, patronized the cornette head-dresses of -monumental elevation, and the _fontanges_, of which she was desirous to -deprive, by royal decree too, the “city minxes;” but the ladies beyond -Temple Bar would neither heed her decrees nor wear the high-crowned hat, -which had fallen into disuse save by the _pagani_, and they continued to -“flaunt in cornettes and top-knots, after her own gracious example.” - -Anne was too lame to walk at her coronation, and accordingly she was -carried in a low sedan chair; and as she could not take her huge train -with her, the same was as gravely carried by the privileged bearers -behind the chair, as though it had been hanging from the back of her -most sacred person. She was indifferently dressed for the occasion, but -there were two figures present whose appearance compensated for whatever -lacked. The Queen, being “Queen of France” as well as of England, must -necessarily be attended by her French nobility; but as the real article -was not to be had, a spurious one was invented, and two men, named -Clarke and Andrews, were dressed up to represent the Dukes of Normandy -and Aquitaine. They stood at the foot of the throne, answered to their -fictitious titles, and looked, like all shams, very much embarrassed and -supremely ridiculous. If this Queen was not a very splendid dresser, the -makers and washers of her dresses had profitable places under her. Mrs. -Abrahal enjoyed a pension of one hundred a year, in return for having -“washed and starched the Queen’s heads (triple-tiered caps, brought -into fashion by Maintenon) when she was princess, for twenty pounds a -year.” The Queen’s sempstress came off more fortunately still; for Mrs. -Ravensford pricked the heart of a gallant as easily as she could pierce -her own pincushion, and ultimately married the son of the Bishop of Ely. -And _such_ lawn sleeves she made for her father-in-law! - -But it was a reign in which the devisers of garments had a lucky time of -it. I may instance John Duddlestone, the bodice-maker of Bristol, who -asked Prince George to dinner when none of the Bristol merchants had the -hospitality to do so. The Prince accepted the invitation, kissed Dame -Duddlestone, ate his beef and pudding with more appetite after such a -grace, and ultimately presented the pair to the Queen at Windsor. Anne -not only invited them to dine with her, but, like the French lady who -used to find all her male visitors in black velvet breeches, attired -him in a suit of violet velvet at her own cost; and when the bottle had -gone a round or two, drew her husband’s sword, and laying it on the -bodice-maker’s shoulder, bade him “stand up, Sir John!” - -The full dress of Queen Anne’s time was perhaps never seen to more -advantage than at the grand _soirées_ which the obese lady gave in that -conservatory at Kensington which, as Defoe says, she was afterwards -pleased to turn into a summer supper-room. The well-known old building -was indeed divided into three rooms,—a ball-room, with a drawing and -music-room on either side. The Corinthian pillars, the elegant friezes, -and the niches for statues bearing girandoles, are yet to be seen. The -Queen came to the parties given in this modest Trianon in a chair, by the -gate on the north-west of the palace. Concerts, balls, and illuminated -galas _al fresco_, were the usual entertainments; and to witness them -the wealthy public were admitted, on condition of their appearing in full -dress;—the ladies patched, feathered, sacked, or hooped; the gentlemen in -three-cornered hats, velvet coats with stupendous skirts, powder on the -head, a bodkin across the loins, and two inches of heel to give increase -of dignity. Where the Broad Walk now exists there was then a railing; and -through this the mobility,—worse dressed, but probably not less washed, -than their betters,—looked on at the genteel people who glided about the -gardens in brocaded robes, hoops, fly-caps, and fans. - -Indifferent as Anne’s clothing was, there were terrible squabbles, -touching the cast-off garments, between the Duchess of Marlborough, -who was Mistress of the Robes, and the bed-chamber women and dressers. -These complained that they only received _very_ old mantuas, and sacks, -and gowns, petticoats, commodes, head-clothes, and _mantes_, from the -Duchess, who kept all the best of the old clothes, they said, for her own -wear. Her Grace, in return, rated them as hussies; told them that she had -a right to _all_, and that they could claim none, although she gave, out -of her liberality, more than they deserved. Nay, she so well distributed -the cast-off garments among the subaltern ladies, that of petticoats and -other habits left, she had, as she protested, “only two or three for my -own service.” Such was the delicacy of a ducal Mistress of the Robes in -the palmy days of Queen Anne. - -“Mistress” indeed she was, and what a virago to boot! Witness the -incident when Anne was entering St. Paul’s, the Duchess at her side, to -render thanks for the great victory achieved at Oudenarde. The Duchess -of Marlborough had had the royal jewels newly set for that especial day; -and sublime was her horror, as the royal carriage ascended Ludgate-hill, -at observing that the Queen had no jewels at all about her. The vicinity -to Billingsgate lent power to the vituperative eloquence of the offended -wife of the General whose valour had won the victory. The Queen, for -once, was not an iota less vituperatively eloquent than her Mistress -of the Robes. As they mounted the steps, and entered the cathedral, -they flew at one another with winged words, that fly swiftly, and wound -where’er they fall. Anne’s voice was by far the louder; and for every -thrust of the Duchess’s tongue, she fired a volley of asseverations that -made the lieges long to tear the “Mistress’s” robes from her own back. -That lady saw as much herself, and became alarmed; but, like a skilful -general, she had the last shot, and fairly battered the Queen into -silence, as she attempted to renew the contest in the royal pew, by the -imperative order to “hold your tongue!”—“don’t answer me!”—and poor Anne -obeyed. - -But if Anne claimed the privilege of dressing as she pleased, she was -angry if the necessary etiquette was disregarded by others. When Eugene -of Savoy came over here in 1712, to uphold, as well as he could with his -one hand, the war-faction against the Queen, he marvellously offended her -by appearing in her august presence in a tie-wig. Mr. Secretary St. John, -who presented him, wore a periwig so huge that he perfectly extinguished -therewith the illustrious stranger whom he held by the hand. Eugene had -been forewarned that the Queen could not bear to look upon a man unless -he were covered with a full-bottomed periwig. Eugene carelessly, and not -truthfully, answered, as he stood in the royal antechamber, “I don’t know -what to do; I never had a long periwig in my life; and I have sent to -all my valets and footmen to know if any of them have one, that I might -borrow it; but no one has such a thing.” And so the Prince was conducted -to the Queen, who thought more of the tie-wig on his head than she did of -the gallant heart that beat within his “plaguy yellow and literally ugly” -person. - -Queen Anne, on the death of Prince George of Denmark, wore black and -white, with a mixture of purple in some part of her dress. The precedent -was taken from that worn by Mary Queen of Scots for the Earl of Darnley. -Mourning, with such variety in it, was, after all, better than _none_. -The Pope’s nieces, for instance, never wear mourning, not even for their -nearest relatives. The Romans account it so great a happiness for a -family to have a Pope in it, that they think no calamity whatever ought -to be permitted to afflict his Holiness’s kindred! On the other hand, the -dowager Empresses of Germany were accustomed never to leave off their -mourning, and even their apartments were hung with black till their -death. I will just add, that the French Queens, previous to the era of -Charles VIII., wore white upon the decease of the King. They were thence -called “Reines blanches.” In later days, the state mourning of the French -court was purple. Consequently, when Anne wore white, black, and purple, -in mourning for her departed lord, she put on the suits of woe sanctioned -by the practice of three different courts. - -Sophia Dorothea, the wife of George I., was the second of the royal -consorts of England who never visited our shores. For allowing Count -Königsmark to kiss her hand, her jealous husband murdered the Count, and -shut the lady up in prison for more than thirty years. In her youth she -was a charming person, charmingly dressed. The most touching circumstance -of her long captivity was her weekly appearance, all clad in white, at -the communion-table of the chapel of her prison-house, the Castle of -Alden, where she partook of the sacrament, made solemn asseveration of -her innocence, and forgave her enemies. - -The process of dressing Marie Antoinette, it will be seen in another -page, was at times a splendid misery. That of Queen Caroline, the wife of -George II., was a splendid mockery. Horace Walpole describes a scene as -having taken place in Queen Anne’s tiring-room, which really occurred -in that of the sovereign lady of the second George. This exemplary Queen -dressed and transacted her early worship at one and the same moment. -She and her nymphs were in one room, the chaplain _solus_ in another. -Occasionally these nymphs, in their discretion, closed the door. Whenever -this occurred, the chaplain, liberal Whiston, ceased to pray, and -meditated on the mysteries proceeding within. This observance nettled the -Queen, and did not please her ladies. One of the latter, on re-opening -the door one morning, and finding the chaplain had not progressed in his -duties while he had been shut out, angrily inquired, “Why did you stop?” -“I stopped,” said Whiston, “because I do not choose to whistle the word -of God through the key-hole.” - -It is not to be wondered at, since queens afforded such examples of -laxity, that fine ladies followed with alacrity the unseemly fashion. -Miss Strickland notices the fact, that great ladies had, in the days upon -which we are treating, a bad custom of proceeding with the affairs of -the toilet during prayers; which was severely satirized, says the fair -historian, in one of the old plays of that era, “where the fashionable -belle is described preparing for her morning toilet, by saying her -prayers in bed to save time, while one maid put on her stockings, and the -other read aloud the play-bill.” - -The consort of George III., the “good” Queen Charlotte, lived in a -transition time, and wore the costumes of two separate centuries. The -little lady lacked taste; and though she set the fashion to loyal maids -and matrons, seldom became the robes she wore. But at the worst of these -periods she displayed more taste, and, what is better than taste, more -personal cleanliness, than her daughter-in-law, the coarse wife of the -heartless George IV. Queen Adelaide was simply a lady. Expensive dresses -were her abhorrence; and she never put on a robe of state without a sigh -at the cost. In any sphere of life she would have been a thoroughly tidy, -honest, careful housewife. - -Except for a few days, Queen Victoria has not resided at Anne’s favourite -Kensington since her accession. In her early days, the then little -princess,—clad so simply that it is wonderful the middle classes did -not avail themselves of the example, and dress their darlings less -tawdrily,—might be seen of a bright morning in the enclosure in front of -the palace, her mother at her side. On one of these occasions I remember -seeing a footman, after due instruction given, bringing out to the lively -daughter of the Duke of Kent a doll most splendidly attired,—sufficiently -so to pass for the εἴδωλον of an heiress, and captivate whole legions -of male _poupées_, all gold without, and sawdust within. The brilliant -effigy, however, had no other effect upon the little princess but to put -her in a passion. She stamped her little foot and shook her lustrous -curls, and evidently the liveried Mercury had unwittingly disobeyed her -bidding. He disappeared for a minute or two, but returned, bearing with -him a very _torso_ of a doll. A marine-store dealer would not have hung -up such an image, even to denote that he dealt in stolen goods, and “no -questions asked.” But the unhappily deformed image was the loadstone -of the youthful affections of the princess. She seized it with frantic -delight, skipped with it over the grass, gambolled with it, laughed over -it, and finally, in the very exuberance of joy, thrust it so suddenly up -to the face of a short old lady, who was contemplating the scene from the -low iron fence, that the stranger started back and knew not well what to -make of it; thereupon the maternal Mentor advanced, and something like -an apology appeared to be offered, but this was done with such a shower -of saucy “curtsies,”—so droll, so rapid, so “audacious,” and so full -of hearty, innocent, uncontrollable fun,—that duchess, princess, old -lady, and the few spectators of the scene, broke into as much laughter -as _bienséance_ would permit; and some of them, no doubt, “exclaimed -_mentally_,” as well-bred people do in novels, that there was a royal -English girl, who had most unquestionably a heart and a will of her -own,—and may God bless both! - -I have noticed above how queens of foreign birth introduced to our -ancestresses fashions of which their young imaginations had never -dreamed. The origin of all fashion then, as now, was in France; and -thitherward we now will take our way. - - - - -“LA MODE” IN HER BIRTH-PLACE. - - Chacun à sa mode, et les ânes à l’ancienne.—MODISH PROVERB. - - -The Honourable James Howard, in the year 1764, wrote a sprightly comedy, -entitled ‘The English Monsieur.’ The hero is an individual who sees -nothing English that is not execrable. An English meal is poison, and -an English coat degradation. He once challenged a tasteless individual -who had praised an English dinner; and, says the _English Monsieur_, “I -ran him through his mistaken palate, which made me think the hand of -justice guided my sword.” He can tell whether English or French ladies -have passed along the moist road before him, by the impressions that they -leave. - -“I have often,” he remarks, “in France, observed in gardens, when the -company used to walk after a small shower of rain, the impression of the -French ladies’ feet. I have seen such _bonne mine_ in their footsteps, -that the King of France’s _maître de danse_ could not have found fault -with any one tread amongst them all. In this walk,” he adds, “I find the -toes of English ladies ready to tread upon one another.” - -Subsequently our “English Monsieur” quarrels with a friend, because he -had found fault with “a pair of French tops” worn by the Philogallist, -and which were so noisy when the wearer moved in them, that the other’s -mistress could not hear a word of the love made to her. The wearer -justifies the noise as a fashionable French noise; “for look you, Sir, -a French noise is agreeable to the air, and therefore not unagreeable, -and therefore not prejudicial to the hearing; that is to say, to a person -who has seen the world.” The slave of Gallomania even finds comfort, when -his own mistress rejects him, in the thought that “’twas a denial with a -French tone of voice, so that ’twas agreeable!” and when she bids him a -final adieu, he remarks to a friend, “Do you see, Sir, how she leaves us? -she walks away with a French step.” - -Such was the early allegiance rendered even in this country to the -authority of France in the matters of “Mode,” of that ever-variable -queen, of whom a French writer himself has despairingly said, that she is -the despot of ladies and fops; “La mode est le tyran des femmes et des -fats.” - -But Paris is the focus of insurrection, and Fashion itself has had to -endure many a rebellious assault. Never was rebellion more determined -than that carried on against towering plumes. - -In Paris, feathers and head-dress extended so outrageously, both in -a vertical and a horizontal direction, that a row of ladies in the -pit stalls, or in the front row of the boxes, effectually barred the -“spectacle” from an entire audience in the rear. The fashion was -suppressed by a Swiss, who was as well known in the Paris theatres as -the celebrated critical trunk-maker once was in our own galleries. The -Swiss used to attend, armed with a pair of scissors; and when he found -his view obstructed by the head-dresses in front, he made a demonstration -of cutting away all the superfluous portions of the head-dresses which -interfered with his enjoyment. At first, the result was that the ladies -made way for him, and he obtained a front place; but overcome by his -obstinate warfare they at length hauled down their top-knots, and by -yielding defeated the Swiss,—for he never got a front place afterwards. - -I will take the liberty of adding here, that the fans used by Queen -Elizabeth were usually made of feathers, and were as large as a modern -hand fire-screen, with all sorts of devices thereon, such as would have -singularly delighted an astronomical Chinese philosopher. Sir Francis -Drake gave her one of this description, and she used to leave fans of a -similar description at country houses as memorials of her visits; as, for -instance, when she left Hawsted Hall, she dropped her silver-handled fan -into the moat. Happy of course was the lucky man who got it thence. But -to get back to France. - -Carlin, the famous French harlequin, once excited universal laughter -by appearing on the stage, not with the usual rabbit’s tail in his -harlequin’s cap, but with a peacock’s feather, and _that_ of such length, -that the stage was hardly high enough for him. If the laughter however -was universal, there was not wanting something of indignation, for lofty -feathers formed a fashion in which Marie Antoinette very much rejoiced, -and old royalists thought that Carlin ought to be sent to prison for -his impertinence; but Carlin had not ventured on the caricature but by -superior order, and the King would not consent to his being molested. - -The fashion deserved to be caricatured, for feathers and head-dresses had -raised themselves to such an outrageous elevation, when Mdlle. Bertin, -the milliner, and Marie Antoinette set a fashion between them which -ruined many a family, that they who followed the mode to the extreme were -compelled, as they rode in carriages, either to hang their heads out at -the door, or to set on the floor of the vehicle. - -When Hardicanute lived at the house of Osgod Clappa, the Clapham -district, which took its name from the chief, was not half so obsequious -in copying the costume and carriage of the royal dandy, as all France -was in transforming themselves into multiplied copies of the consort of -Louis XVI. - -And what a cruel ceremony was the dressing of that same Queen! When -Marie Antoinette, in the days of her cumbersome greatness, stood of a -morning in the centre of her bed-chamber, awaiting, after her bath, her -first article of dress, it was presented to her, or rather it was passed -over her royal shoulders by the “dames d’honneur.” Perhaps, at the very -moment, a princess of the blood entered the room (for French Queens -both dressed and dined in public), the right of putting on the primal -garment of her Majesty immediately devolved upon _her_, but it could not -be yielded to her by the “dame d’honneur;” the latter, arresting the -_chemise de la Reine_ as it was passing down the royal back, adroitly -whipped it off, and, presenting it to the “première dame,” that noble -lady transferred it to the princess of the blood. Madame Campan had once -to give it up to the Duchess of Orléans, who, solemnly taking the same, -was on the point of throwing it over the Queen’s head, when a scratching -(it was contrary to etiquette to knock) was heard at the door of the -room. Thereupon entered the Countess de Provence, and she being nearer -to the throne than the lady of Orléans, the latter made over her office -to the new-comer. In the meantime, the Queen stood like Venus as to -covering, but shaking with cold, for it was mid-winter, and muttering -“what an odious nuisance!” The Countess de Provence entered on the -mission which had fallen to her; and this she did so awkwardly, that she -entirely demolished a head-dress which had taken three hours to build. -The Queen beheld the devastation, and got warm by laughing outright. - -As England had its “macaronies,” its “bloods,” its “bucks,” its -“dandies,” and its “exquisites,” so France had its “hommes à bonnes -fortunes,” its “petits-maîtres,” its “importuns,” its “élégans,” and -last of all, its “lions.” With us, variety of names scarcely indicated -variety of species; the “macaroni” and the “exquisite” were simply the -fast and fashionable men of their respective times; their titles were -conferred by the people, not arrogated by themselves. - -It was otherwise with our neighbours. The “hommes à bonnes fortunes” -assumed the appellation, and therewith became the terror of fathers and -husbands. His glory was to create a “scandal”—to be ever mixed up with -the coteries of the women, and to be for ever fighting the men. Compared -with him, the “importuns,” who took the Duc de Beaufort for their Magnus -Apollo, and the “petits-maîtres,” who swore by their great master, the -Prince de Condé, were simply harmless fops. - -The “elegant” was the first of the butterfly race who exhibited a -calmness of bearing. He smiled rather than answered, when spoken to; -never gazed at his reflection in a glass, but concentrated his looks upon -his own proper person. He was in a continual calm ecstasy at the sight of -so charming a doll, so admirably dressed. - -“The ‘elegant,’” says Mercier, “pays visits of not more than a quarter -of an hour’s duration. He no longer proclaims himself the ‘friend of the -duke,’ the ‘lover of the duchess,’ or the ‘indispensable man at little -suppers.’ He speaks of the retirement in which he lives, of the chemistry -which he studies, of his distaste for the great world. He lets others -speak; and while they speak, an almost imperceptible smile of derision -flutters on his lips. He is dreaming while he listens to you. He does -not noisily leave a room, but glides out of it; and a quarter of an hour -after he has quitted you, he writes you a note, as if he had not seen you -for months, just to show you that he is an absent man.” - -The “elegant” was not without his uses. He brought down superlativeism. -Exaggeration of speech and of dress went out as he came in. This -change extended to female as well as male society. He rendered social -intercourse however a difficulty for intellectual men. The latter had -indeed no difficulty in talking of science with the wise, of knowledge -with the learned, of war with the soldier, and of dogs and horses with -the nobles; but he did find a difficulty in talking about nothing with -those fashionable women who cared only for the subject most patronized by -the “elegant.” - -What dreadful guys were the French children of the middle of the last -century! Their monkeys, who danced upon cords, for the edification of -the _grande nation_, were not more ridiculous. Fancy a boy seven years -old: his head was powdered profusely, and between his little shoulders -hung the wide tie or bag of his hair. Therewith he wore a full-sleeved -and broad-skirted coat, immense ruffles, a cocked hat, not on his -head,—it was not big enough for that,—but beneath his arm; and upon his -tobacco-pipe of a thigh there hung a needle of a sword! And this young -old man could hold himself erect, could bow like a judge, and was kept -lean by late hours. He had, in the common acceptation of the words, -neither wrists, arms, nor legs of his own. He seemed jointless, but he -had been taught how to sit down, and how to walk a minuet. - -Mercier groans over the contrast between French and English boys of -this period. Take, he says, a little Gallic monseigneur to London, -and introduce him to the son of a lord, a boy of his own age. What -does he see? Clean, fair, and long flowing hair; the skin pure and -healthy; the head unmolested by a peruke; the body supple and robust. -The little Frenchman might be sulky thereat, but he found consolation -in his gold-laced embroidery. He thinks to make an impression on the -other boy by his profound bows, at which the English lad laughs; and -when, according to the French custom, the little monseigneur advances to -embrace the youthful Briton, the latter skips off, with the exclamation, -that they wanted to take him in by pretending to introduce him to a -playfellow, which proved to be only a monkey. - -The extravagances of fashion were carried to the utmost in France when -it was the custom for ladies not only to keep the head powdered and -uncleaned, but to wear over it a napkin less clean still. The authors -of the period are murderously satirical against a mode which especially -prescribes that the napkin should not only seem dirty, but be so. Lady -Mary Wortley Montague however thought the idea admirable, and she adopted -it with a nasty alacrity. - -The fashion nevertheless could not long “obtain,” and soon we find _la -Mode_ raised from an art to a science, and women devoting themselves to -the study thereof with an intensity worthy of a better cause. - -A pretty woman, says Mercier, meaning thereby a pretty Frenchwoman, daily -goes twice through the ceremony of the toilet. The first was a mystery, -from which lovers were as rigorously banished as the profane from solemn -rites in the temples of old. A lover, says Mercier, dare not enter his -lady’s tiring-bower but at an appointed hour. You may deceive a woman, -but you must never come upon her by surprise: that is the rule; the most -favoured and the most liberal of lovers never dares to infringe thereon. - -Mercier however seems to have had free admission to the performance of -the early ceremony; for he says that thereat mysterious use was made of -all the cosmetics whose application beautifies the skin. He only alludes -to “other preparations which, among women, form a science apart,—ah! I -might say, a whole encyclopædia.” - -The second toilet he describes as a game invented by coquetry. If faces -be thus made before a glass, it was, he says, with a studied grace. It -was not contemplation, but admiration. If the finger was run through -the long curls, it was only for effect, for they had already been duly -arranged and perfumed. It was at this second toilet that the world was -present. The lovers fluttered round the half-dressed object of what -they called their love,—and that object was only a quarter dressed, -and looking not unlike Anadyomene herself as to form and feature and -position, but with a glance in her eyes and a significance in her bearing -that bespoke much more the Venus Pandemia than the Venus Ourania. And -there too were the abbés, who were permanent lovers wheresoever they -were to be found; they were of all sizes and conditions of health, -but they were all, without exception, gay, gallant, witty, impudent, -and blasphemous beyond all belief, and happily beyond all conception. -Reputations were made and unmade at these morning toilets; and as for the -detail of the dressing, while the _coquet_ and _causerie_ were going on, -it was very like that which Pope has so brilliantly described in the Rape -of the Lock, and in which a reputation died at every word. - -In modern days France has become more than ever the locality where the -Popess Fashion is enthroned, and whose slipper is reverently kissed by -a devoted world. Parenthetically may I say that the custom of kissing -the Pontiff’s slipper arose from the time when one of the Leos, having -been offended by an act of one of his fingers, cut it off, and in his -strange humility would no longer permit his hand to be saluted by the -faithful. That was a queer cause for a strange fashion; but it rests -only on legendary authority. In France causes as strange, sometimes more -and sometimes less pleasant, have fixed the fashion of the hour. Last -century,—that is to say, during something more than the traditionary -“nine days” of that century,—the rage in Paris was for pantaloons made, -from aloes, the colour of a lady’s finger-nails, between rosy tint and -delicate blue. - -France not only gave the fashion for fine dresses, but also prescribed -how people should visit in them. It was in Paris, about the year 1770, -that was introduced the custom of visiting _en blanc_, as it was called; -that is by leaving a card. The old ladies and gentlemen who loved to show -their costume, called this fashion fantastic; but it has its advantages, -and, though sometimes anti-social, is perhaps generally less so than it -at first sight appears. Society would often gain nothing by the closer -contact of individuals. - -There was wit however in many of the modish inventions of the Parisians. -Here is an instance. La Harpe was the vainest of men, and the most -unfortunate of authors. His pieces were invariably failures; but he used -to speak of their success with as little regard to truth as the Czar -Nicholas and his Muscovite “gentlemen” show, when, being thoroughly well -beaten, they go and outrage Heaven with thanks for a victory. La Harpe’s -tragedy of “Les Barmécides” was hissed off the stage; but he complacently -pottered about its merits. He was one day riding in the Bois de Boulogne -with the Duchess de Grammont and another lady, when a man was heard -calling for sale “Cannes à la Barmécide.” La Harpe rapturously summoned -him to the carriage-door, at the request of the Duchess, who wished to -make him a present of a walking-stick _à la Barmécide_, in celebration -of the success achieved by his tragedy. “But why do you call your canes -_à la Barmécide_?” said La Harpe. “I will show you,” said the man; and -taking off the ivory head, he pointed to a whistle within, warranted to -be shrill of note, and which the vendor pronounced to be very useful to -owners of good dogs and hissers of bad tragedies. La Harpe could have -shed “tears of bile,” says Beaumarchais; and, what is worse, the story -got abroad, and the tailors profited by it, and sporting vests with a -little pocket to carry a whistle, were immediately named “vestes à la -Barmécide.” - -What the Bourse and Royal Exchange are to the magnates of the commercial -world, the Temple in Paris is (and Rag Fair and Houndsditch in London are -or have been) to the dealers in the cast-off skins, if we may so speak, -of glittering metropolitan and other snakes. It is especially at Paris -that the commerce of renovated ancient garments (_dix-huits_, as they are -sometimes called, because _deux fois neuf_) is carried on with eagerness. - -The locality of the Temple, where knights displayed a sovereign splendour -and the _roués_ of Paris laughed at the philosophers’ splendid wit,—where -kings put their plate in pawn, and where the people made prisoners of -kings,—was turned to something like base uses when, upon its sacred or -classic soil,—soil, at all events, on which flourished a giant crop -of varied memories,—was erected the arcaded and pilastered rotunda, -beneath which dealers drove bargains in dilapidated habits. The Paris -class of such dealers is a class apart, who barter, sell, and re-sell; -and through whose hands pass the rejected garments of court and city. -There, in old chests, may still be found tarnished lace coats, which -once shone brilliantly at the court of Louis XV.; and embroidered robes, -whose original wearers sat at the suppers of the Regent, and laughed -at Heaven. By the side of the republican _carmagnole_ hangs the red -robe of the parliamentary magistrates, or judges rather, with something -of the senator annexed,—a little of the legislative with a trifle of -the executive, and not very much of either,—and who wore those scarlet -robes on days of high rejoicing, when the grand wearers of them were -accustomed, as they met at the tribunal, not to bow but to curtsey to -each other. The act is not incongruous to the dress; for when the Turkish -Ambassador first saw our own judges in their crimson draperies, seated in -the House of Lords, he innocently asked who all those old ladies were who -were huddled together and looked so uncomfortable. But to return to Paris. - -It is to the Temple that the correct comedian runs who would fain -discover the proper type of a lost mode of the last century. And this -reminds me that the law in France is exceedingly strict, even with -respect to the costume of a comedian. It is not many months since -that a young French actress, possessed with becoming ideas of decency, -refused to put on the extremely minute portion of transparent gauze -which was allotted to her as her entire costume, in a fairy piece then -about to appear. She averred that to stand so attired, rather undressed -than dressed, before the public, would be an insult to the audience -and a degradation to herself. The manager, not more modest than those -delicate creatures generally are, did not comprehend, and therefore could -not respect, the sentiment which influenced the young actress; and he -accordingly summoned her to the tribunal of the law. The grave magistrate -heard the case, examined the bit of gauze, condemned the poor girl to -wear it, and went in the evening to see how she looked. The worthy -official of the very blind Astræa repaired to the lady’s “loge” when all -was over, and inquired pleasantly how she had felt when greeted by the -acclamations of the audience. “I felt as if I were in the pillory,” said -the really _decens Nympha_, “and that every shout was a missile flung at -my head.” The solemn villain smiled, tapped her on the cheek, and bade -her take courage; “that foolish excess of modesty,” he said, “would soon -disappear!” Thus we see that Paris has not improved in this respect since -the days when people saw “the Testament turned into melodramas nightly:”— - - “Here Daniel in pantomime bids bold defiance - To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff’d lions; - While pretty young Israelites dance round the prophet, - In very thin clothing, and but little of it. - Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path - As the lovely Susanna, without e’en a relic - Of drapery round her, comes out of the bath - In a manner that, Bob says, is quite _Eve-angelic_.” - -Many a royal garment has been carried off from the Temple to the -theatres. The former place is most crowded about eleven in the morning. -All the _marchands d’habits_ in Paris assemble there at that hour, laden -with the purchases which they have made during the early part of the day; -and these purchases are immediately resold to the stationary dealers in -the rotunda, who divide the same according to their respective merits and -expected customers. - -One of the best-dressed men in France under the Empire was General -Dorsenne. “Look at Dorsenne,” Napoleon would say, “on the day of battle; -he looks like the true type of a French general, while Murat has the air -of a rider from Franconi’s.” - -Dorsenne was about to set out for the campaign in Prussia. He was the -possessor of a tasteful but brilliant uniform, which he was desirous of -exhibiting as closely as possible to the enemy, and which he intended to -wear at the balls at Berlin. It was duly packed up; and Dorsenne, who -was to set out on the morrow, took it into his head to pay a visit in -the evening to the Théâtre de la Gaîté, where they play such melancholy -melodramas, in order to see the somewhat celebrated actor Tautain in one -of his military characters. The first act passed off well enough; but in -the second Tautain appeared in the full uniform of a general. Dorsenne -was astonished; he put up his glass, recognized his property on Tautain’s -back, and, exploding with wrath, he cried to his aide-de-camp:— - -“Arrest that rascal; take him to the corps-de-garde; I will be there as -soon as you; he has stolen my coat!” - -The piece was interrupted: four soldiers escorted Tautain to the -neighbouring “poste,” and there stood the General as scarlet as Major -Bagstock. - -“Where did you steal that coat, you wretched mountebank?” exclaimed -Dorsenne. - -“I am neither thief nor mountebank,” said Tautain, who was pale with rage -and fright; “I bought it not two hours ago at the Temple.” - -When the affair was examined into, Dorsenne’s valet turned out to be the -thief. The latter was punished as he merited; and the General, leaving -his coat, lace, and epaulettes to the comedian, went through the campaign -in an old uniform and with his accustomed success. - -In this quarter of the Temple takes place the last transformation of the -black dress coat, the silk waistcoat, and the polished leather boots. -The French _feuilletoniste_ who is known by the name of M. D’Anglemont, -has devoted much of his acute observation to the manners of the Temple -Exchange. It is from him we learn that when a coat has passed through -all its degrees of descent,—when it has been transferred from maker to -owner, from the latter to his valet, from the valet to the porter, and -from that functionary to the Norman who plies in Paris the vocation -which is monopolized in London by sons of ancient Israel,—it soon after -arrives at the Temple, the necropolis of Parisian costumes. It is there -turned, mended, and re-made; and it has yet a phase to go through before -it is ultimately sold to those Paris manufacturers who make “l’engrais -de laine,” guano for worn-out clothes. This last phase it owes to the -ingenuity of the brothers Meurt-de-Soif. - -This name, Meurt-de-Soif, as we are told by M. D’Anglemont, is not a name -invented by the Paris wits. The family of Meurt-de-Soif (Die of Thirst) -has its residence in the sixth arrondissement. Its especial occupation -is the purchase of old garments in huge quantities, which are made -temporarily to wear a new aspect, and then sold to the suburban beaux who -sun themselves beyond the Barriers. - -The traffic carried on by this family takes place at night, by -torch-light, and by Dutch auction. There you may see put up a coat from -the studio of Humann, a genuine waistcoat from the hand of Blanc, and -trousers whose incomparable cut declares them to have proceeded from -the genius and shears of Morbach; in a word, the costume complete of -a “fashionable” of the first water,—for how much? Three francs!—just -half-a-crown!—the pleasantry of the vendor included, without extra charge. - -This pleasantry is something like that of our “Cheap Jacks,” whose -invention is so facile, and whose power of lying exceeds that of -Osten-Sacken and the Czar together. - -“Look, gentlemen,” exclaims one of the illustrious house in question; -“this coat originally belonged to a Russian prince, and was the means -of rendering him irresistible in the eyes of a _danseuse_ of the Grande -Chaumière. It subsequently became the admiration of all the inhabitants -of the Closerie du Lilas, who saw its effect on the back of a celebrated -corn-cutter. By means of this coat the valet of a ‘milord’ carried off a -_figurante_ from the little Théâtre des Délassemens, who mistook him for -his master. The coat has come to us immediately from this last possessor, -the extravagance of whose Dulcinea compelled him to part from it. Well, -gentlemen, notwithstanding all these glorious souvenirs, in spite of all -the conquests due to it, I _give_ it to you, gentlemen, at three francs! -Three francs! there is an opportunity for those accustomed to profit by -it!” - -The coat put up at three francs has a gradually diminishing value put -upon it, until it is at last purchased at thirty sous. Morbach’s trousers -go for a franc; and Blanc’s waistcoat for the small price of fifty -centimes—fivepence! - -The garments thus purchased are often only retained for a single Sunday, -some _fête_ day, on which the poor cavalier desires to look splendid, -though it be with a second-hand splendour, in the eyes of his “belle.” -If the costume holds together through the severe ordeal of a night’s -dancing, it is often resold to the Temple merchants, who repair the -damage, and again fit it to the back of some ephemeral dandy of the -suburbs who wishes but to shine for “a little day.” - -“La Mère Moskow” drives her own trade by the side of the Meurt-de-Soifs. -She is an ex-vivandière of the Grand Army, who lets out body-linen to -poor gentlemen suffering from scarcity. A shirt may be hired of her -for a week for the modest price of twopence, the wearer being required -merely to leave his old one, by way of a security deposit. Nothing can -be more delicate than, not the deposit, but the manner in which the -request is made; and a shirt of La Mère Moskow might have been worn, -without scruple, at Lord O’Grady’s by the Reverend Ozias Polyglot, or the -better-endowed Reverend Obadiah Pringle. - -But I shall have more to say hereafter touching Gallic influences -incidentally; I will therefore turn from persons and places to things, -and, hat in hand, discourse of what I hold. - - - - -HATS. - - “Your bonnet to its right use.”—SHAKSPEARE. - - -Newton observed this Shakspearian injunction by always taking off his hat -when he pronounced the name of God. This was a right use. The grandmother -of Guy Faux devoted one to a strange use when she bequeathed her best -velvet hat to a nephew. I have often wondered if he went to church in -it! The grandees of Spain treat their sacred sovereign with less respect -than Newton showed for a sacred name. It is the privilege of the grandees -of Spain that they may stand with their hats on in the presence of their -sovereign. There is but one noble in England so privileged,—the head, so -to speak, of the De Courcys, Earls of Kinsale. - -It is just six centuries and a half since Philip of France sent over a -knight to summon King John to answer for the murder of Prince Arthur, -or abide by trial by combat. John had no relish to do either, but he -looked round for a substitute willing to meet one of the alternatives. -There was a gallant soldier in prison of the name of De Courcy. He had -conquered Ulster for his master, Lackland, and had been rewarded with -captivity because he had not done more. His fetters were struck off, -and he was asked if he were willing to be champion for John in this -bloody arbitrement. “No, not for him!” cried De Courcy, “but for my -country, ay!” The adversaries met, yet did not come to an encounter; for -the French knight, not liking the look of his gigantic foe, declined -the combat, and so lost his honour. John and Philip, who were together -present, directed De Courcy to give them a taste of his quality. -Whereupon the champion placed his helmet upon a post, and cleaving -through the first into the second, his sword stuck so fast in the wood -that none but himself could draw it out. “Never unveil thy bonnet, man, -again, before king or subject,” was the cheap privilege accorded him by -the economical John; “but tell us why thou lookedst so fiercely round ere -thou didst deal thy dainty stroke.” “Because, had I failed, I intended to -slay all who had dared to mock me.” “By the mass,” said John, “thou art a -pleasant companion, and therewith Heaven keep thee in good beavers!” - -It was long the custom for the De Courcys to wear their hat, but for -a moment, in presence of their respective kings, just for the purpose -of asserting their privilege, and then to doff it, like other men. The -head of the family, at one of George the Third’s Drawing-rooms, thinking -this not sufficient assertion of his right, continued wearing his court -head-piece throughout the time he was in the “presence.” The good old -King at length extinguished this poor bit of pride, by bluntly remarking, -“The gentleman has a right to be covered before _me_; but even King John -could give him no right to be covered before ladies.” The rebuke was -most effectual; and De Courcy saw, to his horror, that the entire court, -ladies, princesses, courtiers, and attendants, were wreathing a broad -girdle of grins “all round his hat.” - -It is said that when Fox the Quaker had an interview with Charles -the Second, the King observing that his “friend” kept on his beaver, -immediately took off his own. “Put on thy hat, friend Charles,” said -the plain gentleman. “Not so, friend George,” replied the King; “it is -usual for only one man to be covered here.” It was a neat retort, and may -serve as a _pendant_ to the remark of the peasant boy, whom Henri IV. -had taken up behind him, and who pretended that he would take the lad -where he might see the monarch. “How shall I know the King when he is -among so many nobles?” said the rustic, as he rode _en croupe_ behind -the sovereign, of whose identity he was ignorant. “You will know him,” -said Henri, “by his being the only person who will keep his hat on.” At -length the two arrived where the King’s officers awaited him, and they -all uncovered as he trotted up to them. “Now, good lad,” said he, “which -is the King?” “Well,” exclaimed the boy, “it must be either you or I, for -we have both got our hats on!”—An old-world story, I fear, but not _mal -trovato_. - -Hats have been of divers service in battle. The plumed hat of Henri -IV. was the rallying point of his followers. In later times, the -head-covering was put to good purpose by a ’cute Highlander. In the -Peninsular war, one of the 93rd and a French infantry-man came upon one -another in a wood. As their pieces were unloaded, they both rushed to -the cover of a tree, in order to put their muskets in deadly order; but -this done, neither was inclined to look out, lest the other should be -beforehand with him, and let fly. At length the Highlander quietly put -his feathered hat on the end of his piece, and held it a little beyond -the tree, as though a head was in it, looking out. At the same moment -the impatient Frenchman reconnoitered, saw his supposed advantage, and, -from his rifle, sent a ball through his adversary’s bonnet; thereupon -the bonny Scot calmly advanced with his loaded piece, and took his enemy -prisoner without difficulty. - -I do not know if it ever occurred to any one that hats had something to -do with the dissolution of the Long Parliament; but such is the fact. -As soon as Cromwell had declared that assembly non-existent, he flung -on his hat, and paced up and down the Parliament Chamber. The members, -however, were piqued by such truly cavalier swagger, and would not budge -an inch. Cromwell called in Major Harrison and the guard. The Major saw -how matters stood, and he felt at once that he could get the ex-deputies -out much sooner by courtesy than carbines. Accordingly he approached -the Speaker, and taking off his own hat with much ceremony, he bowed -low, kissed the fallen official’s hand, detaining it at the same time -with such gentle violence that the deposed dignitary was constrained to -follow whither the very polite but unwelcome republican chose to conduct -him. The Major led him out of the Hall, we are told, “as a gentleman -does a lady, the whole Parliament following.” Thus a hat in hand helped -to do what a hat on head failed to accomplish; and the Long Parliament -resisting rudeness, yielded to gallantry, and was demolished for ever. - -The close of the last national Parliament held in Scotland has something -in connection with the hat. On the 22nd April, 1707, that illustrious -but sometimes turbulent assembly adjourned never to meet again. There -must have been some aching hearts under the old-fashioned dresses of -many of the members; but there was no sorrow to be read on the brow of -Seafield the Chancellor. He put on his hat as he pronounced, with brutal -levity, the annihilation of the parliamentary body. Had he done it to -hide confusion or to mark contempt, there might have been some excuse for -him, but it was a mere formality; and he unfeelingly added thereto, words -which were the cruel knell of the dying victim. “There,” said he, “there -is the end of an auld sang!” It was a song that, in its day, had been -sung to some tune, despite some harshness and occasional discord; but, as -the Chancellor remarked when he put on his hat, there was an end of it. - -When Sir Edward Coke, in 1645, was trying Mrs. Turner, the physician’s -widow, as an accessory before the fact in the murder of Sir Thomas -Overbury (the poor woman had a penchant for poisoning people,—but we -have all our little _foibles_), he observed that she wore a hat, and he -bade her take it off. “A woman,” said he, “may be covered in a church, -but not when arraigned in a court of justice.” The lady tartly commented -on the singularity that she might wear her hat in presence of God, and -not in that of man. “For the reason,” said the judge, “that man with -weak intellects cannot discover the secrets which are known to God; and -therefore, in investigating truth, where human life is in peril, and -one is charged with taking life from another, the court should see all -obstacles removed. Besides,” he added, “the countenance is often an index -to the mind, and accordingly it is fitting that the hat be removed, and -therewith the shadow which it casts upon your face.” The hat was taken -off; but the lady, although a murderess, was modest, and she covered her -hair with a kerchief. - -Had good Mrs. Turner been like the ladies and gentlemen of Natal, she -might have puzzled the chief justice. The Natal “fashionables” wear -hats of from half a foot to a foot in height, made of the fat of oxen. -They first gradually anoint the head with a purer grease; and this, -mixing with the hair, fastens these _bonnets_ on during the lives of the -wearers! Or the fashion of the Myantses would have done. These people -carry on their heads a slight board, a foot long, and half of that broad; -with this they cover their hair, and seal it with wax. They cannot lie -down or lean without keeping the neck straight; and the country being -very woody, it is not uncommon to find them with their head-dress -entangled in the trees. Whenever they require to comb their hair, once or -twice a year, they have to pass a preliminary hour in melting the wax, -before they can get their hats off. - -Better keep them on than take them off to such poor purpose, as was once -observed in the case of one of the celebrities of the Place Royale, -Beautru, whose name was a mine of tinsel to the little punsters of -Paris, in the reign of Louis XIII. Beautru was bold, haughty, and an -inveterate gambler. He was a libertine both as to morals and religion, -and the slanderer _par excellence_ of his age. Richelieu had a strong -liking for him,—proof enough that he was not worth the affection of an -honest man. His repartees were more spiced with wickedness than wit. One -day, on passing in front of a crucifix in the public streets, he, with -an air of humble reverence, raised his hat. “Ah!” exclaimed one who saw -the unwonted action, “that is what I call setting a good example.” “Very -good!” cried the scoffer, pushing his hat firm upon his brows, “but you -will be pleased to observe that though we bow, we are not on speaking -terms.” - -The Place Royale was in the olden times the _sanctum sanctorum_ both -of fashion and wit; and never had either a more celebrated high-priest -than Voiture. This famous Euphuist was only the son of the keeper of a -wine-shop, but he used to say that he had been born again in the society -of Madame and Mademoiselle de Rambouillet. He was a renowned humourist, -was given to love-making and to card-playing, but rather to the latter -than the former. He was remarkable for the fashion of his hats, which he -wore in the very extreme of the mode, like Don Basilio in the ‘Barber of -Seville;’ and he never uncovered even to the greatest noble, until the -latter had first lowered his bonnet to _him_ in testimony of salute to -the wit of the son of the wine-dealer. He once brought two bears from the -street into the boudoir of Mademoiselle Rambouillet; and the lords and -ladies both laughed and screamed at seeing Voiture cover their heads with -the hats of two of the company, and give the animals fine Greek names, -as was the custom of the Euphuists of the day. It was he who uttered the -neat expression applied to Bossuet, when the latter, at the premature age -of fourteen, delivered a sermon before the gay sinners of the Hôtel de -Rambouillet, at midnight. Voiture sat with his hat on to listen to the -discourse, but when it was concluded, he uncovered, and making a low bow -to the young orator,—“Sir,” said he, “I never heard a man preach at once -so early and so late!” and the gallants putting on their plumed hats, -declared with round oaths that Voiture’s wit had capped young Bossuet’s -sermon! - -It was in truth a strange locality, that same old Place Royale. The -Arnault family, with their grave manners and fashions, were perhaps the -worthiest of the residents of any age; but it is not among them that -we must look for striking anecdotes respecting passing modes. These -are more plentifully furnished by the household chronicles of the more -worldly people. The Marchioness de Sablé and the Countess de Maure were -among these latter. They were next-door neighbours, and they daily sent -each other little _billets_, remarkable for the aristocratic contempt -which they showed for orthography; and little patterns of head-dresses, -quite as remarkable for their grace and “killingness.” It happened one -day that the Countess was sick, and thereupon the Marchioness resolved -to pay her a visit of condolence, in state. She was poor and proud, and -her pride and poverty were displayed in the circumstance of ceremony, so -to speak, with which she waited on her much-afflicted friend. She could -not, like an honest woman, put on her bonnet and carry a posset under -the folds of her farthingale to the noble patient. _That_ would have -been derogatory to both noble houses. Accordingly, she descended her -grand and not over-clean staircase, beneath a canopy which consisted of -nothing more than the top and vallance of her cook’s bedstead, upheld on -crossed staves by two grooms, who bore their burden with uncovered heads, -as though royalty were walking beneath the striped-linen canopy of the -old cook’s couch. But it was a canopy, and so there was dignity therein, -though it was rather of a dusty sort. - -While people were laughing at this illustration of pride in Paris, -London was being sadly scandalized at a royal illustration of obstinacy. -When William III. went to church, it was impossible to induce him to -take off his hat. He might indeed doff it during the liturgy, but the -preacher was no sooner in the pulpit than on went the ponderous beaver, -and up fired the indignation of the beholders. William cared not a jot -for their indignation. The Dutch wore their hats during Divine worship, -and _he_ had not ceased to be a Hollander simply for having become a -King of England. Besides, that ancient and scriptural people the Jews -sat in their synagogues with their heads covered, and was not he their -most religious and gracious king?—and did it not become him to follow the -practices of a Biblical race, when the doing so tended to the increase of -his comfort, and jumped with the inclination of his caprices? And so the -broad hat was worn, and censure disregarded. - -In the middle of the last century, when actors at their benefits expected -great houses, the pit was not only incorporated with the boxes, but -a graduated building was erected on the stage for the superflux of -audience. The consequences were sometimes ridiculous enough; _exempli -gratiâ_:— - -When Holland, the Chiswick baker, played Hamlet, at his first benefit at -Drury Lane (1762), the little tillage poured out all its inhabitants to -do him both honour and profit; and I do not know if the predecessor of -the present estimable rector, the Rev. Mr. Bowerbank, was not at the head -of them. However this may be, there was assuredly amongst them a young -Chiswick maiden, who contrived to seat herself at a corner of the lowest -seat of the amphitheatre, with her feet resting on the stage. - -When the Ghost appeared, Hamlet’s hat fell off; and this so excited -the commiseration of the damsel from Chiswick that she gently stepped -forward, picked up the hat, and with her own hands placed it upon -Holland’s head, with the broad corner foremost, as it might have been -worn had Hamlet been exceedingly drunk. Holland gravely finished the -scene, but his appearance was too much for the gravity of the house; and -although the audience, becomingly but with difficulty, restrained their -risibility till the young prince with the queer hat and his respected -sire’s ghost had diversely departed, they burst out into so uproarious -a laugh _then_, that the whole house rang again; and Holland too when -he was led to a glass, and contemplated his own counterfeit and highly -ridiculous presentment. - -Such was a hat on the English stage; here is one on that of America. -Mr. Charles Kean, when once playing Richard, at New Orleans, observed, -as he was seated on the throne, and the curtain was rising, that his -noble peers wore their hats or caps in his presence. With his truncheon -to his lips he contrived a stage whisper, which said, “Take off your -hats; you are in the presence of the king.” “And what of that?” roared -high-reaching Buckingham, looking round at the audience, and smacking his -own cap tighter on his circumspect head; “what of that? I guess we know -nothing of kings in this country.” The New Orleaners were in raptures, -and the king sat corrected. - -In old days there was not only a fashion in the hat, but also in the cock -of it. The famous battle of Ramilies introduced the Ramilies cock of the -hat. In No. 526 of the ‘Spectator,’ “John Sly, a haberdasher of hats, -and tobacconist,” is directed to take down the names of such country -gentlemen as have left the hunting for the military cock, before the -approach of peace. In a subsequent number is told how the same John Sly -is preparing hats for the several kinds of heads that make figures in -the realm of Great Britain, with cocks significant of their powers and -faculties. His hats for men of the faculties of law and physic do but -just turn up to give a little life to their sagacity. His military hats -glare full in the face; and he has prepared a familiar easy cock for all -good companions between the above-mentioned extremes. - -Admiring mothers would sooner have followed their sons to the grave than -see them walk about with hats uncocked,—whether the form took that of -a spout or the point of a mince-pie. The German _Kevenhüller_ came on -about the accession of George III. They were as tasteless as those French -_chapeaux à cornes_, of whom Mr. Bob Fudge says that he - - “would back Mrs. Draper - To cut better weather-boards out of brown paper.” - -At this time, we are told, there was the military cock and the mercantile -cock; and while the beaux of St. James’s wore their hats under their -arms, the beaux of Moorfields Mall wore them diagonally over their left -or right eye. Some wore their hats with the corners which should come -over their foreheads, in a direct line, pointed into the air. These were -the Gawkies. Others did not above half cover their heads, which was -indeed owing to the shallowness of their crowns. A hat with gold binding -bespoke a man given to the pleasures of the turf. The tiny Nivernois hat -came into fashion early in the reign of the third George; and it is said -that gold-laced cocked hats used to be worn in the year ’78, because they -had a military look with them, and would therefore protect the wearer -against the press-gangs that were then more than usually active. - -When round hats came in, at first merely for morning or undress wear, -but finally became a _fait accompli_, like that other little matter, the -French Revolution, all the young wearers of them (and there were, at -first, no others) were denounced as “blackguards” and “highwaymen.” The -youthful votaries of fashion retorted by nicknaming the three-cornered -hats, as “Egham, Staines, and Windsor,” in allusion to the three-fingered -road-post pointing in that tripartite direction. The flat, folding, -crescent-shaped beaver, called a cocked or an opera hat, was still to be -seen as late as 1818; and a party of gentlemen returning on foot from -Almack’s on a summer’s morning, with pantaloons tight as the Venetian -standard-bearer’s, and hats cocked according to the mode, presented a -rather martial look. Since that time, the round hat has gained headway; -even coachmen only wear the old cocked covering on state occasions; and -the ugliest article that ever could be devised for the purpose seems to -be planted upon our unwilling brows for ever. - -In New, as formerly in Old, England, Quakers objected to take off their -hats. A judge in the former locality once remarked thereon, that if -he thought there was any religion in a hat, he would have the largest -he could purchase for money. Poor Essex, at his mock trial before his -enemies in Elizabeth’s palace, was compelled to stand uncovered. He -was so embarrassed with his hat and the papers in it, that he forgot -something of what he had to say; and perhaps too much care for his hat -helped him to lose his head. - -Finally, do my readers know why “beaver” was the originally favourite -material for a hat? Dr. Marius was told by a Jew physician of Ulm, that -it was because by wearing a cap of beaver’s fur, anointing the head -once a month with oil of castor, and taking two or three ounces of it -in a year, a man’s memory may be so strengthened that he will remember -everything he reads. I would eschew French velvet, and would stick to -beaver, if I thought _that_. - -And now as hats were put upon heads, the next fashion that will naturally -come under our notice is the fashion of Wigs and their Wearers. Previous -to turning to which, I may mention, by way of being useful, that “beaver” -is not beaver in our days; and that perhaps is why we are all so -forgetful of our duties. English beaver is a mixture of lamb’s wool and -rabbit’s fur. Silk, satin, and velvet hats are made of plush, woven for -the most part in the north of England. _Paris_ hats are made in London -from French plush, of which we import annually about 150,000 lbs. We -export few hats except to our own colonies. They are chiefly made, like -our wigs, for native wear. - - - - -WIGS AND THEIR WEARERS. - - “Wigs were to protect obstinate old heads from the rays of - truth.”—ANONYMOUS AUTHOR. - - -When it is said that Hadrian was the first Roman Emperor who wore a wig, -nothing more is meant than that he was the first who avowedly wore one. -They were common enough before his time. Caligula and Messalina put them -on, for purposes of disguise, when they were abroad at night; and Otho -condescended to conceal his baldness with what he fain hoped his subjects -would accept as a natural head of hair belonging to one who bore the name -of Cæsar. - -As for the origin of wigs, the honour of the invention is attributed to -the luxurious Iapygians, in Southern Italy. The Louvain theologians, who -published a French version of the Bible, affected however to discover the -first mention of perukes in a passage in the fourth chapter of Isaiah. -The Vulgate has these words:—“Decalvabit Dominus verticem filiarum Sion, -et Dominus crinem earum nudabit.” This the Louvain gentlemen translated -into French as follows:—“Le Seigneur déchevelera les têtes des filles de -Sion; et le Seigneur découvrira leurs perruques.” The which, done into -English, implies that “The Lord will pluck the hair from the heads of the -daughters of Sion, and will expose their periwigs.” My fair friend, you -would perhaps fling your own in my face were I to presume to tell you -what the true reading is. - -In the above free-and-easy translation, the theologians in question -followed no less an authority than St. Paulinus of Nola, and thus had -respectable warrant for their singular mistake. - -Allusions to wigs are frequently made both by the historians and poets -of ancient times. We know that they were worn by fashionable gentlemen -in Palmyra and Baalbec, and that the Lycians took to them out of -necessity. When their conqueror, Mausoleus, had ruthlessly ordered all -their heads to be shaven, the poor Lycians felt themselves so supremely -ridiculous, that they induced the king’s general Condalus, by means of an -irresistible bribe, to permit them to import wigs from Greece; and the -symbol of their degradation became the very pink of Lycian fashion. - -Hannibal was a stout soldier, but on the article of perukes he was as -finical as Jessamy in ‘Lionel and Clarissa,’ and as particular as Dr. -Hoadley’s Ranger,—as nice about their fashion as the former, and as -philosophical as the latter on their look. Hannibal wore them sometimes -to improve, sometimes to disguise, his person; and if he wore one long -enough to spoil its beauty, he was as glad as the airy gentleman in ‘The -Suspicious Husband,’ to fling it aside when it wore a battered aspect. - -Ovid and Martial celebrate the gold-coloured wigs of Germany. The latter -writer is very severe on the dandies and coquettes of his day, who -thought to win attraction under a wig. Propertius, who could describe so -tenderly and appreciate so well what was lovely in girlhood, whips his -butterflies into dragons at the bare idea of a nymph in a _toupet_. Venus -Anadyomene herself would have had no charms for that gentle sigher of -sweet and enervating sounds, had she wooed him in borrowed hair. If he -was not particular touching morals, he was very strict concerning curls. - -If the classical poets winged their satirical shafts against wigs, these -were as little spared by the mimic thunderbolts of the Fathers, Councils, -and Canons of the early Church. Even poets and Christian elders could -no more digest human hair than can the crocodile,—of whom, dead, it is -said, you may know how many individuals he devoured living by the number -of hair-balls in the stomach, which can neither digest nor eject them. -The indignation of Tertullian respecting these said wigs is something -perfectly terrific. Not less is that of St. Gregory of Nazianzus, who -especially vouches for the virtue of his simple sister Gorgonia, for the -reason that she neither cared to curl her own hair, nor to repair its -lack of beauty by the aid of a wig. The thunder of St. Jerome against -these adornments was quite as loud as that of any of the Fathers. They -were preached against as unbecoming to Christianity. Council after -Council, from the first at Constantinople to the last Provincial Council -at Tours, denounced wigs even when worn in joke. “There is no joke in -the matter!” exclaimed the exceedingly irate St. Bernard; “the woman -who wears a wig commits a mortal sin!” St. John Chrysostom cites St. -Paul against the fashion, arguing that they who prayed or preached in -wigs could not be said to worship or to teach the Word of God “with head -uncovered.” “Look!” says Cyprian to the wearers of false hair; “look at -the Pagans! they pray in veils. What better are you than Pagans if you -come to prayers in perukes?” Many local Synods would authorize no fashion -of wearing the hair but straight and short. This form was especially -enjoined on the clergy generally. St. Ambrose as strictly enjoined the -fashion upon the ladies of his diocese: “Do not talk to me of curls,” -said this hard-working prelate; “they are the _lenocinia formæ, non -præcepta virtutis_.” The ladies smiled. It was to some such obdurate and -beautiful rebels that Cyprian once gravely preached, saying: “Give heed -to me, O ye women! Adultery is a grievous sin; but she who wears false -hair is guilty of a greater.” - -It must have been a comfortable state of society when two angry ladies -could exclaim to each other, “You may say of me what you please; you may -charge me with breaking the seventh commandment; but, thank Heaven and -Cyprian, you cannot accuse me of wearing a wig!” - -No pains were spared to deter women from this enormity. St. Jerome holds -up the fate of Prætexta as a warning to all ladies addicted to the -fashion of the world. Prætexta was a very respectable lady, married to -a somewhat paganish husband, Hymetius. Their niece, Eustochia, resided -with them. At the instigation of the husband, Prætexta took the shy -Eustochia in hand, attired her in a splendid dress, and covered her -fair neck with ringlets. Having enjoyed the sight of the modest maiden -so attired, Prætexta went to bed. To that bedside immediately descended -an angel, with wrath upon his brow, and billows of angry sounds rolling -from his lips. “Thou hast,” said the spirit, “obeyed thy husband rather -than the Lord, and hast dared to deck the hair of a virgin, and made her -look like a daughter of earth. For this do I wither up thy hands, and bid -them recognize the enormity of thy crime in the amount of thy anguish -and bodily suffering. Five months more shalt thou live, and then Hell -shall be thy portion; and if thou art bold enough to touch the head of -Eustochia again, thy husband and thy children shall die even before thee.” - -St. Jerome pledges himself for the truth of this story, which is -exceedingly perplexing and utterly unintelligible. - -The ladies were more difficult of management than the clergy. The former -were not to be terrified by the assurance, that breaking an ordinance of -men was a worse crime than breaking one of the commandments of God. The -hair of the clergy was kept straight, by decree of forfeiture of revenues -or benefice against incumbents who approached the altars with curls even -of their natural hair. Pomades and scented waters were denounced as -damnable inventions; but anathema was uttered against the priest guilty -of wearing one single hair combed up above its fellows. The well-curled -Bishop of Oxford would have been in the olden time _ipso facto_, because -of being so curled, excommunicated,—according to the decree of the -Council of Lateran (Gregory II.), which says:—“Cuicumque ex clericis -comam relaxaverit, anathema sit!” - -“All personal disguise,” says Tertullian, “is adultery before God. All -perukes, paint, and powder are such disguises, and inventions of the -devil;” _ergo_, etc. This zealous individual appeals to personal as often -as to religious feeling. “If you will not fling away your false hair,” -says he, “as hateful to Heaven, cannot I make it hateful to yourselves, -by reminding you that the false hair you wear may have come not only -from a criminal but from a very dirty head, perhaps from the head of one -already damned?” - -This was a very hard hit indeed; but it was not nearly so clever a stroke -at wigs as that dealt by Clemens of Alexandria. The latter informed the -astounded wig-wearers that, when they knelt at church to receive the -blessing, they must be good enough to recollect that the benediction -remained on the wig, and did not pass through to the wearer! This was a -stumbling-block to the people; many of whom however retained the peruke, -and took their chance as to the percolating through it of the benediction. - -On similarly obstinate people, Tertullian railed with a hasty charge of -ill-prepared logic. “You were not born with wigs,” said he; “God did not -give them to you. God not giving them, you must necessarily have received -them from the devil.” It was manifest that so rickety a syllogism was -incapable of shaking the lightest _scratch_ from a reasoning Christian’s -skull. Indeed the logic of Tertullian, when levied against wigs, is -exceedingly faulty. Men of the world he points out as being given to -over-scrupulous cleanliness. Your _saint_ is dirty from an impulse of -duty; were he otherwise, he might be too seductive to the weaker sex. -This reminds me of the monk of Prague who was blind, but he had so fine -a nose that he was able to distinguish between a saint and a sinner by -the smell! - -Not only were the Scriptures pressed into service against those who wore -false hair or dyed their own, but zealous Christian priests quoted even -heathen writers to shame men out of the custom. It is a remarkable thing -how well acquainted these well-meaning, but somewhat over-straining, -personages were with the erotic poets of heathendom. - -Before the period of the Conquest, ecclesiastics were hardly -distinguishable from the laity except by the tonsure; and of this they -seem to have been partly ashamed, for they concealed it, to the best of -their ability, by brushing the long hair around it, so as to cover the -distinctive mark. It was only the great dignitaries who wore beards: -had a poor priest ventured to carry one on his face, he would have had -the one pulled and the other slapped by his ecclesiastical superiors. -The inferior clergy cared nothing about the matter till beards were -interdicted, as far as _they_ were concerned; and when the Council -of Limoges, in 1031, decreed that the wearing of the beard was to be -entirely optional, all concerned lost all concern in the question. -Desire had only fastened itself upon what was forbidden. As for the more -dignified clergy of the period, they were the most splendid dressers of -the day; and the greatest “dandies” were those who officiated at the -altar. No censure directed against their extravagance in this respect -had any effect upon them. It was only when the reproof seemingly came -from Heaven that they cared for it; as in the case of the young soldier -in the army of Stephen, who was intensely vain of the locks which fell -from his crown to his knees, and which he suddenly cut off close to the -roots, in consequence of dreaming that the devil was strangling him with -his own luxuriant ringlets. The dream did not cure other fops. In the -days of King John, our excellent fathers actually curled their hair with -crisping irons, and bound their locks with fillets, like girls. They -went bareheaded lest the beauty of their curls should be disturbed by a -cap; and they were not at all the sort of men that we should suspect of -having wrung Magna Charta from the King;—that Magna Charta the original -copy of which once fell into the hands of a tailor, who was cutting it up -into other measures for men, when it was rescued, not without difficulty, -and consigned to its present safe custody in the British Museum. - -English _ladies_ (despite the fact that English lords cherished wigs -even in the days of Stephen) do not appear to have adopted the fashion -of wearing wigs until about the year 1550. Junius, in his ‘Commentarium -de Comâ,’ says that false hair came into use here with the ladies about -that time, and that such use had never before been adopted by English -matrons. Some three hundred years before this, the Benedictine monks -at Canterbury, who were canons of the cathedral, very pathetically -represented to Pope Innocent IV. that they were subject to catch very -bad colds from serving in the wide and chilly cathedral bareheaded. The -Pontiff gave them solemn permission to guard against cathedral rheum, -bronchitis, and phthisis, by covering their heads with the hood common -to their order; bidding them have especial care however to fling back -the hood at the reading of the Gospel, and at the elevation of the host. -Zealous churchmen have been very indignant at the attempts made to prove -that the permission of Innocent IV. might be construed as a concession -to priests, allowing them to wear wigs if they were so minded. The -question was settled at the Great Council of England, held in London -in 1268. That Council refused to sanction the wearing by clerics of -“quas vulgo _coifas_ vocant,” except when they were travelling. If a -coif even was profane, a wig to this Council would have taken the guise -of the unpardonable sin. It is, however, well known that although Rome -forbade a priest to officiate with covered head, permission to do so -was purchaseable. In fact, the rule of Rome was not founded, as it was -asserted to be, on Scripture. Permission was readily granted to the -Romish priests in China to officiate with covered heads, as being more -agreeable to the native idea there of what was seemly. - -Native sentiment nearer home was much less regarded. Thus, when the -Bulgarians complained to Pope Nicholas, that their priests would not -permit them to wear, during church-time, those head-wrappers, or turbans, -which it was their habit never to throw off, the Pontiff returned an -answer which almost took the brief and popular form of “Serve you right!” -and the Bulgarians, on the other hand, took nothing by their motion. - -Our Anselm of Canterbury was as little conceding to the young and -long-haired nobles of his day as was Pope Nicholas to the Bulgarians. -Eadmer, a monk of Canterbury, relates that on one occasion (Ash -Wednesday) the Primate soundly rebuked the hirsute aristocracy, put them -in penance, and refused them absolution, until they had submitted to -be close shorn. The prelate in question would allow none to enter his -cathedral who wore either long or false hair. - -Against both the objection remained for a lengthened period insuperable. -When Henry I. of England was in France, Sirron, Bishop of Séez, told him -that Heaven was disgusted at the aspect of Christians in long hair, or -who wore on manly heads locks that perhaps originally came from female -brows. They were, he said, sons of Belial for so offending:—“Pervicaces -filii Belial, capita sua cornis mulierum ornata.” - -The King looked grave: the prelate insinuatingly invited the father of -his people, who wore long if not false hair, to set a worthy example. -“We’ll think of it,” said the sovereign. “No time like the present,” -replied the prelate, who produced a pair of scissors from his episcopal -sleeve, and advanced towards Henry, prepared to sweep off those honours -which the monarch would fain have preserved. But what was the sceptre -of the prince to the forceps of the priest? The former meekly sat down -at the entrance of his tent, while Bishop Sirron clipped him with the -skilful alacrity of Figaro. Noble after noble submitted to the same -operation; and, while these were being docked by the more dignified -clergy, a host of inferior ecclesiastics passed through the ranks of the -grinning soldiers, and cut off hair enough to have made the fortunes of -all the periwig builders who rolled in gilded chariots during the palmy -days of the _Grand Monarque_. - -In what then but in profligate days could wigs have triumphed in England? -Periwigs established themselves victoriously (dividing even the Church) -under Louis XIV. When a boy, that king had such long and beautiful hair, -that a fashion ensued for all classes to wear at least an imitation -thereof. When Louis began to lose his own, he also took to false -adornment; and full-bottomed wigs bade defiance to the canons of the -Church. - -Charles II. did not bring the fashion with him to Whitehall. On the -contrary, he withstood it. He forbade the members of the University to -wear periwigs, smoke tobacco, or read their sermons. The members did all -three, and Charles soon found himself doing the first two. “On the 2nd -November, 1663,” says Pepys, “I heard the Duke say, that he was going to -wear a periwig; and they say the King also will. I never till this day,” -he adds, “observed that the King was so mighty grey.” This perhaps was -the reason why Charles stooped to assume what he had before denounced. -Pepys himself had adventured on the step in the previous May; and what a -business it was for the little man! Hear him. “8th. At Mr. Jervas’s, my -old barber. I did try two or three borders and periwigs, meaning to wear -one; and yet I have no stomach for it; but that the pains of keeping -my hair clean is so great. He trimmed me, and at last I parted; but my -mind was almost altered from my first purpose, from the trouble which I -foresee will be in wearing them also.” He took some time to make up his -mind; and only in October of the same year does he take poor Mrs. Pepys -“to my periwig maker’s, and there showed my wife the periwig made for me, -and she likes it very well.” - -In April, 1665, the wig was in the hands of Jervas, under repair. In -the meantime, our old friend took to his natural hair; but early in -May we find him recording, “that this day, after I had suffered my own -hayre to grow long, in order to wearing it, I find the convenience of -periwigs is so great, that I have cut off all short again, and will -keep to periwigs.” In the autumn, on Sunday the 3rd of September, the -wicked little gallant moralizes thus on periwigs and their prospects. -“Up, and put on my coloured silk suit, very fine, and my new periwig, -bought a good while since, but durst not wear, because the plague was -in Westminster when I bought it; and it is a wonder what will be the -fashion, after the plague is done, as to periwigs, for nobody will dare -to buy any hayre for fear of the infection, that it had been cut off -the heads of people dead of the plague.” The plague and fear thereof -were clean forgotten before many months had passed; and in June, 1666, -Pepys says:—“Walking in the galleries at Whitehall, I find the ladies of -honour dressed in their riding-garbs, with coats and doublets with deep -skirts, just for all the world like mine; and buttoned their doublets -up their breasts, with periwigs and with hats. So that only for a long -petticoat dragging under their men’s coats, nobody could take them for -women in any point whatever; which was an odd sight, and a sight that -did not please me.” The moralist at Whitehall, however, could forget -his mission when at “Mercer’s.” There, on the 14th of August, 1666, the -thanksgiving day for the recent naval victory, after “hearing a piece of -the Dean of Westminster’s sermon,” dining merrily, enjoying the sport at -the Bear Garden, and letting off fireworks, the periwig philosopher, with -his wife, Lady Penn, Pegg and Nan Wright, kept it up at Mrs. Mercer’s -after midnight; “and there, mighty merry, smutting one another with -candle-grease and soot, until most of us were like devils. And that being -done, then we broke up, and to my house, and there I made them drink; and -up stairs we went and then fell into dancing, W. Battelier dancing well; -and dressing him and I, and one Mr. Banister, who, with my wife, came -over also with us, like women; and Mercer put on a suit of Tom’s, like a -boy. And Mr. Wright, and my wife, and Pegg Penn put on periwigs, and thus -we spent till three or four in the morning, mighty merry;”—and little -troubled with the thought whether the skull which had afforded the hair -for such periwig were lying in the pest-fields or not. - -By the following year, our rising gentleman grows extravagant in his -outlay for such adornments; and he who had been content to wear a wig at -23_s._ buys now a pair for £4. 10_s._,—“mighty fine; indeed too fine, -I thought, for me.” And yet, amazingly proud was the macaroni of his -purchase, recording two days afterwards, that he had been “to church, -and, with my mourning, very handsome; and new periwig made a great show.” - -Doubtless, under James II., his periwigged pate made a still greater -show; for then had wigs become stupendous in their architecture. The -beaux who stood beneath them, as I have stated in another page, carried -exquisite combs in their ample pockets, with which, whether in the Mall, -at the rout, in the private box, or engaged in the laborious work of -“making love,” they ever and anon combed their periwigs, and rendered -themselves irresistible. - -Even at that period, Wisdom was thought to be beneath the Wig. “A full -wig,” says Farquhar in his ‘Love and a Bottle’ (1698), “is as infallible -a token of wit as the laurel;” an assertion which I should never think of -disputing. - -Tillotson is the first of our clergy represented in a wig, and _that_ -a mere substitute for the natural head of hair. “I can remember,” he -says, in one of his sermons, “since the wearing of the hair below the -ears was looked upon as a sin of the first magnitude; and when ministers -generally, whatever their text was, did either find or make occasion -to reprove the great sin of long hair; and if they saw any one in the -congregation guilty in that kind, they would point him out particularly, -and _let fly at him_ with great zeal.” - -The victory of Ramilies introduced the Ramilies wig, with its peculiar, -gradually diminishing, plaited tail, and tie, consisting of a great bow -at top, and a smaller one at the bottom. This wig survived till the reign -of George III. The macaronis of 1729 wore “a macaw-like toupee and a -portentous tail.” But when the French Revolution came in contact with any -system,—from the German Empire to perukes,—that system perished in the -collision. So periwigs ceased, like the dynasty of the Doges of Venice; -and all that remains to remind us of by-gone glories in the former way, -is to be found in the Ramilies tie, which still clings to court coats, -though the wigs have fallen from the head, never again to rise. - -Lady Wortley Montague makes a severe remark in her letters, less against -wigs indeed than their wearers. She is alluding to an alleged custom -in the East of branding every convicted liar on the forehead; and she -smartly adds, that if such a custom prevailed in England, the entire -world of beaux here would have to pull their periwigs down to their -eyebrows. - -Tillotson, as I have noticed above, makes reference to the opposition -which perukes met with from the pulpit. The hostility from that quarter -in England was faint, compared with the fiery antagonism which blazed -in France. In the latter country, the privilege of wearing long hair -belonged, at one time, solely to royalty. Lombard, Bishop of Paris, -in the middle of the twelfth century induced royalty not to make the -privilege common, but to abolish it altogether. The French monarchs wore -their own hair cut short, until the reign of Louis XIII., who was the -first King of France who wore a wig. To the fashion set by him is owing -that France ultimately became the paradise of perruquiers. - -In 1660, they first appeared on the heads of a few dandy abbés. As -Ireland, in Edward Dwyer, or “Edward of the Wig,” has preserved the -memory of the first of her sons who took to a periwig, so France has -handed down the Abbé de la Rivière, who died Bishop of Langres, as being -the ecclesiastical innovator on whose head first rested a wig, with -all the consequences of such guilty outrage of canonical discipline. -The indignation of strict churchmen was extreme; and as the fashion -began to spread amongst prelates, canons, and curés, the Bishop of -Toul sat himself down and wrote a “blast” against perukes, the wearing -of which, he said, unchristianized those who adopted the fashion. It -was even solemnly announced that a man had better not pray at all than -pray with his head so covered. No profanity was intended when zealous, -close-cropped, and bareheaded ecclesiastics reminded their bewigged -brethren, that they were bound to imitate Christ in all things; and then -asked them, if the Saviour were likely to recognize a resemblance to -himself in a priest under a wig. - -Nor was this feeling confined to the Romish Church in France. The -Reformed Church was fully as hostile against the new and detested -fashion. Bordeaux was in a state of insurrection, for no other reason -than that the Calvinist pastor there had refused to admit any of his -flock in wigs to the sacrament. And when Riviers, Protestant Professor of -Theology at Leyden, wrote his ‘Libertas Christiana circa Usum Capillitii -Defensa’ in behalf of perukes, the ultra-orthodox in both churches -turned to gore him. The Romanists asked, what could be expected from a -Protestant but rank heresy? and the Protestants disowned a brother who -defended a fashion which had originated with a Romanist. Each party stood -by the words of Paul to the Corinthians. In vain did some suggest that -the apostolical injunction was only local. The ultras would heed no such -suggestion, and would have insisted on bare heads at both poles. - -“And yet,” remarked the wiggites, “it is common for preachers to preach -in caps.” “Ay,” retorted the orthodox, “but that is simply because they -are then speaking only in their own name. Reading the Gospel or offering -up the adorable sacrifice, they are speaking or acting in the name of the -Universal Church. Of course,” they added, “there are occasions when even -a priest may be covered. If a Pope invented the _baret_, a curé may wear -a cap.” - -Sylvester was the first Pontiff who wore a mitre, but even that fashion -became abused; and in the year 1000 a Pope was seen with his mitre on -during mass,—a sight which startled the faithful, and a fact which -artists would be none the worse for remembering. _After_ that period, -bishops took to them so pertinaciously that they hardly laid them by -on going to bed. These prelates were somewhat scandalized, when the -Popes granted to certain dukes the privilege of wearing the mitre; but -when the like favour was granted to abbots of a peculiar class, the -prelatic execration was uttered with a jealous warmth that was perfectly -astounding. - -When the moderns brought the question back to its simple principles, -and asked the sticklers for old customs if wigs were not as harmless -as mitres, they were treated with as scant courtesy as Mr. Gorham or -the Lord Primate is in the habit of experiencing at the hands of a -“mediæval” bishop. If, it was said, a priest must even take off his -_calotte_ in presence of a king or Pope, how may he dare to wear a wig -before God? Richelieu was the first ecclesiastic of his rank in France -who wore the modern _calotte_; but I very much doubt if he ever took it -off in the presence of Louis XIII. It is known however that the French -King’s ambassador, M. d’Oppeville, found much difficulty in obtaining -an audience at Rome. He wore a wig _à calotte_,—that is, a wig with a -_coif_, as though the tonsure had been regularly performed, and that the -wig was natural hair. The officials declared he could not be introduced -unless he took off the _calotte_. He could not do this without taking off -the wig also, as he showed the sticklers of court etiquette, and stood -before them with clean-shaven head; asking, at the same time,—“Would the -Pope desire me to stand in his presence in such a plight as this?” The -Pontiff however did not yield the point readily. Perhaps his Holiness, -had he received the ambassador under bare poll, would have graciously -served him as one of his predecessors had served the Irish saint, -Malachi,—put his pontifical tiara on the good man’s head, to prevent his -catching cold! - -But of all the tilters against wigs, none was so serious and chivalresque -as “Jean Batiste Thiers, Docteur en Théologie et Curé de Champrond.” -Dr. Thiers, in the year 1690, wrote a book of some six hundred pages -against the wearing of wigs by ecclesiastics. He published the same at -his own expense; and high authority pronounced it conformable in every -respect to the “Roman Catholic and Apostolic Church.” Dr. Thiers wrote -a brief preface to his work, in which he invokes an abundant visitation -of divine peace and grace on those who read his volume with tranquillity -of mind, and who preferred truth to fashion. The invocation, I fear, is -made in vain; for the tediousness of the author slays all tranquillity of -spirit on the part of the reader, who cannot however refrain from smiling -at seeing the very existence of Christianity made to depend upon the -question of perukes. The book is a dull book: but the prevailing idea -in it,—that it is all over with religion if perukes be not abolished,—is -one that might compel a cynic to inextinguishable laughter. Yes, says -the Doctor, the origin of the tonsure is to be found in the cutting of -Peter’s hair by the Gentiles, to make him look ridiculous; _therefore_, -he who hides the tonsure beneath a peruke insults the Prince of the -Apostles! A species of reasoning, anything comparable with which is not -to be found in that book which Rome has honoured by condemning—Whately’s -‘Logic.’ - -The volume however affords evidence of the intense excitement raised in -France by the discussion of the bearing of wigs on Christianity. For -a season, the question in some degree resembled, in its treatment at -least, that of baptismal regeneration, as now treated among ourselves. No -primitively-minded prelate would license a curé who professed neutrality -on the matter of wigs. The wearers of these were often turned out of -their benefices; but then they were welcomed in other dioceses, by -bishops who were heterodoxly given to the mundane comfort of wiggery. -Terrible scenes took place in vestries between wigged priests ready -to repair to the altar, and their brethren or superiors who sought to -prevent them. Chapters suspended such priests from place and profit; -Parliaments broke the decree of suspension, and Chapters renewed the -interdict. Decree was abolished by counter-decree, and the whole Church -was rent in twain by the contending parties. - -Louis XIV. took the conservative side of the question, so far as it -regarded ecclesiastics; and the Archbishop of Rheims fondly thought he -had clearly settled the dispute by decreeing, that wigs might or might -not be worn, according to circumstances. They were allowed to infirm -and aged priests, but never at the altar. One consequence was that many -priests used first to approach near to the altar, and there taking off -their wigs, deposit the same, under protest, in the hands of attending -notaries. Such a talk about heads had not kept a whole city in confusion -since the days wherein St. Fructuarius, Bishop of Braga, decreed the -penalty of entirely-shaven crowns against all the monks of that city -caught in the fact of kissing any of its maidens. Three-fourths of the -grave gentlemen thus came under the razor! Such would not have been the -case, good reader, with you and me. Certainly not! We would not have -been found out, and we know better than to “kiss and tell, as they do at -Brentford.” - -Thiers could not see in the wig the uses discerned by Cumberland, who -says, in his ‘Choleric Man,’—“Believe me, there is much good sense in -old distinctions. When the law lays down its full-bottomed periwig, you -will find less wisdom in bald pates than you are aware of.” The Curé of -Champrond says that the French priests, who yearly spent their thirty -or forty pistoles in wigs, were so irreligious that they kept their -best wigs for the world, and their oldest for God!—wearing the first -in drawing-rooms, and the latter in church. This was certainly less -ingenious than in the case of the man celebrated in the ‘Connoisseur,’ -who, having but one peruke, made it pass for two:—“It was naturally a -kind of flowing bob; but by the occasional addition of two tails, it -sometimes passed as a major.” - -In France wigs ended by assuming the appearance of nature. In the Reign -of Terror, the modish blonde perukes worn by females were made of hair -purchased from the executioner, of whom old ladies bought the curls which -had clustered about the young necks that had been severed by the knife of -Samson. But after this the fashion ceased among women, as it had already -done among men, beginning to do so with the latter when Franklin appeared -in his own hair, unpowdered, at the Court of Louis XVI.; and from that -period wigs have belonged only to history. - -If you please, gentle reader, we will now descend from the wig to the -beard. - - - - -BEARDS AND THEIR BEARERS. - - “Now of beards there be - Such a company, - Of fashions such a throng, - That it is very hard - To treat of the beard, - Though it be ne’er so long.” - - _Ballad_ - in LE PRINCE D’AMOUR. (1650.) - - -Whoever invented wigs, proud as he may be of the achievement, cannot -boast of the same antiquity for his fashion as that which attaches to the -beard. The beard, like sewing, came in with or was a consequence of sin. -With respect to sewing and sin, I have before spoken; and I will only add -here, that in the most prosperous times of Puritanism, it was the fashion -for Puritan ladies to wear aprons only of a green colour, that being -presumedly the colour of the apron worn by Eve, whose daughters they -were, and the remembrance of whose sin and the acknowledgment of their -own, they perpetuated in the adopted fashion of their day. - -It is confidently asserted by Dutch philosophers,—_so_ confidently that -to suppose they have not good authority for what they assert, would be -very ungenerous on my part,—it is asserted then by these Hollanders that -Adam was created without a beard, and that the latter appendage was -suddenly conferred on his chin on the very evening of the day that he had -been such a “beast” as to allow himself to be beguiled into rebellion -by his wife. He was consequently so far changed into the similitude of -a beast, being rendered most like the goat, who is an impostor in his -way, wearing as he does the grave airs of a judge, and yet being given -to very frolicsome indulgences, in which judges should not, though they -often do, indulge. - -If this be fact, one may wonder why Eve and her daughters generally -escaped this badge of opprobrium. It was perhaps on the principle -according to which we punish the receiver more than the thief. If there -were no receivers there would be less pilferers; and though Eve offered -the temptation, if Adam had only resisted it, the consequences would -have been confined within their original narrow limits, and Mr. Mechi’s -razor-strops would have been without a market. - -Van Helmont, in support of this theory, asks us if we ever saw a good -angel with a beard;—one of those questions which are supposed by those -who put them to determine a dispute at once. He falls to another -conclusion thereupon; and maintains that if good angels do not wear -beards, the men who _do_ are guilty of profanity, and love goats rather -than godliness. Van Helmont himself was extremely perplexed by the Jesuit -casuists, who wrote on the lawfulness of beards, and who most lucidly -proved, under three heads,—1st, That we are bound to shave the beard; -2nd, That we are bound to let it grow; and 3rd, That we may do either the -one or the other. - -St. François de Sales, the gentleman saint, was less perplexing when, -on being asked by a lady whether she might not _rouge_, smiled, and -answered, certainly, if she only painted one cheek. - -Van Helmont hit the happy medium left by the Jesuitical argument, and, -shaving his beard, only cultivated his mustachios. - -Southey is rather inclined to accept the Dutch account of the derivation -of beards, based as it is on the certainty that no man ever saw a good -angel wearing one; “for,” says he, “take the most beautiful angel that -ever painter designed or engraver copied, put him on a beard, and the -celestial character will be so entirely destroyed, that the simple -appendage of a tail will cacodæmonize the Eudæmon.” So it may be said, -that a monk with a fine polished bald head is hedged with a sort of -divinity, and looks altogether reverend; but only sprinkle powder from -a dredging-box upon the baldness, and you make him, if not ridiculous, -certainly mundane. - -The English clergy do not appear to have estimated beards by Van -Helmont’s scale. One of the body, in the reign of Elizabeth, cherished -his beard as an incentive to righteousness. “He wore it,” he said, -“to remind him that no act of his life should be unworthy of the -gravity of his appearance.” This good gentleman’s beard assuredly did -not deserve what Shakspeare affirms some men’s _do_, namely, “not so -honourable a grave as to stuff a botcher’s cushion, or to be entombed -in an ass’s pack-saddle.” Henry VIII. on the other hand, would not -tolerate monitorism even from his own beard, and he accordingly and -characteristically cut it short. Perhaps this monarch wished also to have -it out of the way of petitioners; for stroking the beard, in sign of -supplication for mercy, was for thousands of years a recognized fashion, -as may be seen in the Classics, and in Shakspeare, _passim_. It will be -remembered that Hudibras stroked his own beard before he proceeded to -“honour the shadow” of the lady’s shoe-tie. This act has been editorially -declared to have been done as in sign of asking for her favour; from the -recollection, I suppose, of Thetis “palming” the chin of Jupiter; but I -think it was merely a piece of gallantry, “dressing” as it were, for the -occasion, as in Congreve’s ‘Way of the World,’ wherein it is said, “The -gentlemen wait but to comb, Madam, and will wait on you.” Formerly, no -gallant ascended to a lady’s boudoir without first combing his peruke at -the foot of the stairs, and assuring himself, by a glance at his pocket -mirror, that he was as well-looking a fop as ever wasted morning in -talking nonsense to a speaking and painted doll. - -To pull another person’s beard, was to inflict on the wearer the most -degrading insult that could be thought of. When the Jew, who hated and -feared the living Cid Rui Dios, heard that the great Spaniard was dead, -he contrived to get into the room where the body lay, and he indulged -his revengeful spirit by contemptuously plucking at the beard. But the -“son of somebody” (the _hidalgo_) was plucked temporarily into life and -indignation by the outrage; and starting half up, endeavoured to get at -his sword,—an attempt which killed the Jew by the mere fright which it -caused. - -To shave a Moslem’s beard was once a penalty as terrible as to a Chinese -the cutting off of his extended tail; and Christian princes have so -esteemed the appendage, that they have pawned the beard, or a portion -of it, for money lent, and redeemed the sacred pledge punctually at the -promised hour. They would have forfeited all claim to be honoured of men, -or rewarded of God, had they failed in their contract. In modern times -they pledge only their words; and as words are of less value than beards, -they are not so careful about the redemption thereof. That terribly -mendacious personage, the Czar Nicholas, has, at all events, made his -“parole de _gentleman_” to be synonymous with deliberate falsehood. - -The beard however was long a cherished ornament of Russian chins, and -the Czar Peter was accused of profanity against that orthodoxy which so -distinguishes his successors by abolishing them. He certainly abolished -the huge and spreading honours of the Muscovite jaws by a rough process. -Taxes were laid upon them, which had their weight upon every hair; -and when the recalcitrant were encountered in the street, they were -seized, and their beards either torn from them, or shaved off with an -oyster-knife, whereby half the chin went with the entire beard. The -loyal nobility compromised the matter by preserving their beards in their -cabinets, to be buried with them. They conjectured that the angels would -neither know nor welcome them if they presented themselves at Heaven’s -gate with clean chins: they thought more of these than of clean souls. - -Taylor, the water poet, catalogues in rough rhymes the various fashions -after which beards were worn. They are too tedious to enumerate, and yet -do not enumerate every fashion; for omission is made of the fact that -it was once the very “sweetest” mode to wear strings to the beard, as -Jack the highwayman did to the knees of his breeches, and the Kings of -Persia, who interwove their beards with gold thread. The “cane-coloured” -beard was always held as detestable, that hue having been, according -to tradition, that of the beard of the traitor Judas. The famous Count -Brühl, who lost Saxony but preserved a collection of wigs, was more -practical than the Water Poet. His wig museum not only contained every -variety, but they were chronologically arranged, from the days of Aaron -to those of the Count’s own time. I may add, that I have never heard of -the beard being held in dishonour except among the Chaymas, in South -America, who have a great antipathy against it. - -Apollo and Mercury are the only deities of olden times who are -represented beardless. When professional barbers first arose it would be -difficult to say; Rome got hers from where she procured her cooks—Sicily; -but the Eternal City was four centuries and a half old before the chins -of her sons were submitted to the handling of mercenaries. Scipio -Africanus, despite the turmoil of battles, found time to shave every -day; and he was the first Roman who did so. Had the Senate followed the -same fashion, the invading Gaul would not have found a beard to pluck, -and perhaps the city might have been saved. The old Persians were very -obstinate in this respect; and they and the Tartars waged bloody wars, -and spilled oceans of blood in no better quarrel than the fashion of the -beard. These heathens were almost as wicked as the Christian inhabitants -of the adjacent towns of Bouvignes and Dinant, in Flanders. The people of -both localities manufactured copper kettles, and each declared that the -other’s ware was made after a sorry fashion. The animosity thus created -led to bloody and long-continued feuds; but peace was happily restored by -the time that other towns had applied themselves to the manufacture, and -this gave the old antagonists the more leisure to ruminate upon their own -folly. - -When Alexander ordered the Macedonian soldiers to shave, lest their -beards should be handles whereby their enemies might capture them, -smooth chins become a universal Greek fashion. It so continued to the -reign of Justinian, but when the Turks took Byzantium, they would allow -of beards only on the chins of the conquerors; and the Normans treated -the Anglo-Saxons according to the same rule. Subsequently, in the year -1200, the Council of Lateran swept off the beards of the monks, “lest -in the ceremony of receiving the sacrament, the beard might touch the -bread and wine, or crumbs and drops fall and stick upon it.” The monks -then were, like the Emperors, _utraquists_. Of course dispensation was to -be obtained by paying for it, and it was probably _therefore_ that the -decree was issued; but some wore their beards, in despite of the Church -and her chancery, for the same reason that Fitzherbert Longbeard did in -the Norman times, to show his independence of all superiors and their -orders. - -If there has really been wisdom in the wig, there has been wit in the -beard, or its owner. More, on the scaffold, put it out of reach of the -axe, because, as he said, it had committed no treason. Raleigh, when -visited by the barber of the Tower, declined to have his beard trimmed, -on the ground that there was a lawsuit pending about it, between him and -the King, and he would not lay out any capital on it till the cause had -been decided. - -Raleigh’s wit reminds me of something still more witty, and quite as -germane to the subject. - -A few years prior to the Revolution, the witty but rather too fiery -Linguet was committed to the Bastille. It is seldom that confinement -calms the bile of the confined; and accordingly Linguet, the next -morning, was engaged in writing _ab irato_ an article against his -incarcerators; when he was interrupted by the entrance into his room of -a tall, thin, pale, personage, whose appearance very much displeased the -celebrated advocate. - -“What is your business?” said the latter, in a marked tone of ill-humour. - -“Sir,” answered the other, “I come—” - -“I see you are come!” interrupted the impatient lawyer, “but you are not -wel-come.” - -“Possibly, Sir; but I am the Bastille barber, and I have come—” - -Here the Figaro of state-prisoners burst into a laugh, and rubbing his -chin significantly with his hand, exclaimed, “Ho! ho! my good Sir, that -is a different matter; _puisque vous êtes le barbier de la Bastille, -rasez-la_;” and after so capital a pun, he addressed himself in better -humour to the cutting up of his adversaries. - -The last barber who held something more than barber’s office under a -Christian king was Olivier le Dain, the _familiar_ of Louis XI. In -Persia, it has been common for the monarch’s barber to be a prince over -the people. The Khasterash, or “personal shaver,” is reverenced by all -inferior citizens; and they see nothing incongruous in the fact that -a palace and slaves are part of the rewards of a man who makes of the -beard of the Shah an eighth wonder of the world. The beard, in fact, has -ever been held in reverential regard by all Moslems, for the reason that -their prophet never allowed instrument to diminish his own. An Arab -would be as much horror-stricken now as ever Lacedemonian fugitive was of -old, if in punishment for offence he were condemned to lose, by shaving, -the half of his beard. He would infinitely prefer to lose half his family. - -The wit of Linguet, mentioned above, recalls to my memory a _trait_ of -a Duc de Brissac. This nobleman was frequently heard saying, as he was -at his matutinal toilet, and was about to raise his razor to the surface -of his ducal chin:—“Now then, Timoléon de Cossé, God hath made thee a -gentleman, and the King hath made thee a duke; nevertheless, it is right -and proper that thou shouldst have something to do—therefore thou shalt -shave thyself.” I may add that it was the fashion of the De Cossés to -have one general Christian name; and I think it is Bungener who remarks, -in his ‘Julian,’ that on a gentleman of this house being brought before -the revolutionary tribunal, and asked what his baptismal name was, he -answered indignantly, “Am I not a De Cossé? and what should my Christian -name be but Timoléon?”—and he added an exclamatory “de par Dieu!” to show -that though he was in danger of death, he could swear as recklessly as -though he had still been in the galleries of Versailles. - -I have said that philosophers have not disdained to write upon the beard, -and I may be honestly proud of an opportunity to follow in the wake of -the philosophers. Chrysippus has chronologized its history, and it is -from him we know that it was not before the reign of Alexander that -shaving became a fashion in the East. Timotheus, that renowned musician, -long stuck to the olden mode, and played the flute in a beard as long as -his instrument, πώγωνα μέγαν ἔχων ηὔλει: and how sweetly does that last -word interpret the flute’s sweet sound—ηὔλει! it dies away like a cadence -beneath the lips of as great a flutist as Timotheus, our own modest and -able Richardson. - -The first man who shaved himself at Athens acquired a name by the act. He -was called _Korses_, the shaven, or clipped. Diogenes despised fashion, -and therefore kept his beard. Not only that; he abused all who dispensed -with it. “Ah!” he exclaimed with that mouth which lay behind a portion of -his own hirsute dirtiness,—for Diogenes had a contempt for soap;—“Ah!” -cried he, on encountering a friend newly mown, “art thou inclined then to -reproach Nature? Wouldst thou insinuate that she had done better to have -made thee a woman rather than a man?” - -At Rhodes all shaving was forbidden; but the Rhodians loved to display -their independence of the law, and every man did what seemed best to his -own chin. The same unruly sort of liberty was taken by the Byzantine -barbers. The law expressly denounced razors, but scissors were tolerated. -Clipping was permitted, but shaving was pronounced irreligious. Some -priests shaved in spite of the decree. It was made a diocesan-court -matter of; and the chief pontiff, a sort of bishop in his way, rendered -an admirable judgement on the occasion. He regretted his limited powers, -but he said his course was clear. Scissors were lawful, razors illegal; -but the priests had first used the former, and the law did not say -that razors should _not_ be used after the scissors had been applied. -For his own part, he did not well know which to adopt; but he thought -his reverend gentlemen would be justified in keeping razors, but not -in using them—themselves. They might shave each other! One poor priest -inquired what _he_ was required to do, seeing that he had no beard. “Oh,” -said Λονδονικός, “in this case I have no doubt. The use of scissors is -imperative; and if you do not obey the law, I will clap you into the -Ecclesiastical Court.” - -The Mahometans are very superstitious touching the beard. They bury -the hairs which come off in combing it, and break them first, because -they believe that angels have charge of every hair, and that they gain -them their dismissal by breaking it. Selim I. was the first Sultan who -shaved his beard, contrary to the law of the Koran. “I do it,” said -he apologetically to the scandalized and orthodox mufti, “to prevent -my vizier leading me by it.” He cared less for it than some of our -ancestors, two centuries ago, did for their own. They used to wear -pasteboard covers over them in the night, lest they should turn upon them -and rumple them in their sleep! - -The famous Raskolniki schismatics had a similar superstition to the -Mahometan one mentioned above. They considered the divine image in man to -reside in the beard. - -Not only have the shavers of barbaric kings been accounted superior -to the Prime Minister, as in our own country French _coiffeurs_ are -infinitely better paid than English curates; so to be shaved by a Prince -is to be exalted to ecstatic honours. Hoskins, the traveller, was so -operated on by the heir apparent of the Shaghes. His royal highness used -a threepenny razor, and at every stroke carried away as much chin as -beard; the honour was too much for the traveller, especially when it was -cut out with a blunt razor. - -Rogers is said to have once asked Talleyrand if Napoleon shaved himself. -“Yes,” said the latter; “one who is born to be a king has some one to -shave him, but they who acquire kingdoms shave themselves.” He might have -added, “And the people too, pretty closely!” - -But I am pulling the beard to a greater extent than my readers’ patience -will be inclined to bear with it. I have only to add, that the beard was -a symbol of bravery as well as of wisdom; and he who had a good one on -his chin was usually able to grasp a sword to some purpose in his hand. -Let us therefore draw the sword too, and see what can be made of it. - - - - -SWORDS. - - “I love an enemy, I was born a soldier; - And he that at the head of his troop defies me, - Binding my manly body with his sword - I make my mistress.”—BONDUCA. - - -In the first book of the Peloponnesian War, it is stated by Thucydides -that “the people of the Continent exercised robberies upon one another; -and to this very day,” he adds, “the people of Greece are supported by -the same practices.” The great historian especially names the Ozolian -Locrians, Ætolians, and Acarnanians, and their neighbours on the -continent; among whom, as he informs his readers, the custom of wearing -their swords, or other weapons required by their old life of rapine, was -still retained. “This custom,” continues the writer, “of wearing weapons, -once prevailed throughout Greece, as the houses had no manner of defence, -as travelling was full of hazard, and the whole lives of the people were -passed in armour, like barbarians. A proof of this,” says the civilized -Thucydides, “is the continuance still in some parts of Greece of these -manners, which were once with uniformity general to all. The Athenians -were the first who discontinued the custom of wearing their swords, and -who passed from the dissolute life into more polite and elegant manners.” - -What the Athenians did so long ago was not accomplished in our own -metropolis until the end of the first quarter, or rather the beginning of -the second half, of the last century. The example, slowly set by London, -was soon enforced at Bath. I say “enforced,” because there was a pleasant -despot there, who ruled so supreme that the very “Baths of Bath” seemed -only to flow at his permission. - -It was in presence of “Beau Nash” that fell the swords and top-boots of -the squires and the aprons of the ladies. The results thereof, at least -of the putting aside the sword, at Bath and in London, and throughout the -country generally, where gallant submitted to be disarmed in obedience -to law or to custom, may be described in the language of Thucydides, -as applied to the Athenians when they abandoned ruffianism and adopted -refinement:—“Men passed from the dissolute life into more polite and -elegant manners.” - -In the simple old Saxon days the sword played a considerable part in -the making of a knight. The candidate for chivalry was required, the -day before his consecration, to confess; and then pass the night in the -church, in prayer and fasting. On the following day he was to hear mass, -and during the service he placed his sword upon the altar; the priest, -after the Gospel, took the weapon, blessed it, and then, with benison on -the warrior, laid the blade on the neck of the knight, who however was -not a knight complete until he had received the Sacrament as a complement -of the blessing. - -Thus the Church made her own cavaliers: but the Normans, who came among -us under a banner blessed by the Pope, held his method of consecration -in scorn and abomination. The knights so made they accounted of as no -knights at all, but as mere “tardy troopers and degenerate plebeians.” -So, in modern times, a militia ensign with a Norman name affects to look -with contempt on a “captain” who may have fought his way to his title -in Spain or South America; and the young noble who at Oxford has taken -a degree, not conferred by right of knowledge, but seized by right of -nobility, pretends to look down upon men who, at Bonn, at Marburg, or at -Göttingen, have penned their Latin thesis, and maintained its statements -against all adversaries, and who have won their honours,—in short, by -earning and deserving them. - -They were godless fellows, those Normans, though they did come with a -papal benediction. Previous to their appearance no deed was legal that -was not marked by golden crosses and other sacred signs. The Northmen -_changèrent tout cela_: they transferred estates simply by word of mouth, -without writing or charter, and only with the sword, helmet, horn, or -cup of the owner. Tenements, we are told, were conveyed with a spur, a -bow, an arrow, or even a “body-scraper.” But this was soon found to be -inconvenient; and then the conquerors introduced the custom of confirming -deeds by wax impressions, made by the especial seal of each person, with -the subscription thereto of three or four witnesses present. Now many a -Norman had no other seal than the end of the pommel of his sword, and by -such an instrument many a Saxon was pommelled out of his estate. - -And what were these Normans, from whom so many amongst us are proud -to trace their descent? They were—at least good numbers of them -were—unbaptized thieves. Such certainly were the Mandevilles and -Dandevilles, the Mohuns and Bohuns, the Bissets and Bassets. These were -fellows who had converted themselves to Christianity fifty times in -the course of the year, for the sake of the garment given each time to -every convert. Those renowned swordsmen, the Dagotes, Bastards, Talbots, -Laceys, Percys,—what were they but so many robbers who came hither -penniless, and were very much astonished at the superabundance of their -own good fortune? - -Still lower in the scale must have been those Norman swordsmen whose -names translated signify Bull-head, Ox-eye, Dirty-villain, Breechless, -and the like. Nay, Wim (the) Carter, Hugh (the) Tailor, and Wim (the) -Drummer stand recorded in the _Monast. Anglic._ as having been made -Norman knights and noble by right of conquest. The ancestor of one of -our proudest dukes was a plundering scoundrel, who, having no name at -all, was known by that of the town in which he had been recruited,—St. -Maur; and the ladies of the Somerset family do not appear ashamed of the -descent, since they, not long ago, adopted the old name in preference to -that of Seymour, which some of the branches of the family still retain. - -Our Chaloners, Rochfords, and Chaworths can boast of no more honourable -ancestry: they all spring from the sword-begirt loins of vagabonds, born -or recruited in Châlons, Rochefort, and Cahors; and the honourable house -of Sacheverele has no more glorious founder than a limping brigand, known -by the name of “Saute Chevreau,” or “Saut de Chevreau,” because he hopped -like a goat. Why, if antiquity of name be a thing to boast of, that of -John Adams should be most admired among men; and Winnifred Jenkins is, in -such case, more truly noble than the proudest Norman of them all. - -I have noticed how possession was sometimes given with the sword. It was -perhaps in allusion to that old custom that Jack Cade touched with his -weapon that ancient piece of mystery, “London Stone.” He felt that his -title was not good until that ceremony was performed; and, that done, -“Now!” exclaimed that popular hater of national schools, “now is Mortimer -Lord of London city!” His worship the Mayor carries, by his deputy, a -similar weapon, as emblem of his sovereignty. The sword in the City -shield has another signification. Some have supposed it was placed there -in memory of the gallant chief magistrate who so summarily despatched -Wat Tyler; but the sword was in the City shield long before that period. -It was called the Sword of St. Paul; and the _Domine dirige nos_ is an -invocation that the magistracy may be taught to bear such sword like -gentlemen and Christians. Is it because the prayer has been ineffectual -that a new legend was constructed to account for the emblazoned weapon? - -In the reign of Elizabeth there were two adjuncts which especially went -to the making of a gallant—the ruff and the rapier. He whose ruff was the -deepest and rapier the longest was the most unquestionable gallant; the -consequence was, that apprentices robbed their masters in order to look -like gallants. The vigorous Queen looked to it, however; and she placed -grave citizens at the gates, with orders to cut off all ruffs of above a -nail in depth, and break the points of all rapiers that were above a yard -long. The scenes at the City gates must have been turbulent enough at -those times, for it is not to be supposed that a “ruffian” would submit -quietly to the cutting of his collar or the clipping of his sword. - -In earlier times, in England, the sword and poniard too had something of -sacredness attached to them: thus, when Athelstan was marching against -the Danes and Scots, he paid a visit by the way to the shrine of St. John -of Beverley. Upon the altar of the church there he deposited his poniard, -vowing that if Heaven and the Saint would help him to a victory, he would -redeem the arm at a suitable price. He gained the victory, and observed -his vow; and for years the monks there blessed the good Athelstan for -not only putting them above the law, but making them as rich as Crœsus. -If he had not, they were men who would have taken their revenge; and -they would not have scrupled, as the member of the Peace Society says in -one of the comedies of Aristophanes, “to take his measure for a suit of -Sardian scarlet,” or to have served his body as the heralds have the arms -of the Duke of Buccleuch, which, as we all know, are “bruised by a baton -sinister.” - -The readers of Sterne will not need to be reminded that in ancient days -in Brittany a nobleman, too poor to support his dignity, was allowed to -make temporary sacrifice of the same by turning to commercial pursuits, -after first surrendering his sword to the keeping of the magistracy. -When fortune was achieved by honest industry, the old sword was once -more hung upon the thigh. It was a wise custom, superior to that I have -heard of in another country, where pauper aristocrats condescend to get -rich by marrying merchants’ daughters, whose dowries they as profligately -squander as though they had inherited them from their own fathers. - -I have, in my ‘TABLE TRAITS,’ alluded to the use and abuse of the sword, -and therefore will not repeat here incidents already related therein; I -will merely remark that the best exemplification of the career of a mere -swordsman is to be found in the history of fighting Fulwood, the lawyer. -This hero, ever ready to draw his blade with or without reason, while -_standing_ (one night in the year of 1720), as was the custom of the pit, -to see Mrs. Oldfield in ‘The Scornful Lady,’ remonstrated roughly with -Beau Fielding for pushing against him. “Orlando the Fair” straightway -clapped his hand to his sword; and the pugnacious lawyer, determined not -to be behindhand, drew his blade, and passed it into the body of the -Beau. While the latter, who was a mature gentleman of some half-century -old, was exhibiting his wound, in order to excite the sympathy which -he could _not_ arouse in the breasts of the laughing ladies, Fulwood, -flushed by victory, hastened to the playhouse in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, -where he picked a quarrel with Captain Cusack, who was a better swordsman -than Orlando and who stopped the lawyer’s triumphs by straightway slaying -him. - -The sword-clubs were suppressed by royal proclamation in 1724. They -had been denounced as unlawful three years previously. The object -of the proclamation was to banish from civilized society the sword -itself, in order thereby to check the practice of duelling, which was, -at that period, exercised exclusively by means of the sword. The law -became stringent, and judges merciless upon this point. This was made -sufficiently clear in 1726, when Major Oneby killed Mr. Gower in a -duel with swords, fought in a tavern, after a dispute over a game at -hazard. The adversaries had fought without witnesses, in a room the door -of which was closed. The Major, who had been both the aggressor and -the challenger, mortally wounded Mr. Gower, who however declared that -he had fallen in fair combat. A jury, nevertheless, found Oneby guilty -of murder; the judges acquiesced in the verdict, but the Major escaped -public execution by committing suicide. - -The law had not long to wait before other offenders were summoned for too -freely using the sword. On a night in November, 1727, Savage the poet, -with two companions, named Gregory and Merchant, entered a coffee-house -near Charing-cross. Merchant insulted the company, a quarrel ensued, -swords were drawn, and a Mr. Sinclair was slain by a thrust,—it is said, -but not proved, from the sword of Savage. The result of the trial that -followed is well known. The verdict of _guilty of murder_ against Savage -and Gregory, and of _manslaughter_ against Merchant (who was the most -culpable of the three), was exacted by a villanously partial judge, -evidently under pressure of the proclamation against swords. - -Merchant was at once burned in the hand in open court; he was also fined, -compelled to give security for future good behaviour, and discharged. -His associates had a narrow escape of an ignominious death, for which -they were assiduously prepared by that Dr. Edward Young, who had not then -achieved a reputation for ‘Night Thoughts,’ but who was establishing a -reputation by the publication of those ‘Satires’ which so faithfully -portray the social crimes and errors of the day. - -Johnson’s Life of Savage does not notice Merchant’s sentence, nor does -it state upon what terms Savage and Gregory obtained their liberty. They -were liberated upon condition of their withdrawing to the Colonies for -the space of three years, and giving security to keep the peace. The -conditions appear to have been evaded. Gregory indeed did proceed to -Antigua, where he obtained an appointment in the customs; but the wayward -Savage sat down as a pensioner at the hearth of Lord Tyrconnell, whose -benevolence, it is hardly necessary to add, he most shamefully abused. - -I think that the last duel, certainly the last _fatal_ duel, fought -with swords, was between Lord Byron and Mr. Chaworth, in January, 1762. -They had quarrelled at the Star and Garter, Pall Mall, upon a question -touching manors and game-preserves; they fought in a closed room of the -tavern, and Mr. Chaworth was slain. The circumstances of the killing -looked much more like murder than in the case of Major Oneby and Mr. -Gower. The Peers, however, acquitted Lord Byron of the capital crime, but -they found him guilty of manslaughter. His lordship claimed the benefit -of the statute of Edward VI., and he was discharged on paying his fees. A -bitter mockery of justice! - -The sword appears to have been drawn in as hot wrath at the playhouse -as in the park; and sometimes to have figured by way of ridicule. I may -cite, as an example of the latter, an incident of the time of Charles II. -The court was at Dover, whither the King had gone to receive his sister, -and the mistress which that sister brought in her hand as a bribe whereby -to make of Charles the enemy of his people! At this time, the French -courtiers wore laced coats, of various colours, but all ridiculously -short. The shortness of the front part was made up for by the breadth -of the waistbelt. Nokes, the Keeley of his day, was dressed to play -Sir Arthur Addle, in ‘Sir Solomon;’ and his costume, a caricature on -the already sufficiently absurd dress of the French, so delighted the -celebrated Duke of Monmouth, that the latter took his own sword and belt -from his side, and buckled it with his own semi-royal hands about the -person of the player. We should be somewhat startled in these days if -we were to hear of Lord Augustus Fitzclarence fastening a cutlass upon -the thigh of Mr. Keeley, when acting in the ‘Thirst for Gold:’ but in -Charles’s days such freaks were very mildly construed of. The appearance -of Nokes, in his short coat and long sword, elicited a roar from King -and court, all the louder that the French originals were present. The -latter must have taken our most religious and gracious King for a sorry -barbarian; and, as chivalrous ideas went, it was very well that they -did not surround Nokes as he was going home, and “pink” him into an -everlasting incapability of ever caricaturing them again. - -James II. was unquestionably more of a true gentleman in outward bearing -than his brother Charles. I have an instance of this appropriate to this -very subject of swords and actors. In the reign of James, an actor of -unimpeachable character and of very refined manners, named Smith, had -a discussion behind the scenes with a young nobleman, who, losing his -temper with getting the worst of the argument, drew his sword and struck -Smith,—for want of logic to confute him. The King forbade the courtier -to appear in his presence; and by this means proclaimed his opinion -that the nobleman was less of a gentleman than the player. But such a -manifestation of opinion roused all the so-called _gentlemen_ against -the so-called vagabond players; and the next time Smith played they -resorted to the theatre, sword in hand and catcall between their lips, -and so plied both, that, despite the royal protection, he was driven -from the stage for ever. Luckily for him, the “vagabond” was better -off, on two points, than the “noble gentlemen,” his antagonists: he had -a considerable fortune, and he was in debt to no man, not even to his -tailor. - -Smith’s story of the swords drawn against him, reminds me of Mrs. -Verbruggen’s, with the sword always ready to leap from the scabbard to -defend her. Mrs. Verbruggen was the Mrs. Sterling of her period,—that -is, the cleverest of artificial actresses. It would be pertinent to -my subject of ‘Habits’ to speak of her as she appeared in what is -called “breeches parts;” but I am afraid if I were to describe her, -as old Anthony Aston does, who so often saw and wondered, it would be -considered very _impertinent_ indeed. I _may_ tell however what he -says of her face. “It was of a fine smooth oval,” says Anthony, “full -of beautiful and well-disposed moles, as were her neck and breast.” He -afterwards adds:—“She was the best conversation possible,—never captious -or displeased at anything but what was gross or indecent. For she was -cautious, lest fiery Jack should so resent it as to breed a quarrel; for -he would often say, ‘Damme! though _I don’t much value my wife_, yet -nobody shall affront her;’ and his sword was drawn on the least occasion, -which was much in fashion at the latter end of King William’s reign.” - -It is a funny trait of the sword-wearers, that they could extol the -virtue which they had ineffectually endeavoured to destroy. We see -this in the case of Mrs. Bracegirdle, that Diana of the stage before -whom Congreve and Lord Lovelace, at the head of a troop of bodkined -fops, worshiped in vain. The noblest of the troop,—and it reckoned the -Dukes of Devonshire and Dorset, the Earl of Halifax, and half-a-dozen -delegates from each rank of the peerage among its members,—were wont, -at the coffee-house, and over a bottle, to extol the Gibraltar-like -virtue, if I may so speak, of this incomparable woman. “Come,” said -Halifax, “you are always praising the virtue; why don’t you reward the -lady who will not sell it? I propose a subscription, and there are two -hundred guineas, _pour encourager les autres_.” Four times that amount -was raised, and with it the nobles, with their swords in their hands, -waited on Mrs. Bracegirdle, who accepted their testimonial, as it was -intended in honour of her virtue. What should we think now if⸺? but this -is a delicate matter, and I _might_ make a mistake. I will only add, -therefore, that had Mrs. Bracegirdle been rewarded for her charity, the -recompense would have been, at least, as appropriate. For it is true of -her that when the poor saw her they blessed her,—and, we may add, she -richly merited the well-earned benedictions. She was, at all events, -not quite so prudish as Mrs. Rogers, who not only objected to act any -but virtuous characters, but made a public vow of chastity,—in an -epilogue,—and broke it, out of good-nature. - -It must be understood that the players wore swords in the streets, and -used them, like gentlemen, for the destruction of one another. Thus Quin -killed Will Bowen, in 1717. The former had declared that Ben Jonson acted -Jacomo, in the ‘Libertine,’ better than Bowen. The latter pursued Quin -to a tavern, shut the door of the room in which he found him, placed -his back against the door, and threatened to pin Quin to the wainscot -if he did not immediately draw. Quin remonstrated, but drew and kept on -the defensive; while the impetuous Bowen so pressed upon his adversary -that he actually fell upon that adversary’s sword and died, after -acknowledging his own rashness. Quin was tried and acquitted. - -The actors however had need to wear swords to defend themselves from -their noble assailants. The latter used to crowd between the side-scenes, -and often interrupt the performance by crossing the stage and conversing -aloud with one another. On one occasion, at the house in Lincoln’s -Inn Fields, an earl, who was said to have been drunk for six years -continuously, was guilty of this rudeness; and Rich, enraged thereat, -threatened never to allow him to be admitted again, whatever he might -offer for it. The Peer replied by slapping Rich in the face; and Rich -returned the salute with all the vigour and rapidity that belonged to -him as an accomplished harlequin. The drunken lord’s drunken companions -immediately drew, and solemnly devoted Rich to death. The comrades of the -latter, headed by Ryan, the ex-tailor, whipped out their swords too (some -of them wore them with their court suits in Macbeth), charged the nobles, -and after a bloody _mêlée_ drove them into the streets. The illustrious -drunkards, brandishing their weapons, attacked the front of the house, -fought their way into the boxes, proceeded to destroy the interior -adornments, and would have set fire to the theatre but for the arrival -of the “watch,” who captured the whole of the rioters. Justice was both -lame and blind in those days, and the peers compromised the matter with -the managers; but George I. was as much disgusted with the conduct of his -“noble” subjects as a quiet scamp _could_ be at the peccadilloes of noisy -ones. The _only_ men, not nobles, who were as great nuisances with their -swords, were the Darby Captains. These were old “half-pays” or penniless -“disbanded,” who used to pitch their tent at Derby’s Coffee-house in -Covent-garden, and who were sanguinary in their cups. The “H. P.’s” who -now meet in Ryder-street have little idea of the truculency of their -predecessors, who most did congregate at the hostelrie whence they -derived their name, and some pretenders their rank. - -I have alluded to the proclamation against swords in 1724. It appears to -have been made in vain, for in 1755 I find the aristocrats still ruling -the theatre by power of naked weapons and impudence. Garrick received -from them this questionable support when he brought out the ‘Chinese -Festival,’ with Noverre and other foreign dancers from the neighbourhood -of “Zurich’s fair waters.” A war with France had just broken out, and the -mob were like Foote’s patriot gingerbread-maker in the Borough, who would -not tolerate three dancers from Switzerland because he hated the French. -The ochlocracy hissed; the aristocracy drew their swords to silence the -villains; the latter welcomed the battle, and they not only damaged the -theatre and many illustrious heads, but they pretty nearly destroyed -Garrick’s own private residence. Roscius lost nearly £4000 in this -quarrel, wherein swords were drawn and blood spilt that was of no value -to the manager; and the present Mr. Noverre, of Norwich (I believe), -can hardly make even a faint guess of the dire storm which greeted his -great-grandsire when he first cut an _entrechat_ on the boards of Old -Drury. - -But actors had bloody frays of their own, and that too among the gentler -part of the profession. One I may mention, as it is connected with a -matter of dress. The charming George Anne Bellamy had procured from Paris -two gorgeous dresses, wherein to enact Statira in the ‘Rival Queens.’ -Roxana was played by Peg Woffington; and she was so overcome with malice, -hatred, and all uncharitableness, when she saw herself eclipsed by the -dazzling glories of the resplendent Bellamy, that Peg at length attempted -to drive her off the stage, and with upheld dagger had wellnigh stabbed -her at the side-scenes. Alexander and a posse of chiefs with hard names -were at hand, but the less brilliantly-clad Roxana rolled Statira and her -spangled sack in the dust, pommelling her the while with the handle of -her dagger, and screaming aloud— - - “Nor he, nor Heaven, shall shield thee from my justice; - Die, sorceress, die! and all my wrongs die with thee!” - -Poor Madge! Not many weeks afterwards she was playing Rosalind, when she -was, at the age of forty-four, struck with the fit that slowly conducted -her to the grave. Her last words were, “If I were among you, I would kiss -as many of you as had beards that pleased me.” The stroke followed, then -a scream, and she who had charmed multitudes was for ever charmless. I -will only add here that it is said of O’Brien, of whom I have spoken -elsewhere as having married an earl’s daughter, that “in the drawing -of his sword he threw all other performers at a wonderful distance by -his swiftness, grace, and superior elegance.” But O’Brien was the son -of a fencing-master, and his brother actors were as jealous of him as -Pepys of his friend Pen, as illustrated by the entry which says (May, -1662), “Walked with my wife to my brother Tom’s; our boy waiting on us -with his sword, which this day he begins to wear, _to outdo Sir W. Pen’s -boy_.” From which it would appear that gentlemen and footmen once had -fashions, if not vices, in common; and that our ancestors, with regard to -pride, were as great fools as ourselves; and _that_ is eminently, nay, -pre-eminently consoling. - -The players were not scared from using swords as well as displaying -them. When Garrick played Bayes in the ‘Rehearsal,’ in 1741-2, he gave -imitations of Hall, Delaney, Ryan (the ex-tailor), Bridgewater, and of -Gifford. The first four bore the ridicule better than Roscius would have -endured the like of himself; but Gifford was so dreadfully enraged at the -liberty taken with him that he sent Davy a challenge, and the two mimes -fought until Gifford, whipping his rapier through the fleshy part of -Garrick’s arm, laid him up for a fortnight, and cured him of mere mimicry. - -I have noticed above how Peg Woffington, with her pointed dagger, punched -the ribs of the exquisite Bellamy; a similar, but more disagreeable -sort of excitement, once seized on Woodward, the old pupil of Merchant -Tailors’, who had turned actor. He was playing Petruchio to Kitty Clive’s -Catherine, when, borne away by his towering rage, he not only threw the -lady down, but ran a fork into her finger; and as he had no love for -Kitty, it is said that there was more design than accident in the matter. -But this I do not believe. More credit, I fancy, is to be attached to the -story which says, that when Pasta played Otello to Sontag’s Desdemona, -the former was so excited by the superabundant applause gained by her -rival, that in the killing scene Otello twisted a strong hand into -Desdemona’s luxuriant hair, and gave it a series of such hearty tugs, -that the gentle lady, married to the Moor, screamed with all her might, -_au naturel_! - -When the most pleasant and reasonable of Popes was Legate at Bologna, -a circumstance connected with swords came under his observation. Two -senators had fallen into a deadly quarrel touching the pre-eminence of -Tasso and Ariosto. A duel ensued, in which the champion of Ariosto was -mortally wounded. The future Pope visited the dying man, whose sole -observation to his visitor’s religious injunctions was—“What an ass I am, -to get run through the body in the very flower of my age, for the sake -of Ariosto, of whom I have never read a line.” “But—” interrupted the -priest. “And if,” exclaimed the dying man, not heeding the interruption, -“if I _had_ read him, I should not have understood him; for I am but a -fool at the best of times.” Benedict himself had a respect for swordsmen; -and it was said of him and that other pleasant fellow, his contemporary, -the Sultan Mahmoud, that if they were made to change places, the Holy -Father becoming Grand Seigneur, and the Sultan becoming Pope, nobody -would be sensible of any consequent difference; except, perhaps, the most -intimate portion of the Sultan’s household. Benedict was, at all events, -wiser than that celebrated Capuchin, who, preaching repentance to a party -about to resort to the arbitration of the sword, exclaimed, “Brethren, -admire and bless Divine Providence, who has placed death at the close of -life, in order that we might have the more time to be prepared for it.” -This confusion of ideas reminds me of that which existed in the mind of -the soldier who remarked, that people nowadays did not live to such a -lengthened age as when he was young. “Not that there are not old people -now,” said he, “but then _they_ were born a very long time ago!” - -Finally, let me conclude the subject of swords with something better -worth remembering than mere gossip. Toledo, Damascus, and Milan have -been especially renowned for the excellence of the swords manufactured -in those respective places. The quality of the Spanish blade is said to -have been given it by the cunning of Arab workmen; but the fact is, that -Spanish blades were famous for their power of letting daylight into the -soul’s tabernacle as early as the old Roman time. When the first Cæsar -was master of the empire, Iberian tailors (and ladies) worked only with -Toledo needles; while Iberian officers and gentlemen (for the characters -were distinct in those heathen times: as for the matter of that, they -sometimes are now) fought only with Toledo blades. Virgil alludes to -the excellence of the Spanish steel in his first Georgic: “At Chalybes -nudi ferrum (mittunt).” Justin says the Chalybes were Spaniards; and -the _nudi_, no doubt, refers to the fashion in which they worked at the -forge. Dryden translates the line—“And naked Spaniards temper steel -for war.” Further, Diodorus Siculus states, “that the Celtiberians so -tempered their steel, that no helmet could resist the stroke of the -sword.” - -The temper of the Damascus blade was of another sort. It was so fine that -the sword passed through the lightest object floating in the air. The -merits of the two methods will be found admirably illustrated in Scott’s -story of ‘The Talisman.’ - -The English blade, I am sorry to say, has never been famous for -_excellence_ of temper. Some two centuries ago, an attempt was made -to improve the home-manufactured sword, by incorporating a company of -sword-cutlers for making hollow sword-blades, in Cumberland and the -adjacent counties. The project failed, owing to the parsimony of the -principals and the ignorance of the workmen. During the greater portion -of the last century, our sword-blades were “regular bricks,” quite as -blunt, but not half so dangerous. An English officer was as safe with -one in his hand as if he had bought it at a toyshop; but he never met -the enemy with a native-manufactured weapon. This state of things, and a -mixed idea of profit and patriotism, fired Mr. Gill of Birmingham into -experiments which became realities; and the English weapon was turned -out as well calculated to help its wearer to cut through the sixth -commandment as any foreign blade of them all. - -A sword is only perfectly tempered at a heat of 550° Fahrenheit. -The testing is by means of a process of bending and twisting almost -torturing to read of. I only wish that all monarchs who unjustly draw -the sword, were first subjected to the tempering and testing which the -weapon itself undergoes. Could such a course have been applied to that -miscreant Nicholas, what a relief it would have been to the world! An -exposure, during ten minutes in an oven, to a heat of 550°, would have -been followed by uncomplaining acquiescence on the part of the Czar; -and there would not have been added to his account so many murders as -those for which, as Heaven is just as well as merciful, he will be held -responsible, at the tribunal which that gigantic criminal can _not_ avoid. - -The sword was grasped by hand, or mailed or gloved; and to the question -of gloves we will now direct attention. - - - - -GLOVES, B⸺S, AND BUTTONS. - - “He said he had his gloves from France; - The Queen said, ‘That can’t be; - If you go there for glove-making, - It is without the _g_.’”—FAIR ROSAMOND. - - -The elder D’Israeli, in his sketch on the history of gloves, sets out -by observing, that in the 108th Psalm, where the royal prophet declares -he will cast his shoe over Edom, and in Ruth iv. 7, where the custom is -noticed of a man taking off his shoe and giving it to a neighbour, as a -pledge for redeeming or exchanging anything, the word _shoe_ may in the -latter, if not in both cases, mean _glove_. He adds, that Casaubon is of -opinion that gloves were worn by the Chaldeans; and that in the Chaldee -paraphrase of the book of Ruth, the word which we render as _shoe_ or -_sandal_, is explained in the Talmud lexicon as “the clothing of the -hand.” Here is a sad confusion of hands and feet, as much so as in the -celebrated observation by Mrs. Ramsbottom, that she “had had a great deal -of walking on her hands, lately.” - -The flinging down of a sandal upon a territory was a symbol of occupancy -or possession. “Upon the land of Edom do I cast my shoe” (sandal), says -the Psalmist, in the 9th Psalm. And this was a symbol of slavery to the -Edomites, for to loose the sandal was the office of a slave; and in -Egypt, especially, we find paintings of slaves who are carrying their -master’s sandals. On the sole of the latter was sometimes represented a -captive, whom the wearer had the pleasure of thus pictorially treading -underfoot. When an old shoe is thrown after a newly married couple, it -does not so much imply that they have probably been put in possession of -felicity, as that they have certainly lost their liberty. - -Xenophon remarks that the Persians wore coarse clothes, fought -bareheaded, and never required pocket-handkerchiefs. He laughs at them -however for using gloves, and for effeminately covering their heads, when -the latter might best dispense with the protection. Laertes, the Greek, -wore gloves when he was gardening, in order to protect his fingers from -the thorns;—and this shows that young Greek noblemen, in remote times, -could occupy themselves usefully and innocently. _Our_ youths, with much -time, heavy purses, and a lordship of self, would find considerable -profit in “putting on the gloves” for no worse purposes. - -Gloves were not common among the Romans, but they were not entirely -unknown. Varro says that to pluck olives without them was to spoil the -olive; and Athenæus tells of a glutton who used to dine out in gloves, -and so be enabled to dispose of the hot things quicker than the guests -who were less prepared for the handling them. The fashion of gloves made -its way however in Rome, in spite of the philosophers who affected to -despise comfort, and did assuredly decline cleanliness. They were worn, -for instance, by the secretary of the elder Pliny. - -The mode seems to have been adopted in some excess by the monks, until -a decree of the Council of Aix ordered that they should wear none but -gloves of sheep-skin. Had they turned their cilices into gloves, and made -flesh-brushes of them, it would have been more profitable to themselves, -and to all who stood near them. In France, the use of gloves was allowed -only to bishops. They were sometimes used in great formalities of the -“Church,” and indeed of the State also; for bishops received investiture -by presentation of a glove, and kings were not half crowned who did not -receive a pair, with an episcopal blessing to enhance the gift. - -Among the early English, the Anglo-Saxons, we find that ladies, before -they knew the use of the glove, or applied their knowledge to its most -convenient conclusion, had the ends of their mantles shaped into gloves, -and these were worn over the hand, under the name of mufflers. Gloves -were worn by females before the Reformation, despite what Gough says to -the contrary. A dishonoured knight was deprived not only of his spurs, -but of his gloves also. It was right that the symbol for or gage of -battle should be taken from him whose office it had been to carry arms, -but who was no longer accounted as worthy of wielding them. - -In Germany, he who entered a prince’s stables, or was present at the -killing of a stag, without taking off his gloves, had to pay his -footing or fine; in the first case to the grooms, in the second to the -huntsmen,—and for this reason, because they could not mingle among grooms -and huntsmen, and yet retain their dignity (asserted by keeping on the -glove), without paying for it. - -Gloves are distributed at funerals,—perhaps originally as a challenge -from the doctor, defying all who shall dare say that he had committed -murder contrary to the rules of art. But they were acceptable presents on -other occasions; and when gloves were rare, and James I. and Elizabeth -gave those rich and rare articles as gifts to various members of the -Denny family, no doubt the fingers of the latter felt the honour deeply. -When these gloves were sold, some two centuries and a half later, a -single pair fetched a price for which a man with judgment and taste -might purchase a select library. One of this family, Sir William Denny -himself, contributed a remarkable poetical work to the libraries of -1653, namely, the ‘Pelecanicidium, or the Christian Adviser against -Self-murder; together with a Guide, and a Pilgrim’s Pass to the Land of -the Living.’ In the preface he says, “Mine ears do tingle to hear so many -sad relations, as ever since March last, concerning several persons, of -divers rank and quality, inhabiting within and about so eminent a city -as late-famed London, that have made away and murdered themselves.” - -In England gloves came in about the time the Heptarchy went out. The -exact period is not known; but we _do_ know that when a society of German -merchants sought protection for the trade which they carried on between -their own country and England, they propitiated King Ethelred II. by -presenting him with five pairs of gloves: their not being able to muster -the half-dozen shows the rarity of the article. In the case mentioned the -gloves were probably not so much a gift or bribe, as a portion of duty -paid in kind. Prior to this period the hands of both sexes were covered, -as I before observed, by the mantles; and some persons with rapidly -progressing ideas, had donned an imperfect structure which presented a -stall for the thumb, and a sort of stocking-foot for the rest of the -fingers. They were like the mufflers which we place on the digits of -young England; and when Mrs. Ramsbottom made the observation I quoted in -the first paragraph, of “having had much walking on her hands lately,” -she may have had these very mufflers in her eye. - -Gloves soon became fashionable among the higher classes; at least, -Ordericus Vitalis tells us that when the Bishop of Durham escaped from -the Tower, during the reign of Henry I., he had to slide down a rope; -and as the bishop, in his hurry, had “forgotten his gloves,” he rubbed -the skin off his hands to the bone, in descending from the window. Duke -Charles of Guise, when he escaped in a similar manner, from the Château -at Tours, in the days of Henri III., had better fortune; he descended -more leisurely than the bishop, being lighter, and with no further -detriment than a rent in his hose. - -Long before the period referred to by Ordericus, the French monks -were the authorized glove-makers. They especially loved hunting, but -respectability required that they should not love the sport merely for -the sport’s sake. Accordingly, Charlemagne granted to the monks of Sithin -especially, unlimited right of hunting, because of the skins of the deer -killed by them they made gloves and girdles, and covers for books. I have -before noticed, that by a subsequent decree of the Council of Aix, in the -time of Louis le Débonnaire, monks were forbidden to wear any gloves but -those made of sheep-skin. - -Gloves were popular new-year’s gifts, or sometimes “glove-money” in -place of them; occasionally, these gloves carried gold pieces in them. -When Sir Thomas More was Chancellor, he decided a case in favour of Mrs. -Croaker against Lord Arundel; the former, on the following new-year’s -day, gratefully presented the judge with a pair of gloves with forty -angels in them. “It would be against good manners,” said the Chancellor, -“to forsake a gentlewoman’s new-year’s gift, and I accept the gloves. The -_lining_ you will elsewhere bestow.” - -It will be remembered that St. Gudule had the faculty of being able, when -her candle was extinguished, to blow it in again. Many among us enjoy -the same faculty, and schoolboys often practise the miracle,—the only -one ever performed by St. Gudule. It is said however that when the saint -prayed, barefooted, in church, the attendant priest, moved by compassion, -put his gloves under her feet. They immediately rose, and hung in the air -for a whole hour;—but what that proves, I really do not know. - -But we have had gloves suspended in our own churches. When Bernard Gilpin -was preaching in the North of England, he observed, on entering one of -the churches there, a glove suspended from the roof; and having learned -that it was a challenge placed there by a Borderer, in defiance of some -other Borderer, he tore it down, to the great disgust of the sexton, -who had a respect for established usages, even though the devil had -invented them. Good Bernard Gilpin gave a challenge of his own from the -pulpit: he flung down the Gospel before the rather angry people, who were -highly civilized, and therefore averse to innovation; and he told them so -defiantly of the difficulties in the way of their salvation, that they -determined to surmount them and became a Christian people; and _that_, -under correction, is a better glove, and a greater miracle, than those of -St. Gudule. - -I have spoken, in another page, of our old English custom of kissing. -It is one which is not likely to decay. We still kiss persons caught -napping,—that is, if they be worth the kissing,—and exact as forfeit the -price of a new pair of gloves. In old days, he who first saw the new moon -could, by kissing a maiden, and proclaiming the fact,—that is, the lunar -fact,—claim a pair of gloves for his service. The Persian habit was to -kiss only relatives, which must have been highly proper, but uncommonly -insipid,—a perfect waste of good things, except among cousins. - -Our Queen Elizabeth was a wearer of gloves that are said to have been of -a very costly description. Shakspeare was once acting in her presence -the part of a king—one of his own making; and so careful was he of the -illusion of the scene, that he forgot all other things beside. The Virgin -Queen resolved to put him to the proof; and as the mimic king passed -before her, she dropped one of her gloves. Shakspeare, faithful subject -as well as actor, immediately paused, and with the words that, “although -bent on this high embassy, yet stoop we to pick up our cousin’s glove,” -he presented it to the real queen, and then passed on. This anecdote is -often cited to prove that nothing could induce the poet-actor to depart -from the business of the stage; and it proves exactly the contrary; but -as an illustration of gloves I have found it handy to my purpose. - -Elizabeth treated Clifford, Earl of Cumberland, more generously than she -did Shakspeare. The Queen gave him her glove, which, she having dropped -it, he had picked up to return to her. He immediately adorned it with -jewels, and placed it in his cap, where he displayed it at all jousts and -tournaments. Chivalrous gentlemen at Donnybrook Fair follow something of -this fashion when they draw a chalk line round their hat, and knock down -every one bold enough to declare that it is not silver lace. Elizabeth, I -may add, received as well as gave gloves. The first embroidered pair ever -worn in England were presented to her by Vere, Earl of Oxford, when he -returned from a mission abroad. The Queen had her portrait taken with the -gloves introduced. - -And speaking of embassies, recalls to my memory another story connected -with gloves and legations. Ambassadors’ effects are passed without -examination,—not by law, but out of courtesy. This courtesy has made -smuggleresses of many an envoy’s wife; of none more than of a French -Ambassadress, not very many years ago, in England. She used to import -huge cases of gloves under the name of “despatches,” and these she -condescended to sell to English ladies who were mean enough to buy -them. But the custom-house officers became tired of being accomplices -in this contraband trade, and they put a stop to it by a very ingenious -contrivance. Having duly ascertained that a case directed to the Embassy -contained nothing but ladies’ gloves, they affected to treat it as a -letter which had been sent through the Customs by mistake, and which they -made over to the Post-office. The authorities of the latter delivered -the same in due course; the postage-fee of something like £250 was paid -without a remark; and the Ambassadress stopped all further correspondence -of that sort by declining to deal any longer in gloves. - -But even the Customs get defeated occasionally, in spite of their -cleverness. Some years ago a celebrated exporter of contraband goods, -residing at Calais, sent on the same day, to two different parts of -England, two cases of gloves, one containing gloves only for the right, -the other case, gloves only for the left hand. The “left hands” got -safely to their destination, but the “rights” were seized. The Customs -however could find no purchaser at the usual sales for single gloves, but -they were at last bought by an individual at the rate of a penny a dozen; -this individual happened to be the possessor of the other single gloves, -and he reaped a rich profit by the trick over the fair and honest dealer. - -This was a more successful trick with the gloves than that practised by -the lady who, flinging her pretty gauntlet on to the arena where some -wild beasts were struggling, bade her knight descend and bring it back to -her. The cavalier accomplished the task, but he smote the cruel damsel in -the face with the glove ere he threw it at her feet; and, turning on his -heel, he left her for ever. She of course lived on in single sullenness; -and I warrant that she never saw white gloves and a wedding without a -twinge at her heart. - -The late Duke of Orléans was once almost as unlucky as this lady, and -all through a glove. He was visiting some of the wounded of Antwerp in a -hospital near the scene of conflict. He spoke kindly to all, and he shook -hands with several; but one of those he so honoured bluntly remarked, -that when the Emperor shook hands with the wounded he first drew off his -gloves. - -The Duke as much offended _contra bonos mores_ by keeping his gloves -on, as an old-fashioned naval captain once did by keeping them off. The -marine hero in question had stood up to go through a country-dance with -a very fine lady, who was shocked to observe that his huge and warm -hands were not covered according to etiquette. “Captain,” said his fair -partner, “you are perhaps not aware that you have not got your gloves -on.” “Oh, never mind, Ma’am!” answered the commander, “never mind; I can -wash my hands when we’ve done!” The gallant sailor was not as wide-awake -to the advantages of opportunity for gallantry on the question of gloves -as Yorick was when the grave gentleman flirted with the Calais grisette. -He was no descendant—albeit his name was Harley—of that Earl of Oxford -I have just named, who once presented Elizabeth with a pair of gloves, -ornamented with four tufts of rose-coloured silk, so deliciously scented, -that she called the scent “Lord Oxford’s perfume.” - -London, Ludlow, and Leominster, Worcester, Woodstock, and Yeovil, are the -great seats of the leather-glove manufacture in England. The Worcester -district alone supplies six million pairs annually, and all, or nearly -all, made by hand. Derby contributes silk gloves; the worsted come from -Leicester; and Nottingham furnishes us with cotton gloves. In addition to -these, we yearly import between three and four million pairs of leather -gloves from France. The export of home-made gloves is very small,—not -large enough to keep warm the fingers of the little republic of San -Marino. - -But a man, to be well dressed, must don something besides hat and gloves. -I will not put one part of the necessary addition under a separate head; -nor indeed will I mention its name, save in an anecdote. I will simply, -by way of introduction, quote two salient sayings uttered by French -moralists on the article in question. - -The first is to the admonitory effect that “à la femme altière, méchante, -impérieuse, on est tenté d’offrir une culotte.” The second is still -more salubrious of character, and observance of it will prove highly -efficacious. “Une femme qui porte les culottes,” says a melancholy and -married philosopher, “ne peut marcher longtemps sans tomber.” And now to -my promised anecdotes. - -A gentleman once said, in defence of Shakspeare, that his vulgar -characters, though low, were natural. Voltaire, to whom this was said, -observed the advantage to be derived from such an assertion by one who, -like himself, hated Shakspeare:—“Avec permission, mon derrière est -bien dans la nature, et cependant je porte culotte.” This illustration -reminds me of a stage pair of breeches, which, some eighty years ago, -had wellnigh killed that fair and fairly-reputable actress, Miss Maria -Macklin. She was famous for her male characters, and for her taste in -dressing them; Dejazet has not a better taste in this respect. But Miss -Macklin unfortunately had not only worn the male garment repeatedly, but -she was in the habit of buckling the garter portion of it so tightly, -that the result was a large and dangerous swelling in the knee, which, -we are told by Kirkman and Cooke, “from _motives of delicacy_, she -would not suffer to be examined till it had increased to an alarming -size!” An operation however was successfully performed, and she bore -it courageously; but she never regained her strength, and she died the -victim of false delicacy and a little vanity. - -But, false or not, her delicacy was very like that of Mary of Burgundy, -who died in consequence of over-modesty, in concealing an injury in the -thigh, caused by a fall from a horse. Mary’s husband, Maximilian, had his -delicate scruples too,—that is, on one point—the point of putting on a -shirt, which he would never do in the presence of a _valet_. The idea of -doing what Louis XIV. so regularly did,—namely, put on a shirt, and that -sometimes a rather dirty one, in presence of a roomful of people,—would -have made the modest and moneyless Maximilian turn pale with disgust. -Perhaps however Maximilian hated shirts, because they were not of German -invention. Like the old gentleman in the ‘Wasps’ of Aristophanes, who, -being desired to put on a pair of Lacedæmonian boots, excuses himself -on the plea that one of his toes is πάνυ μισολάκωυ—altogether hostile -to the Lacedæmonians; a bit of wit, by the way, which honest Sheridan -has fitted on to the character of Acres, who hates French dancing terms -for the reason that his feet don’t understand _pas_ this and _pas_ that; -and that he decidedly has most “Anti-Gallican toes.” This expression -is decidedly a plagiarism from the admirable low-comedy scene in the -‘Wasps,’ where good Master Bdelycleon so daintily dresses his father -Philocleon, the Athenian Dicast, and gallantly compliments him at last, -by comparing him to “a boil covered with garlic.” - -The Aristophanic incident recalls to my memory one of a somewhat similar -quality, which really occurred some years ago at Gosport. Mr. Joseph -Gilbert, who had been attached to the astronomical service in Captain -Cook’s expedition to observe the transit of Venus, and whose name was -conferred by the great navigator on “Gilbert’s Island,” resided at -Gosport; where, according to the fashion of the day, he, like the Count -d’Artois, wore very tight leather breeches. He had ordered his tailor -to attend on him one morning, when his granddaughter, who resided with -him, had also ordered her shoemaker to wait upon her. The young lady was -seated in the breakfast-room, when the maker of leather breeches was -shown in; and, as she did not happen to know one handicraftsman more than -the other, she at once intimated that she wished him to measure her for -a pair of “leathers,” for, as she remarked, the wet weather was coming, -and she felt cold in “cloth.” The modest tailor could hardly believe his -ears. “Measure you, Miss?” said he with hesitation. “If you please,” -said the young lady, who was remarkable for much gravity of deportment; -“and I have only to beg that you will give me plenty of room, for I am -a great walker, and I do not like to wear anything that constrains me.” -“But, Miss,” exclaimed the poor fellow in great perplexity, “I never in -my life measured a lady; I⸺” and there he paused. “Are you not a lady’s -shoemaker?” was the query calmly put to him. “By no means, Miss,” said -he; “I am a leather-breeches maker, and I have come to take measure not -of you, but Mr. Gilbert.” The young lady became perplexed too, but she -recovered her self-possession after a good common-sense laugh, and sent -the maker of breeches to her grandpapa. - -Rosemary-lane was not only of old, and under its name of Rag Fair, a -great mart for cast-off garments, but especially, by some freak of -ochlocratic fashion, for breeches. It has had the honour of being -noticed by Pope as “a place near the Tower of London, where old clothes -and frippery are sold;” and, says Pennant, “the articles of commerce -by no means belie the name. There is no expressing the poverty of the -goods, nor yet their cheapness. A distinguished merchant, engaged with a -purchaser, observing me to look on him with great attention, called out -to me, as his customer was going off with his bargain, to observe that -man, ‘for,’ says he, ‘I have actually clothed him for fourteen pence.’” -And in the ‘Public Advertiser’ for February 14, 1756, we read, as an -incident of the locality “where wave the tattered ensigns of Rag Fair,” -that “Thursday last one Mary Jenkins, who deals in old clothes in Rag -Fair, sold a pair of breeches to an old woman for sevenpence and a pint -of beer. Whilst they were drinking it in a public-house, the purchaser, -in unripping the breeches, found quilted in the waistband eleven guineas -in gold, Queen Anne’s coin, and a thirty-pound banknote, dated in 1729, -which last she did not know the value of till after she sold it for a -gallon of twopenny purl.” - -To go a little further back, I may say that the Reformation had other -results besides those usually recorded; thus that great event was no -sooner accomplished than the brokers and sellers of old apparel took -up their residence in Hounsditch, where their great enemy, the Spanish -Ambassador, had previously had a residence. Their locality was then “a -fair field, sometime belonging to the Priory of the Holy Trinity, at -Aldgate.” “Where gott’st thou this coat, I mar’le,” says Wellbred to -Brainworm, in Jonson’s ‘Every Man in his Humour.’ “Of a Houndsditch man, -Sir,” answers Brainworm; “one of the devil’s near kinsmen, a broker.” - -We have another portion of dress whose origin dates from a serious -personage and from eventful times. I allude to that terror of gentlemen -who do not possess that which frogs and properly-built men alone possess -in common,—namely, calves;—I allude, I say, to “pantaloons.” This -tight-fitting garment was once part of the official costume of the great -standard-bearer of the Venetian Republic. He carried on his banner the -Lion of St. Mark, and he was the _Piantaleone_, or Planter of the Lion, -around whose glorious flag and tightly-encased legs the battle ever raged -with greatest fury, and where victory was most hotly contended for. The -tight parti-coloured legs of the tall Piantaleone were the rallying -points of the Venetians. Where _his_ thighs were upright, the banner was -sure to be floating in defiance or triumph over them; and Venice may be -said to have stood upon the legs of her Pantaloons. He who once saved -states was subsequently represented as the most thoroughly battered -imbecile of a pantomime. But therein was a political revenge. Harlequin, -Clown, and Columbine represented different states of Italy, whose delight -it was to pillory Venice by beating her nightly under the guise of the -old buffoon “Signor Pantaloon.” The dress has survived the memory of this -fact, though the dress too is almost obsolete. - -In the last paragraph there is the phrase “I say” interpolated, the -use of which reminds me of a tailor-like comment made upon it. Erskine -writing to Boswell, or Boswell to Erskine, I forget now which, remarks -that “a sentence so clumsily worded as to require an ‘I say’ to keep it -together, very much resembles, in my candid opinion, a pair of ill-mended -breeches.” - -The article of _braccæ_ is suggestive of _buttons_; and touching these, -I may observe that there is a curious law extant with regard to them. It -is, by Acts of Parliament passed in three reigns,—William III., Anne, and -George I.,—perfectly illegal for tailor to make, or mortal man to wear, -clothes with any other buttons appended thereto but buttons of brass. -This law is in force for the benefit of the Birmingham makers; and it -further enacts, not only that he who makes or sells garments with any but -brass buttons thereto affixed, shall pay a penalty of forty shillings -for every dozen, but that he shall not be able to recover the price he -claims, if the wearer thinks proper to resist payment. Nor is the Act a -dead letter. It is not many weeks since, that honest Mr. Shirley sued -plain Mr. King for nine pounds sterling, due for a suit of clothes. -King pleaded non-liability on the ground of an illegal transaction, -the buttons on the garment supplied having been made of cloth, or bone -covered with cloth, instead of gay and glittering brass, as the law -directs. The judge allowed the plea; and the defendant having thus gained -a double suit without cost, immediately proceeded against the defendant -to recover his share of the forty shillings for every dozen buttons which -the poor tailor had unwittingly supplied. A remarkable feature in the -case was, that the judge who admitted the plea, the barrister who set -it up, and the client who profited by it, were themselves all buttoned -contrary to law! - -If I were writing an Encyclopædia of Trades, I would be as elaborate as -Dryasdust on the manufacture of buttons of all sorts of metal, more or -less costly; of wood, bone, ivory, horn, leather, paper, glass, silk, -wool, cotton, linen, thread, flock, compressed clay, etc. etc.—so that -both my readers and myself have a lucky escape. As the age however is -statistical in its inclinations, I will save my credit by remarking that -at Birmingham, the chief seat of button-manufacture, there are not less -than five thousand persons engaged in the manufacture of buttons, and -that half this number consists of women, and children. - -Having said this, I turn to a new chapter, wherein there will be -something more of statistics, and something new about stockings. - - - - -STOCKINGS. - - “Troth, Master Inkpen, thou hast put thy foot - Into a pretty subject.”—OLD PLAY. - - -When the old trunkhose was found to fray the sacred epidermis of -Christian kings and queens, the first fruits of a remedial discovery were -presented for the benefit of the illustrious sufferers. Thus we hear that -when stockings were first known in Europe, a Spanish grandee manifested -his loyalty and love for his Queen, by presenting a pair to the Prime -Minister, with a request that that official would place them at, if not -on, the feet of his sovereign lady. The Minister was shocked at the -grandee’s assurance and lack of modesty. “Take back thy stockings,” said -he, “and name the thing not again; for know, O foolish Sir Duke, that the -Queen of Spain has no legs!” - -Our Henry III., less nice with regard to his own sister the Princess -Isabella, did not scruple to present her with a pair of stockings of -cloth, embroidered with gold. - -These cloth hose went out of fashion in the reign of Elizabeth. Her -silk-woman, Montague, had presented her Majesty with a pair of black knit -silk stockings; and these were so pleasant to the legs of “England,” that -her Majesty discarded hot cloth for ever. She found double comfort in -the first; namely, to herself, and further comfort that by adopting them -she was encouraging a home-made article. The first pair of English-knit -worsted stockings were worn by Elizabeth’s Peer, “proud Pembroke.” They -had been imitated from an Italian knit pair by William Rider, apprentice -to Thomas Burdett, at the Bridge foot, opposite St. Magnus’ Church; -and their presentation to Pembroke was, doubtless, profitable to the -apprentice. - -Disappointed love has been the cause of various dire effects, but I do -not know that it ever caused effect so singular as when it invented -a stocking-frame. This too was in Elizabeth’s time. In those golden -days, Will Lee, of Woodborough, in Norfolk, was a student at Cambridge; -somewhat given to maidens as well as to mathematics, but not so utterly -wasting his time with the former pleasant trifles but that he found both -learning and leisure to achieve an M.A. degree, and obtain a Fellowship. - -Master Lee was especially addicted to talk agreeable nonsense to an -honest lass in the town, who gained her living, and increased the smiles -on her pretty face, by knitting stockings, to her very great profit. Now -this Cambridge damsel did not care the value of a dropped stitch for -such love as rich Will Lee brought her at sundown every coming eve; and -she told him as much. “Ay, marry!” said the vindictive lover, “then thou -shalt rue thy words and thy contempt.”—“_Marry_ scenteth of Rome,” said -the orthodox knitter; “and thou art as false in love as in faith.” - -Master Lee however was a “fellow” who was true to his word. He was piqued -at being rejected,—_he_, a gentleman, by a pert knitter of stockings; -and he took but a base way of revenging his pique. He had sat knitting -his brow in vain, when all at once the thought struck him that he would -knit stockings too, and that by a process which should ruin the poor -damsel, who, poor as she was, despised an unworthy gentleman and scholar. -Thereupon he actually invented and set up the stocking-frame. He first -worked at it himself, and then taught his squire-brothers, and his -gentle relations; and finally he opened a manufactory at Calverton in -Nottinghamshire, and made stockings for the Maiden Queen. - -All the hand-knitters were in despair, and they left no means untried -to bring the new invention into disrepute. Nor did they try in vain, -for Will Lee was driven out of England by the force of the coalition -against him. He set up his frames at Rouen, and drove a “roaring trade” -there, which was however interrupted by the confusion which followed upon -the assassination of Henri IV.; and the inventor of the stocking-frame -ultimately died at Paris, poorer than the humble knitting-maiden whom he -tried to ruin in two ways, and failed in both. - -And a double moral may be drawn upon this story as neatly as two -stockings upon a pair of becoming legs. Swains too lightly given of -phrase in honest maidens’ ears may reflect, as they pull on their hose, -that treachery, as in the case of Will Lee, brought that gentlemanly -knave to want even a foot to the stockings he had made at his own frame. -Maidens, on the other hand, may as profitably reflect, when similarly -engaged, that they had better knit stockings than lend ear to the wicked -words of a fool; and that if once a hole be made in the stocking of their -reputation, the most skilful darning will hardly repair, and can never -conceal, the permanent injury. - -And _à propos_ of darning, though it be not at all so to the above story, -Shuter was one day reproached by a brother actor that he had a hole in -his stocking, and the friend advised inimitable Ned to have it darned. “I -will not be such an ass,” exclaimed the original Sir Anthony Absolute; “a -hole in the stocking is an accident that may happen to any gentleman, but -a darn is premeditated poverty.” - -King James I. was willing to do what would have shocked even -Shuter,—namely, wear borrowed stockings. There is a letter extant in -which that monarch asks a noble to lend him the “scarlet hose with the -gold clocks,” on a particular day on which he was desirous of giving the -French Ambassador “an extraordinary idea of his magnificence!” - -This idea would never have entered the head of his great predecessor -Henry VIII., of whom Stowe, the tailor, says:—“You shall understand -that Henry VIII. did only wear cloth hose, or hose cut out of ell-broad -taffeta, unless by great chance there came a pair of silk stockings from -Spain. King Edward VI.,” he adds, “had a pair of Spanish silk stockings -sent him as a great present.” - -While upon these times I may add, that when Elizabeth made Knights of -the Garter those great noblemen, the Duc de Montmorenci, and the Lords -Burleigh, Chandos, Essex, and Grey of Wilton, the Queen distinguished her -favourite Burleigh from the rest, by buckling the garter about his knee -herself; and this is said to have been the first occasion on which this -personal favour was conferred by the hands of a female sovereign, and to -have given rise to the exclamation, first uttered by the offended prudes, -of “’Ods Stars and Garters!” - -I have read somewhere of stockings made out of the human hair, and how -the pretty conceit was adopted by lovers who were willing to entangle -their legs, as well as heart, in their mistresses’ tresses. To be once -more statistical and useful, I have to add for your information, that -although we no longer export anything but cotton yarns, instead of the -manufactured article, to Saxony, our general export is still large; -saving of silk stockings, of which we send abroad annually only some -60,000 pairs. Two hundred and fifty thousand dozen pairs of cotton -stockings go abroad annually to deck foreign legs, and about half that -amount of worsted,—the latter being generally sold by weight. Finally, I -conclude with the remarkably interesting statistical fact, that a lady -always takes off her left stocking last! - -The possibility that this bit of statistical darning may excite a blush -on susceptible cheeks, reminds me of another fashion to which I will now -advert, under the title at the head of the following chapter. Having got -down to the feet, and shoes having been already incidentally noticed, we -will again mount upward. - - - - -“MASKS AND FACES.” - - “Il faut ôter les masques des choses aussi bien que des - personnes.”—MONTAIGNE. - - -Francis Bacon somewhere remarks that politeness veils vice just as -dress masks wrinkles. Perhaps this saying of his was founded on the -circumstance, that Queen Elizabeth not only wore dresses of increasing -splendour with increasing age, but that she also used occasionally to -appear masked on great gala occasions. The mode thus royally given, was -not however very speedily or generally followed. The introduction of -masks as a fashion appears to have “obtained,” as old authors call it, -only about the year 1660. Pepys, in 1663, says that he went to the Royal -Theatre, and there saw Howard’s comedy of ‘The Committee’ (known to us -in its new form and changed name of ‘The Honest Thieves’). He designates -it as “a merry but indifferent play, only Lacy’s part, an Irish footman, -is beyond imagination.” Among the company were Viscount Falkenberg, or -Falconbridge, with his wife, the third daughter of Cromwell. “My Lady -Mary Cromwell,” he goes on to say, “looks as well as I have known her, -and well clad; but when the house began to fill, she put on her vizard, -and so kept it on all the play; _which of late is become a great fashion_ -among the ladies, which hides their whole face. So,” he adds,—and it -shows, does that sighed-forth “_So!_” the melancholy consequence of -leading wives into temptation,—“So to the Exchange, to buy things, with -my wife; among others a vizard for herself.” - -Certainly that pretty precisian, Mary Cromwell, in a vizard at the play, -sounds oddly; one would as soon expect to hear of Mrs. Chisholm at a -Casino! No wonder Mrs. Pepys admired her! - -But Mrs. Pepys was not very long content with her English vizard; for six -months after we find the little man, her husband, recording—“To Covent -Garden, to buy a maske at the French house, Madame Charett’s, for my -wife.” The taste of Mrs. Pepys was doubtless influenced by the example of -the court, “where six women, my Lady Castlemaine and Duchess of Monmouth -being two of them, and six men, the Duke of Monmouth, and Lord Arran, and -Monsieur Blanfort (Lord Feversham) being three of them, in vizards, but -most rich and antique dresses, did dance admirably and most gloriously.” -What Pepys thought of the fashion and the time is seen again by a sighing -comment—“God give us cause to continue the mirth!” - -The fashion was still in full force in 1667; and to what purpose it -was used, and to what purpose it might be abused, may be seen in the -following extract. - -“To the King’s House to ‘The Maid’s Tragedy,’ but vexed all the while -with two talking ladies and Sir Charles Sedley; yet pleased to have their -discourse, he being a stranger. And one of the ladies would and did sit -with her mask on through all the play; and, being as exceeding witty as -ever I heard woman, did talk most pleasantly with him; _but_ was, _I -believe, a virtuous woman, and of quality_. He would fain know who she -was, but she would not tell; yet did give him many pleasant hints of her -knowledge of him, by that means setting his brains at work to find out -who she was, and did give him leave to use all means to find out who she -was but pulling off her mask. He was mighty witty, and she also making -sport with him very inoffensively, that a more pleasant _rencontre_ I -never heard;” and then once more a groaning commentary,—“but by that -means lost the pleasure of the play wholly.” - -In the following year Pepys makes record of his having been at -Bartholomew Fair with his wife and a party. We “took a link,” he says, -“the women resolving to be dirty, and walked up and down to get a coach; -and my wife being a little before me, had like to have been taken up -by one whom we saw to be Sam Hartlib. My wife had her vizard on; yet -we cannot say that he meant any hurt; for it was just as she was by a -coach-side, which he had, or had a mind to take up: and he asked her, -‘Madam, do you go in this coach?’ but as soon as he saw a man come to her -(I know not whether he knows me) he departed away apace.” By all which -we may see that a vizard at a fair was evidently “an outward and visible -sign,” recognized by the rakes and gallants of the locality. - -A vizard in the Park, at dusk, was equally intelligible; and though the -men were not masked at that or any other hour, they were at that time and -place more than sufficiently disguised. “And _now_,” says Vincent, in Sir -George Etherege’s comedy of ‘Love in a Wood, or St. James’s Park,’—“now -a man may carry a bottle under his arm, instead of his hat, and no -observing, spruce fop will miss the cravat that lies on one’s shoulder, -or count the pimples on one’s face.” As at park and fair, so fell the -convenient covering into evil application at the play itself. The matter -is alluded to by the Widow Blackacre in the epilogue to the ‘Plain -Dealer:’— - - “For as in Hall of Westminster - Sleek sempstress vends amid the Courts her ware; - So while we bawl, and you in judgement sit, - The visor-mask sells linen too i’ the pit.” - -By the end of the seventeenth century the fashion of masks was being -tarnished by vulgarity; and the practice of concluding comedies with a -‘Marriage in a Mask,’ a ceremony which may not have been unusual, was -already considered as a stale device. Congreve winds up two of his -comedies, ‘The Old Bachelor’ and ‘Love for Love,’ with this jovial sort -of bouquet. - -The mode however still held on at the theatre. The latter was never -more licentious than now, and the ladies never so much loved to resort -thither. Our great grandmothers however, when young, were extremely -modest: many of them were afraid of venturing to a new play till their -lovers assured them they might do so without offence to their exquisite -delicacy. The bolder spirits, still modest but impatient, went in -masks,—not unwilling to listen to savoury uncleanness, but so modest -that they could not bear any one to see that they did _not_ blush at -it. “Such incidents as these,” says the ‘Spectator,’ “make some ladies -wholly absent themselves from the playhouse; and others never miss the -first night of a new play, lest it should prove too luscious to admit of -their going with any countenance to the second;”—a most exquisite reason. -It was good enough however to authorize vizards; and the theatre became -something like what Nat Lee in his ‘Nero’ describes Mount Ida to have -been,— - - “Where the gods meet and dance in masquerade!” - -But Mount Ida had something divine about it, which our stage in the days -of vizards certainly had not. As Joe Haines said to his masked audience, -in the concluding lines of the prologue to the very play just named— - - “All tragedies, egad! to me sound oddly; - I can no more be serious than you godly.” - -The fashion, after it had been indifferently well worn by the ladies, of -course fell to their maids, and Abigail wore the vizard which Lady Betty -dropped. In Malcolm’s ‘London’ (eighteenth century) a writer is quoted, -whose communication shows whither the masks had fallen in 1731. It is -in a letter on “Boxing Day,” and in it occurs the following passage:—“My -friend next carried me to the upper end of Piccadilly, where, one pair of -stairs over a stable, we found near a hundred people of both sexes (_some -masked_, others not), a great part of which were dancing to the music of -two sorry fiddles. It is impossible to describe this medley of mortals -fully; however, I will do it as well as I can. There were footmen, -servant-maids, butchers, apprentices, oyster and orange women, and -sharpers, which appeared to be the best of the company. This horrid place -seemed to be a complete nursery for the gallows. My friend informed me -it was called ‘a threepenny hop;’ and while we were talking, to my great -satisfaction, by order of the Westminster justices, _to their immortal -honour_, entered the constables and their assistants, who carried off all -the company that was left; and had not our friend been known to them, we -might have paid dear for our curiosity.” - -After all, Justice was here, as usual, uncommonly blind; for the boxing -party, masked or not, was not more offensive against _bonos mores_ than -the Ranelagh parties, where powdered “bloods” percolated their dreadfully -luscious nonsense through the filter on the faces of the masked “belles.” -And besides, masking at holiday-time had long been a privilege of the -people. In ‘Vox Graculi’ (1623), above a century prior to the last date, -I find it stated of Twelfth Night—“On this night, much masking in the -Strand, Cheapside, Holborn, and Fleet-street.” - -I have already noticed how our exceedingly precious grandmothers used to -resort to the theatres with covered faces instead of stopped-up ears. -The ears of the public did however rise angrily at last; the palled -appetite loathed the long-served food. A society was formed “for the -reformation of manners, for immoral words and expressions _contra bonos -mores_, uttered on the stage.” The society retained hired informers, -who sat in the pit, took down the naughty words and the names of the -speakers, and then entered a prosecution against the utterers. They were -driving a pretty trade, for the benefit of modesty and the suppression -of masks, when all at once Queen Anne, sipping her hollands, gently -bethought herself that these spies were flourishing by the abundance -of that which they feigned desire to put down; and indeed the fellows -were like some of our professional missionaries of the _pavé_, who steal -spoons from chop-houses, and have as many wives as Rugantino. The Queen -accordingly crushed the trading prosecutions by a “Nolle prosequi,” and -took the matter into her own hands. She issued a “royal command” for the -better regulation of the theatres, whereby she left to her Master of the -Revels “the special care that nothing be acted in either of the theatres -contrary to religion or good manners, upon pain of our high displeasure, -and of being silenced from further acting.” - -Now, leaving to a Master of the Revels the care of suppressing revelry on -the stage, was very much like entrusting to Satan the suppression of sin. -However, so it was; but her Majesty tore the masks off herself, or rather -threatened to do so, as thus:— - -“We do hereby strictly command that no person, of what quality soever, -presume to go behind the scenes, or come upon the stage, either before -or during the acting of any piece; that no woman be allowed or presume -to wear a vizard mask in either of the theatres; and that no persons -come into either house without paying the price established for their -respective places.” - -Good Queen Anne issued this decree in the second year of her reign, -and it had just the effect that might have been expected. The houses -played ‘London Cuckolds’ to vizards of masked ladies, as usual, on the -9th of November; and Pinkethman roared his buffoonery in his booth near -Hyde Park during May Fair. What then did her Majesty deem contrary to -religion and good manners? Well, I really do not know; but I _do_ know -that, in the very year of the decree, she herself had the comedy of ‘Sir -Solomon’ acted before her and her ladies at court; and if she could -listen to that without a blush, or a mask to conceal the want of it, why -she must have construed immorality, and her royal command against it, in -a very mild sense indeed. - -The ladies were uncommonly angry with their liege mistress Anne for -this decree, and the sentiment is exemplified by the song so popular at -the Lincoln’s Inn Theatre in 1704,—‘The Misses’ Lamentation, for want -of their Vizard Masques at the Theatre.’ The “misses” however, and the -matrons too, had long before this indulged in a fashion which was not -dropped until long subsequent to the fall of the mask. - -About five years after Mrs. Pepys had taken Samuel for her liege lord, -that is to say in 1660, she first essayed to add new lustre to her charms -by affixing a few “beauty spots” to her face. “This is the first day,” -says he, on the 30th of August of the year above named, “that ever I -saw my wife wear black patches since we were married.” It was some time -before the gentleman could make up his mind to the propriety of wearing -these adjuncts to beauty. In October, he expresses his astonishment -that even Lord Sandwich should “talk very high how he would have a -French cook, and a master of his horse, and his lady and child to wear -black patches; which methought was strange, but he has become a perfect -courtier.” It was perhaps because the court patronized patches, that -Pepys permitted them on his wife. Hitherto the lady had worn them without -the marital sanction, but in November we find him saying, “My wife seemed -very pretty today, it being the first time I had given her leave to weare -a black patch.” And therewith his admiration increased; and some days -later, on seeing his wife close to the Princess Henrietta (daughter of -Charles I.) at court, on the occasion of a visit she paid to her brother -Charles II., as Duchess of Orléans, he remarks: “The Princess Henrietta -is very pretty; ... but my wife standing near her, with two or three -black patches on, and well-dressed, did seem to me much handsomer than -she.” - -A century subsequent to this, patches still kissed the cheek of beauty; -and as professors taught how to wield the fan, so French essays were -“done into English,” and instruction therein given as to the secret -of applying them in an artful manner, how to arrange them with the -most killing effect, and how to so plant them about the eye that the -expression desired should be at once achieved,—whether of proud disdain, -amorous languor, or significant boldness. They were the hieroglyphics -of vanity and of party spirit; and beaux and politicians read in the -arrangement of patches not only the tender but the political principles -of the wearer. - -Despotism too had something to do with patches. Thus Lady Castlemaine -fixed the fashion of mourning, by “forcing all the ladies to go in black, -with their hair plain, and without spots.” It is a curious trait of the -manners of other times that a royal concubine should order the tiring of -honest women. She could hardly have influenced that “comely woman,” the -Duchess of Newcastle, who went about, in the second Charles’s time, with -a velvet cap, her hair about her ears, “many black patches, because of -pimples about her mouth,” naked-necked, and in a black _justaucorps_. - -The ladies marked or patched, the gentlemen red-heeled and similarly -“nosed,” had no greater delight than in killing time by looking at the -“puppets;” and the fashion of these same puppets is a thing of such -antiquity and such duration, that I may fairly add a chapter thereon to -those through which I have already been accompanied by the courteous and -indulgent reader. - - - - -PUPPETS FOR GROWN GENTLEMEN. - - “They do lie in a basket, Sir; they are o’ the small - players,—and as good as any, none dispraised, for dumb - shows.”—BEN JONSON: _Bartholomew Fair_. - - -Madame de Puysieux was a witty and vivacious lady. Among her recorded -sayings is one that exceedingly well suits me for the nonce. “I would -rather,” she said, “be occasionally found looking at puppets than -listening to philosophers.” - -There was doubtless some reason in this; but the fact is also -indubitable, that puppets and philosophy are not so far apart. The latter -has often condescended to illustrate the former. The learned and serious -Jesuit, Mariantonio Lupi, devoted his brief leisure to writing upon them. -The great mathematicians, Commendino d’Urbino and Torniano di Cremona, -stooped to play with and perfect them. Le Sage and Piron wrote plays for -them. Ben Jonson brought them on the stage. Addison has immortalized them -in stately verse; and Haydn seriously addressed himself to composing -exquisite music, wherewith to grace their motion. These are but modern -illustrations. We shall however presently discover, that the great and -gifted men of a very remote antiquity were wont also to turn from the -consideration of mighty problems, and carve puppets that should excite -ecstasy in the wide world of “the little people.” - -Surely there is dignity in a subject treating even of toys that have -been in fashion for three thousand years, and have afforded amusement -to two-thirds of the human race. The subject was largely discussed in -France not many years since, by M. Charles Magnin, a gentleman who, in -love with his plaything, had recourse to every source of information, and -who brought away from all something worth knowing. M. Magnin shows that -the gravest of authors are at issue as to the origin of the puppet race. -Charles Nodier, however, traces it to the doll that lies in unconscious -felicity in the arms of youthful and precocious maturity. M. Magnin -maintains, on the other hand, that the puppet does not spring from the -hearth, but from the altar. The rude god whittled out of a gnarled bough -is, with him, the undoubted sire of the universe of dolls. The puppet -served for pious, before it was suited to domestic, purposes; and it -excited awe long before it won laughter or excited admiration. It lived -in a wood, and ruled savages. As civilization advanced, it changed its -habits, form, and features; and, ceasing to affright man, undertook the -happier task of amusing him. - -Such is the legendary record of puppets. We must turn over the graphic -pages of the ‘Father of History,’ to find the first authentic mention -of their employment. The guests at an Egyptian feast, when they grew -hilarious, were called back to sober propriety by the exhibition of -a little skeleton, and the admonition to reflect upon the lesson it -conveyed. The British Museum possesses many of these figures, as well as -others which appear to be toys that have been buried with their loved -little owners. There is some uncertainty on this point, however; for -it is known that on diseased persons it was the custom to place little -figures, supposed to represent the deity which had particular influence -over the part whereon the image was laid. I believe that the liver -was the only portion of the body that had not its peculiar divinity. -That obstinate organ has always defied gods and men. “In jecore nigro -nascuntur domini;” and over these even the Egyptian Pantheon availed -nothing. - -Whether the figures in our Museum be actual toys, or counterfeit -presentments of very swarthy gods, it is not in every instance easy -to determine. From conjecture however we can turn to Herodotus; and -certainly that worthy Halicarnassian tells us, in his second book, that -in Egypt, on the festival of Osiris, or Bacchus, a puppet figure of the -joyous god, a cubit in height, with some indecent mechanism moved by -the pulling of a string, was carried in procession by the women. When -previously speaking of the figure of Pan, he says, that the deity in -question is worshiped under a form known not to be his real one, for -a reason, he adds, which he “had rather not mention.” So, in the case -of Bacchus, he confines himself to stating that there were “sacred and -mysterious reasons” for the same. We are now aware that the unseemly -practice was really a species of invocation that the earth might be -impregnated with prolific virtue. - -We next arrive at articulated figures. The statue of Jupiter Ammon nodded -to the attendant priests when he was about to prophesy. So Apollo, at -Heliopolis, would not open his lips till his ministers had carried him -whither he would go. Aloft on the shoulders of his bearers, he guided -them as with reins. On being questioned, he graciously bowed his head, if -he approved; or fell back, if he dissented. When placed on the ground of -his temple, he was seen to ascend, without aid, till his head touched the -roof; and there he remained fixed till prayers brought him down again. -It is suggested that the magnet may have been employed to accomplish the -feat. How this may have been defies aught but conjecture. - -Voluntary motion of inanimate objects was always an evidence of their -divinity. When Juno paid her celebrated visit to Vulcan, she found him -engaged in the manufacture of tripods, which moved about and performed -their office with a bustling air of the most zealous assiduity. - - “Full twenty tripods for his hall he framed, - That, placed on living wheels of massy gold, - Wondrous to tell, instinct with spirit, roll’d - From place to place around the blest abodes, - Self-moved, obedient to the beck of gods.” - -We have here in England, if not tripods, at least bipeds, who can - - “instinct with spirit roll - From place to place.” - -And this subject reminds me of Bacchus, generally. Now, my readers know -that there were of old not less than ten cities known by the name of -Nysa. At two of these, Nysa in India and Nysa in Ethiopia, Bacchus (Dio -Nysus) was held in extreme reverence. In the last-named city, Ptolemy -Philadelphus manifested his veneration for the god, by honouring the -deity’s great festival after a pleasing fashion. The King had a figure of -the joyous divinity made expressly for the occasion. It was eight cubits -in length, and was drawn through the city, attired in a tunic of yellow -and gold, with a Macedonian mantle hanging from the shoulders. The god -was seated in a car, and as he passed through the gazing crowds, he ever -and anon majestically arose, poured out, not wine, but milk, from a bowl, -and then solemnly re-seated himself. - -Among the Greeks, Dædalus is famous, in legend at least, as the founder -of the art of figure-making. He is said to have flourished about a -thousand years before Christ; and despite what is generally told of him, -he was probably but a rude craftsman. He was the first who introduced -quicksilver into figures, and by this process he lent a sort of -Chinese-tumbling motion to a wooden image of Venus. Some of his figures -were so given to activity as to require being made fast when not wanted -to move, without which precaution they would, like the leg in the legend, -have continued running about without intermission. - -All the Greek puppets belong to the Dædalus school; they were generally -of wood or baked clay, were set in motion by strings, and were invariably -of the feminine gender. It was customary to place them in the coffins -of young girls. M. Magnin quotes from Xenophon’s graphic description of -the banquet in the house of Callias, to demonstrate that the noblest -Athenians condescended to be amused with representations by puppets. -There is however not a word touching puppets throughout the lively -narrative of the learned and gallant Greek. The Syracusan showman therein -introduced exhibits a living boy and girl, who go through some rather -dangerous gymnastic exercises, which excite considerable disgust in the -mind of Socrates. That sage is much better pleased when the graceful -pair represent in his presence the ballet of ‘Bacchus and Ariadne.’ -These children not only danced but sang; and if it be suggested that -the feat of singing might easily be contrived for a puppet by a clever -stage-manager, we may also suggest that the Syracusan speaks, on one -occasion, in answer to Socrates, so plainly as to leave no doubt that -“flesh, blood, and blue veins” entered into the composition of his -elegant little slave. - -Antiochus Cyzenicus, half-brother to Antiochus Grypus—the huge-nosed -Antiochus—was celebrated as the inventor of puppets as well as of larger -machines; and his counterfeit animals, whose limbs simulated motion, were -as agreeable to his friends, as his engines, with unpronounceable names, -were horridly distasteful to his enemies. - -In Greece again, Archytas the mathematician constructed for his young -acquaintances a hollow pigeon that could fly,—the original Montgolfier. -In like manner, Dædalus, who made quicksilvered tumblers, also -discovered the use of the wedge and the science of sailing; while Cnidus, -the great astronomer, not only regulated the year and brought the -celestial sphere from Egypt, but made all his little cousins glad by the -excellence of the puppets he invented, and the fantasticness of their -movements. - -The public puppet-plays were fashionable in Greece after the theatres -had been suppressed by the Puritan Macedonian faction. The method -of representation was, in many respects, like that still followed -by the itinerant managers of wooden companies in our own days. The -like permanence of fashion has clung to our childish games. The old -_Muinda_ is the modern Blind-Man’s-Buff; _Chytrinda_ is Hot Cockles; -_Trigodiphasis_ is Bob-Cherry; and Scriblerus, we remember, permitted his -illustrious son to play at Puss-in-the-Corner, for the sufficient reason -that it was the _Apodidascinda_ of the ancients. There is one classical -game that has gone out of fashion, and I am not altogether surprised at -it, seeing that it consisted in one of the players standing on a round -ball, with his neck in a noose hung from above; in one hand he held a -knife. It was the part of his opponents to kick the ball from under his -feet. If, when this was done, he succeeded in cutting the rope, he won -the game; if not, he lost it, and got hanged. - -To return to our figures, we may state that the Italian temples were -celebrated for their moving gods. In the fane of the two Fortunes at -Antium, the goddess moved both arms and head when that solemnity was -required. So at Præneste, the figures of the youthful Jupiter and Juno, -lying in the lap of Fortune, moved, and excited awe thereby. The marble -Servius Tullius is said to have shaded his eyes with his cold hand -whenever that remarkably strong-minded woman, his daughter and murderess, -passed before him. - -It was a common thing for the images of the gods to turn away their -heads when displeased with the meats placed before them. This act filled -a whole district with terror, and excited a desire in the people to do -whatever the priests enjoined. When the Athenians were slow to desert -their capital and take to their ships, the sacred wooden dragon of -Minerva not only refused to eat his cakes, but rolled himself out of -the temple and down into the sea, as though to indicate to the people -the direction in which resided safety. As for the huge puppets used in -religious processions, nothing now exists like them, save in some of the -festival processions in Flemish towns. Our venerable city brethren, Gog -and Magog, are the ancient freemen of that guild. In some of the smaller -images our worthy friend Punch figures with his wonted _éclat_. M. Magnin -holds that the French _Polichinelle_ is not a descendant of the puppet -with the Phrygian bonnet, but an image caricaturing some old boasting -cuirassed captain of Gascony. The breast protuberance he considers to be -merely an exaggeration of the bowed cuirass,—an explanation which I am -far from feeling bound to honour with acceptance. - -Puppets found favour at the hands of the early Fathers of the Church: -perhaps for the reason that more decency was observed in the speeches of -the shows than in those of the stage. The Fathers however were divided on -the point. Some advocated the use of every and any means whereby religion -could be furthered; others declared that nothing was lawful but what -was in itself holy. The fashion nevertheless prevailed, and allegorical -figures became common. The Fish, the Lamb, the Good Shepherd, and similar -representations gladdened the hearts of simple people, till the Church -planted her canons against them exclusively, and insisted upon the -adoption of figures of the Saviour in his human form. - -The command was but slowly complied with. In the fourth century artists -had not got beyond the bust of Jesus. By the end of the seventh century, -we meet with the sacred figure in slight relief carved on the wooden -cross. It required full another century before the reluctant or incapable -artists achieved the complete anatomical figure hanging _from_ the cross. -But when this was once accomplished, progress was soon made beyond it; -and images of the Saviour and the Madonna, with movable limbs, set in -motion by strings, became common throughout Europe. We hear of one -gravely moving through Lucca on foot, and gravely blessing the people as -he passed along: this was the counterpart of the Bacchus at Nysa. - -The Boxley Madonna was long the glory of Kent. It not only moved the -head, but opened and closed the eyes; and I would tell its story here, as -apt to the subject, but that I have already narrated it at some length in -the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine.’ - -The Rimini Madonna is but a poor plagiarism of Our Lady of Boxley. -Maundrill, at the end of the seventeenth century, saw an image of Christ, -so flexible, that it was difficult to distinguish, at a distance, between -it and a dead body. These figures were so often used to deceive the -people, that the employment of them was forbidden by several Councils; -but in vain. Some of them were of such exquisite workmanship, that -their makers were taxed with having the devil for an ally; and the -figure-makers generally were consigned to infamy. - -One day, in the year 1086, the holy Abbot Thergius, attending at Cluny -to give investiture to some half hundred novices, refused conferring -the benediction upon one of them, under the plea, “Mechanicum ilium -esse et necromantiæ deditum.” And yet the abbot artists were among the -priests themselves; nay, were sometimes to be found among the Popes. -Sylvester II. is said to have constructed a brazen head. Roger Bacon -and Robert Greathead were celebrated for the same achievement; while -Albertus Magnus has the reputation of having constructed an _android_ -or semblance of a man, of such perfection, that it would support an -argument with satisfaction to itself and discomfort to its opponents. -Thomas Aquinas, when young, ventured to enter upon a discussion with this -figure; when the _androide_ so perplexed the priest with his shower of -syllogisms, that the latter broke his head for his pains, and ruined his -argumentative powers for ever. - -The ecclesiastical puppets were probably productions with more than mere -pretensions to rank among objects of art and science. The semi-religious -and popular puppets were too gross to deceive; and yet the great dragon -of Paris, slain by St. Marcel, whose _simulacrum_ dragged itself through -the city during the Rogation Days, was probably contemplated with as much -awe by the youthful beholders, us the sacred dragon of Minerva was at -Athens, by such of the citizens as lived before the innovating period of -the free-thinking Anaxagoras. - -Galen speaks of puppets so anatomically perfect, that Heaven might have -taken a hint therefrom. Synesius, Bishop of Ptolemaïs, too, referring to -effects following at long intervals, the impelling cause divinely given, -stumbles upon an unprofitable simile, and compares such effects to the -motion in the limbs of the puppet long after the showman has ceased to -pull the strings. - -If our little actors fell into disuse from the thirteenth to the -fifteenth century, it was only to reappear in Italy with an _éclat_ which -they never previously enjoyed. Of modern puppets, Italy is the birthplace -and permanent home. In front of a puppet-show exists an equality of all -classes, who fraternize for the moment to enjoy the liberty which puppets -alone in the peninsula appear to possess. These imitate nature with such -perfection as to confer on their constructors the name of _artists_. -In the regular puppet-theatre, where none but wooden actors appear on -the stage, the scenery and accessories are in such due proportion with -the performers, that the eye yields ready consent to the illusion. -Burlettas, sparkling extravaganzas, melodramas, and even grand operas -are represented. In the latter case, the mute _prima donna_ on the stage -invariably answers by her expressive pantomime to the voice which is -uttered for her behind the scenes. And when a bouquet is flung to her, -her grateful emotion is, as Mr. Carlyle would say, “a noticeable thing.” - -The puppet ballet-dancers are even more wonderful than their vocal -brethren. Rome extends to them the privilege of playing in the capital, -even in solemn seasons. Church-censorship is however strict, as might be -expected; and it evidences its care for the proprieties by requiring that -no female puppet shall appear on the stage without a pair of light blue -silk drawers! This is something to smile at; for morality at Rome is not -of a high character, and female immodesty there is almost as disgustingly -offensive as it is on our Ramsgate sands at the height of the bathing -season. Even Rome cannot beat _that_. - -The private puppet-actors in Italy indulge in political allusions, to -the delight of an audience invited for the express purpose of enjoying -satirical allusions against the Government. In Florence, the private -companies are remarkable for their coarseness, to which they who pay -for the same do not object. In Milan, the fool of the puppet-stage is -invariably a native of Turin; while among the Piedmontese puppets, the -fool of the farce and the villain of the melodrama are of course of -Lombard origin. - -The Spanish puppets are of Italian derivation. Torriani invented many in -order to amuse Charles V. in his retirement among the monks of St. Just. -These were so clever that the brotherhood suspected the artist of being -leagued with evil powers; but the uses to be drawn from these figures -were so apparent, that the Church of Spain employed them largely in the -working of miracles. The modern prince of puppets, our friend Punch, -never got thoroughly naturalized in Spain. The fact is, the unscrupulous -fellow is of Neapolitan descent; and since Naples revolted against the -Spanish government, _Pulcinello_ is looked upon as a very dangerous -person. Seneca, on the other hand, being a native of Cordova, is a great -favourite. His history is faithfully represented, with an addition that -reminds one of the new act put by the modest M. Dumas to one William -Shakspeare’s tragedy of Hamlet. This addition consists in the ascent of -the heathen philosopher to heaven; where, at the feet of the figure of -the Saviour, he recites the creed, and professes himself a Christian. - -After all, this is not more absurd than the act of that Pope who -converted Trajan to Christianity three hundred years after that Emperor’s -death; and who had nearly canonized him to boot, in spite of the -remonstrance of the astounded College of Cardinals. - -Although Punch was not originally French, he has always been greatly -esteemed in France. He was a highly honoured puppet, as the registers -of the royal treasury certify; _ex. gr._, “Paid to Brioché, the -puppet-player, for sojourning at St. Germain-en-Laye, during September, -October, and November, 1669, to divert the royal children, 1365 -livres.” The royal children of France must have had enough of this -sort of amusement, the Dauphin particularly, who had already had two -months of puppet-playing before Brioché came, as is shown by the same -registry:—“Paid to François Daitelin, puppet-player, for the fifty-six -days he remained at St. Germain, to amuse Monseigneur le Dauphin (July -and August, 1669), 820 livres.” - -Bossuet, the Dauphin’s tutor, persecuted both puppets and Protestants, -which, and especially the latter, were reckoned for a time among -the things that were reprobate and abominable. Brioché himself was -suppressed; but he had friends at court; and the King, who would -execute a Protestant for preaching, signed a decree which authorized the -mountebank to continue playing. Due gratitude was shown in return; and -among the favourite pieces represented at the famous fairs of St. Germain -and St. Laurent, was ‘The Destruction of the Huguenots.’ - -The puppet-plays at the fairs in Paris were got up with much -magnificence, and were wittily written,—but with as much indecency as -wit; particularly during the last years of Louis XIV. and the time of -the Regent. The puppets alone had full liberty of speech, when every -other sort of liberty was extinct. Le Sage and Piron, as I have said, -wrote pieces expressly for them. And while plays in France were acted in -puppet-shows, puppet-shows in England were introduced into plays. Of this -the ‘Bartholomew Fair’ of Jonson is a sufficient example. The _vogue_ of -the French puppets is proved by the fact that the Regent Duke of Orléans, -with his company of _roués_, often remained in the fair till long after -midnight, to witness representations where the coarser the wit the more -it was enjoyed. - -All the _chefs-d’œuvre_ of the French stage were immediately parodied -on the puppet-boards; and saving the license of speech, the parody was -often superior to the original. It was so attractive that the regular -actors complained, and sought for the suppression of their wooden rivals. -But Punch and his brethren pleaded for their ancient privilege, “de -parler et de p⸺r.” The plea was held good, and the puppets triumphed -over the Thespians. The quarrel being a family one, it was of course -carried on with undying hostility. The puppet-players took every -opportunity of ridiculing the extravagances of the more serious stage. -When the custom of calling for “the author” of a successful new piece -was established, upon the example set of calling for Voltaire after the -first representation of ‘Merope,’ the puppets availed themselves of the -opportunity for caricaturing. “Le compère pressait Polichinelle de -lui faire entendre une de ses œuvres; et après avoir reçu une réponse -très-incongrue, le compère s’empressait de demander l’auteur! l’auteur! -satisfaction que s’empressait de lui donner Polichinelle, aux grands -éclats de rire de l’assemblée.” - -The contrast with this will call up but a ghastly smile when we find -that while the crowd on the Place Louis XV. was waiting to witness the -execution of the King, Punch was being serio-comically guillotined in -one corner of the square, to the great delight of the spectators. Indeed -the ‘Vieux Cordelier’ tells us, that Punch daily filled up the intervals -of executions; and so varied the pleasures of the humane but impatient -multitude. But what neither the ‘Vieux Cordelier,’ nor M. Magnin tells -us, is the fate of this very Punch, or rather of the man and his wife -who exhibited the popular puppet. Their fate is recorded by the Marquis -de Custine. Punch, it appears, ventured on some jokes against the -Terrorists. His master and mistress were thereupon seized. They bore -their brief imprisonment with heroism, and they were executed on the spot -whereon had perished their sovereign and queen. - -The puppets went down in the general hurricane of the Revolution, and -they only partially came again to the surface. To their ancient shows -on the Boulevard du Temple has succeeded a line of theatres; and the -chief resulting difference is, that very awkward men and women now enact -the most sacred subjects where puppets once did the same office less -revoltingly. - -If a popular movement finally declared that the puppet dynasty had ceased -to reign, it was a despotic will that abolished the use of such effigies -in church spectacles. Louis XIV., on witnessing one of those sights at -Dieppe, was so shocked thereat that he ordered their general suppression. -The French word for puppet, _Marionnette_, applied originally only to -figures of the Virgin Mary; but, like the _Catrinette_ of the little -Savoyard, it has ceased to have an exclusive application. - -With regard to puppets in England, those wooden ladies and gentlemen once -figured largely in our church-shows, interludes, and pageants. The names -of the puppet masters have come down to us, from Pad, Cookley, Powell, -and the _daughter_ of Colley Cibber, to no less a man than Curran, who, -taking upon himself, in sport, the charge of a show for one night, found -it so easy when speaking for the mute actors to maintain both sides of an -argument that he was _therefore_ convinced of his excellent aptitude for -the law. - -Pepys, as usual, affords us again illustrations of the fashion which -attached to puppets in his day. From his brief journalizing we obtain a -world of information on this matter. Thus we find him recording:—“12th -Nov. 1661. My wife and I to Bartholomew Fayre, with puppets (which I had -seen once before, and the play without puppets often); but though I love -the play as much as ever I did, yet I do not like the puppets at all, -but think it to be a lessening of it.” On the 9th May, in the following -year, we find him in Covent Garden, “to see an Italian puppet-play, that -is within the rayles there,—the best that ever I saw, and great resort -of gallants.” In a fortnight he takes poor Mrs. Pepys to the same play. -In October, he says:—“Lord Sandwich is at Whitehall, with the King, -before whom the puppet-plays I saw this summer in Covent Garden are -acted this night.” On the 30th August, 1667, being with a merry party at -Walthamstow, he left his wife to get home as well as she could; _he_ “to -Bartholomew Fayre, to walk up and down, and there, among other things, -find my Lady Castlemaine at a puppet-play, ‘Patient Grizell,’ and the -street full of people expecting her coming out. I confess I did wonder -at her courage to come abroad, thinking the people would abuse her; -but they, silly people, do not know the work she makes; and therefore -suffered her with great respect to take coach, and so away without any -trouble at all.” - -The last allusion made by Pepys on this subject forms an admirable -commentary on the approving ecstasy expressed by the royalists at the -lashing which the “Precisians” received at the hands of Lantern’s puppets -in Jonson’s comedy. On the 5th September, 1668, Pepys is again on the -old ground, “to see the play ‘Bartholomew Faire,’ and it is an excellent -play; the more I see it, the more I love the wit of it; _only_” (he adds) -“the business of abusing the Puritans begins to grow stale, and of no -use, they being the people that at last will be found the wisest.” - -I began this chapter with a quotation from Puysieux—I may end it with -that just cited from Pepys; and therewith, lowering the curtain of my -little theatre, I beg the indulgence of my audience for the succeeding -portions of what I have respectfully to bring before them; something -more especially touching Tailors, and the Man whose making is to Tailors -due! First, however, to treat the matter reverently, let us inquire what -influenced the ancient corporation in their selection of a protecting -Saint. - - - - -TOUCHING TAILORS. - - - “Rem acu tetigisti.”—HORACE. - - “You have treated of a matter about the needle.”—_Translated by - a Merchant Tailors’ Pupil._ - - “Sit merita Laus!”—ST. WILLIAM, ABP. - - “Sit, merry Tailors.”—_Freely rendered by the Saint’s Chaplain._ - - - - -WHY DID THE TAILORS CHOOSE ST. WILLIAM FOR THEIR PATRON? - - “King David’s confessor is worth a whole calendar of - Williams.”—LUTHERAN TAILOR. - - -Why did the tailors choose St. William for their patron? Ah, _why_? I -confess it puzzles me to furnish a reply; and I would not be editor of -that pleasant paper ‘Notes and Queries,’ if my official hours were to be -passed in furnishing answers to such questions. - -I can understand why St. Nicholas is the patron of children. The Saint -once came upon a dozen or two in a tub, cut up, pickled, and ready for -home consumption or foreign exportation, and he restored them all to life -by a wave of his wand,—of his hand, I should say, but I was thinking -of Harlequin; and thenceforth parents very properly neglected their -children, knowing that Nicholas was their commissioned curator. - -I can comprehend why “St. John Colombine” is the patron saint of honest -workmen. I heard Dr. Manning, the other day, tell _his_ story from that -thimble of a pulpit in the Roman Catholic Chapel at Brook Green. This -John was a journeyman tailor (or of some as honest vocation) given to -strong drink and hot wrath. He was one day made insanely furious because -his real Colombine, his wife, had not got his dinner ready according to -order. The good housewife bethought her for a moment, and thereupon, -after turning aside, placed before him, not bread, but biography; not -a loaf and a salad, but the ‘Lives of the Saints.’ John dipped into -the same, devoured chapter after chapter, and fed so largely on the -well-attested facts, that he lost all appetite for aught besides. He -thenceforth so comported himself that future editors gave him a place in -the catalogue of the canonized; and the story, as told by that pale and -care-worn-looking Dr. Manning, is worth the shilling which you _must_ -disburse if you would hear it. Certainly, I mean nothing disrespectful -to that sincere but seemingly unhappy man, when I say that so startling -was the story as introduced into a discourse upon the Spirit of the Lord -and they who are led by such Spirit, that I could not have been more -startled if, in the days of my youth, the Bleeding Nun in ‘The Travellers -Benighted’ had, in the midst of her most tremendous scene, tripped down -to the foot-lights and sung a comic song. - -But this will not answer the query, “Why did the tailors choose St. -William for their patron?” Indeed, the digression I have made may be -taken for proof that I do not know how to answer the question. But let us -at least inquire. - -First, there was the Savoyard Saint William, who, when an orphan, -abandoned the friends who would have protected him; and after wandering -barefooted to the shrine of that Saint whom English boys unwittingly -celebrate by their grottoes, “only once a year,” St. James of -Compostella, proceeded to the kingdom of Naples, where he withdrew to a -desert mountain, and passed his time in contemplating the prospect before -him. He lacerated his skin instead of washing it, and he patched his -own garments when he might have earned new ones by honest labour. But -he founded a community of monks and friars, and _ergo_ he is celebrated -by the hagiographers. A contempt for saponaceous applications, and a -disregard of upper appearance or under comfort, have decidedly descended -to the brotherhood of tailors from William of Monte Vergine. - -Secondly, there was William of Champeaux, who founded the Abbey of St. -Victor at Paris. This William was a man of large learning and small -means; and he was well content to dine daily on a lettuce, a pinch of -salt, and a mouthful of bread. The shadows of dinners which form the -substance of tailors’ repasts, are reflections from the board of William -of Champeaux. - -Thirdly, there was William of Paris, the familiar friend of St. Louis, -King of France. This bishop, next to piety, was famed for his knowledge -of politics; and as tailors have ever been renowned for knowing what -is going on “i’ the capitol,” and for discussing such goings on with -uncommon freedom, I think we may trace this characteristic of the race to -the news-loving and loquacious prelate of eight centuries ago. - -Fourthly, there was St. William of Maleval, of sufficiently ignoble birth -to have been a tailor; and who did, in his youth and his cups, what -modern young tailors frequently offer to do under similar circumstances, -namely, enlist. If our useful friends have not imitated the latter -example set them by the Saint, we may trace their love of the pot, at -least, to the early model they found in their patron of Maleval; and if -often they find themselves in the station-house, lying upon no softer -bed than the bare ground, they doubtless find the reflection as feathers -to their bruised sides, that it was even thus that the founder of the -Gulielmites lay in a cave of the Evil Valley to which he gave a name -(Male Val), and which before was known by no better than the Stable of -Rhodes. - -Fifthly, there was William of Gelone, Duke of Aquitaine, whom it took St. -Bernard twice to convert before he made a Christian of him; and who had -such gallant propensities that he might have been one of the couple sung -of in the ‘Bridal of Triermain,’ where of three personages it is said -that— - - “There were two who loved their neighbours’ wives, - And one who loved his own.” - -The well-known gallantry of the tailors therefore is an heirloom from -William of Aquitaine. - -Sixthly, there was William sometime Archbishop of Bourges, who left to -the guild of whom we are treating the example which is followed by so -many of its members, and which consisted in utterly dispensing with a -shirt. He further never added to his costume in winter, nor diminished -anything in it in summer; and they who have taken St. William for a -patron are known, though not for the same reasons, to be followers of the -same fashion. - -Then there was, seventhly, St. William of Norwich, whose father, after -hesitating whether to bind him apprentice to a tailor or a tanner, had -just placed him with the latter when the lad was seized upon by the Jews, -and by them tortured and crucified, in derision of Christ. On Easter Day -they put the body into a sack, and carried it into Thorpe Wood, where it -was afterwards discovered, and buried, with many miraculous incidents to -illustrate the funeral; and where was afterwards erected the chapel of -St. William in the Wood. Now, at first sight, it would appear difficult -to decide as to what the tailors’ guild derived from William of Norwich. -But it is only at first sight, and to those unaccustomed to follow a -trail, and not determined to find what they are looking for. In allusion -to what had befallen the body of St. William, or rather in memory of how -that body was conveyed away, after life had been expelled from it, the -Norwich tailors first adopted that now consecrated phrase of “getting the -sack,” and which phrase implies a loss of position, to the detriment of -the loser. - -But I have not done; Williams are as plentiful as blackberries. There -is an eighth, the Abbot of Eskille, who no more liked to play sub-prior -to a superior than Garrick liked to play an unapplauded Falconbridge -to Sheridan’s King John. William of Eskille was a great reformer of -slothful convents, by whose inmates he was as much detested as an honest -and vigilant foreman is by operatives who work by the day. One thing -deemed worthy of mention by his biographers consists in the dreary fact -that he wore the same shirt for thirty years. At the end of that time -he turned it, and then piously blessed the saints for “the comfort -of clean linen.” I question if even modern tailors have succeeded in -attaining to this extent of saintly uncleanliness, but I would not be -too certain of that fact. As for what they may further have derived from -this excellent person, it is well known that for an abbot to be called -an _Abbot d’Eskille_ was the highest possible compliment that could be -paid him; and so the phrase fell to other _camaraderies_, and a _Tailleur -d’Eskille_ was the origin of a tailor of skill. But this is confidential, -reader,—between you and me. If you are related to an etymologist, or on -friendly terms with a lexicographer, I earnestly beg that you will not -mention it, even “after dinner.” - -Under the mystic number “nine,” I come to that William Archbishop of -York, who was the nephew of Stephen King of England, and whom old St. -Bernard belaboured with as many hard words as ever Sir Richard Birnie -hurled, on a Monday morning, on ex-inebriated tailors captured on the -preceding Saturday night. I do not believe a word of what the irate St. -Bernard says against St. William, whom he accuses of the most horrible -crimes. The slightest charge in the bill of indictment drawn up by him, -whom Hurden calls a wicked old impostor, is love of good living. St. -William, like honest Archiepiscopus Wilfred, had a tender inclination for -roast goose! Oh, benedicte Gulielme! may you have found the bird ever as -your inclination,—tender! The sacred goose is an appanage of the tailors, -and it dates from that jovial St. William whom St. Bernard hated as -cordially as though the former had made the latter’s hair-shirt too tight -to comfortably breathe in after supper. - -Our tenth example is the St. William who was bishop of St. Brieux, in -Brittany, who often pawned his robes to purchase corn for the poor. -Here we see whence the society of tailors borrow their authority for -depositing pledges, in order to purchase distillations from corn, and for -the poor also,—their poor selves. This is highly satisfactory. - -There was one more William, namely, he who, English by birth, was the -introducer of Christianity into Denmark, and who was of such good repute -when living that he was buried in the mausoleum of the Danish kings, at -Roeskild, after death. It was remarked of him that when he was reproving -“drunken Denmark,” he invariably held his pastoral staff as though he -were taking measure, as he probably was of the royal bad habits; and -perhaps on this account he has come in for a share of the patronage -exercised over the guild whose members take measure of men. - -And now let it be observed, that although I have mentioned eleven -Williams, there are only _nine_ of them who really rank among the -canonized saints. Is not _that_ suggestive? The fraternity, of whom it -takes nine members to make a man, have naturally supposed that it would -take nine saints to make one patron. It is clear, then, that it is not -to _one_ William, but to _nine_ combined, that the guild address, or did -in olden times address, their vows and acknowledgments; and exactly for -the reason that there are nine Saint Williams have the English tailors -chosen them, in a mass, for their one consolidated patron. _Quod erat -demonstrandum!_ - -And now, having seen how the tailors took their patron, let us consider -them generally. There have been many of note, either of themselves or in -their sons. Church, bar, army, navy, poetry, and the stage,—they have by -turns excelled in all. - -If Barrow rose from his father’s shop, where he was early initiated in -the mysteries of mercer and draper, to wear his well-earned dignity in -the Church, there was nothing wonderful in the elevation. The father -of our present Archbishop of York kept, at Cambridge, a shop like that -of Barrow’s father. One of the most active and useful of the Yorkshire -rectors was himself in early life of the craft; and there is no more -zealous or efficient missionary in Ireland than the Rev. Mr. Doudney, the -brother of the well-known London tailor of that name. - -In the olden times,—that is, some two centuries ago,—the boy who passed -from his father’s shop-board to enter, as a man, the pulpit, was of very -High Church principles, if we may take Shadwell’s portrait of Smirk in -the ‘Lancashire Witches’ as a faithful portraiture. Smirk is a little -given, as Brother Ignatius advises all Roman Catholic servants in -Protestant families to be, to inquire into the family secrets, for which -his patron, Sir Edward Harfort, to whom he is chaplain, reproves him. The -following sharp dialogue then ensues:— - - “_Smirk._ Consider, Sir, the dignity of my function. - - _Sir Ed._ Your father is my tailor. You are _my servant_; - And do you think a cassock and a girdle - Can alter you so much as to enable - You (who before were but a coxcomb, Sir) - To teach me? - - _Smirk._ My orders give me authority to speak. - A power legantine I have from Heaven. - - _Sir Ed._ _Show your credentials._ - The indiscretion of such paltry fellows - Are scandals to the Church and cause they preach for. - With furious zeal you press for discipline, - With fire and blood maintain your great Diana, - Foam at the mouth when a Dissenter’s named, - And damn them if they do not love a surplice. - - _Smirk._ Had I the power I’d make them wear pitcht surplices. - - _Sir Ed._ Such firebrands as you but hurt the cause. - The learned’st and the wisest of your tribe - Strive by good life and meekness to o’ercome them.” - -It is worth recording that this rather high-toned chaplain Smirk, son -of Smirk the Tailor, came under the censure and the scissors of the -scrupulous Master of the Revels. This delicate official could tolerate -the Smirks of Etherege, but when Shadwell exhibited one with something -like sincerity dragging after his faults, the whole town, ay, and the -court too, cried out _shame_! The wisdom of our ancestors does not appear -to match with the assurance which affects to give warranty of it. - -To turn from poetry to prose, I have to remark that Ingulph, the Abbot of -Croyland, who wrote the pleasant story of his monastery, appears to me to -have been (possibly) a tailor’s son. The good old man does not indeed say -as much, but he intimates that he was a cockney of humble origin; and, if -“vous êtes orfèvre, Monsieur Josse,” have a significance, why something -of the same sort may be detected in the phrases and, I may add, in the -deeds of the Chronicler of Croyland. - -Ingulph was a Westminster boy and an Oxford scholar. Speaking of his -studies at the latter place, he says:—“After I had made progress beyond -most of my fellows in mastering Aristotle, I also _clothed myself down -to the heels_ with the first and second rhetoric of Tully. On growing -to be a young man, I loathed the narrow means of my parents, and daily -longed with the most ardent desire to leave my paternal home, and sighed -for the palaces of kings and princes, to clothe myself in soft or pompous -raiment.” If Molière’s Monsieur Josse was discovered to be a goldsmith by -the setting of his criticism, we may say that Ingulph was of a tailorish -origin by the cut of his phrases. And so, as I have said, of his acts: in -these there is a strong _redolence_ of what the vulgar call “cabbage.” -For instance, when “trustworthy reports” were made by local valuers of -land and property, in order that the same should be taxed, and the said -valuers visited Croyland to that intent, Ingulph thus exultingly records -what took place:—“Those persons showed a kind and benevolent feeling -towards our monastery, and _did not value the monastery at its true -revenue_, nor yet _at its exact extent_; and thus, in their compassion, -took due precautions against the future exactions of the kings, as well -as other burdens, and with the most attentive benevolence made provision -for our welfare.” It is curious to see how robbing the king’s exchequer -in favour of a monastery is called attentive benevolence; how fraudulent -returns are spoken of as “trustworthy reports;” and how the Lord Abbot of -Croyland, the personal favourite of William the Conqueror, cheated the -master who confided in him, and practically illustrated the text, “Render -unto Cæsar the things which are Cæsar’s.” - -Till a very recent period it was the invariable custom, whenever a -Frenchman appeared on our stage, to represent him ridiculously attired. -This was originally done out of revenge for an affront put upon us by -Catherine de’ Medici; who, instigated by the Duc de Guise, had dressed up -her buffoons at a court entertainment, and called them English _milords_. -Elizabeth made a capital remark when she was told of this insult. She -called aloud, in full court, to the French Ambassador, that when these -French buffoons were declared in presence of her own Ambassador, Lord -North, to be English noblemen, that envoy ought to have told those who -witnessed the unseemly entertainment, that the tailors of France who had -so mimicked the costume of her great sire Henry VIII. should have better -remembered the habiliments of that great King, since he had crossed the -sea more than once with warlike engines displayed, and had some concern -with the people there. - -The most fortunate, perhaps I ought to say the most successful, tailor -of very recent times, was Mr. Brunskill, whose seat of operations -was at Exeter. No provincial, and not above one metropolitan, tailor -ever realized such a fortune as he did: it was realized not by luck, -but by labour. For the first seven years that he was in business on -his own account he worked seventeen hours a day. And if he went to -church on Sundays, he plied his needle none the less actively during -the other hours of that day. This is the worst feature in the case; -but he probably entertained a religious respect for that maxim of St. -Augustine which tells us, “qui laborat, orat.” It was his boast that he -was the only man in Exeter who could ride forty miles a day and cut out -work for forty journeymen besides. This assiduity had its reward, and -Brunskill’s business soon returned above £25,000 annually. Of course -young heirs and youths rich only in present hopes resorted to him for -loans; and Brunskill was as successful as a money-broker as he was in -his other vocation. Cent. upon cent. reared the structure of his edifice -of fortune; and long before a quarter of a century had elapsed since he -commenced his career, he was proprietor of Polsloe Park, and, if not a -’squire himself, training his three lads to take station with ’squires. -In the meantime, constant labour was his dear delight, and he was ever at -his board or his bank, making men by a double process,—some, by dressing -their persons; some, by dressing their credit,—and, in either case, with -good security for prompt payment. He was thus hard at work up to one -Monday night not many months ago, and on the following Thursday morning -he was a dead man. Corporal Trim himself might here have found a theme -whereon to deeply philosophize. Leaving that profitable occupation to our -old friend the Corporal, let us look at the half pleasant, half stern -realities of the case. Brunskill left three sons: to the two younger he -bequeathed £10,000 apiece; to the eldest, £200,000 and Polsloe Park. The -younger may wear their crape with satisfaction, and the eldest heir may -bless the needle which pricked him out so pretty a condition. His sire -has made him first gentleman of a future race of county ’squires; and I -beg to assure heirs to come in after times from this peculiar source, -that they will have less to be ashamed of than have those noble gentlemen -and ladies who descend from concubines of kings, and who exist upon the -wages of their first mother’s pollution. - -We have now considered both the patron and his flock; let us now see how -the latter have been treated by the lively poets who have “fine-drawn” -them in immortal verse. - - - - -THE TAILORS MEASURED BY THE POETS. - - “Dignum laude virum Musa vetat mori.”—HORACE. - - -Oh, Thersites, good friend, how scurvily hast thou been dealt with at the -hands of man! Thou art emphatically _un homme incompris_, but thou art -not therefore _un homme méprisable_. The poets have comprehended thee -better than the people; and Homer himself has no desire to prove thee -the coward and boaster for which thou art taken by the world on Homeric -authority. I think that Ulysses, with whom, in the ‘Iliad,’ Thersites -is brought in contact, is by far the greater brute of the two. The -husband of Penelope is cringing to the great, and cruel to the lowly. He -appears much less fitted for a king than for a Poor-law Commissioner. -He unmercifully smites the deformed Thersites with his sceptre; but -why?—because the latter, so far from being a coward, had had the courage -to attack Agamemnon himself before the whole assembled Greeks. He is -ridiculed for the tears extorted from him by pain and shame; and yet -weeping, among the heroes of Greek epic and tragic poetry, is indulged -in on all occasions by the bravest of the brave. There is nothing that -these copper-captains do more readily or more frequently, except lying, -for which they exhibit an alacrity that is perfectly astounding. The soft -infection will run through two whole armies, and then the universal, -solemn shower rises into the majesty of poetry; but when our poor, -ill-treated friend drops a scalding tear, in his own solitary person, it -is then _bathos_! I concede that he talked too much; but it was generally -close to the purpose, and fearless of results. His last act was one -of courage. The semi-deified bully Achilles, having slain Penthesilea, -cried like a school-boy at his self-inflicted loss; and Thersites, -having laughed at him for his folly, paid for his bold presumption with -his life. There is another version of his death, which says that, the -invincible son of Thetis having visited the dead body of the Amazon -with unnatural atrocities, the decent Thersites reproached him for his -unmanly conduct, and was slain by him in rage at the well-merited rebuke. -Shakspeare, who did all things perfectly, makes of Thersites a bold and -witty jester, who entertains a good measure of scorn for the valiant -ignorance of Achilles. The wit of the latter, with that of his brother -chiefs, lies in their sinews; and their talk is of such a skim-milk -complexion that we are ready to exclaim, with bold Thersites himself, “I -will see you hanged like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents; I -will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools.” - -As it has been with our poor friend Thersites, so has it been with our -useful friends whose faculties are ever given to a consideration of the -important matter “De Re Vestiariâ.” The poets however do not partake of -the popular fallacy; and the builders of lofty rhyme are not unjust, as -we shall see, to a race whose mission it is to take measures in order to -save godlike man from looking ridiculous. - -Shakspeare of course has rendered this full justice to the tailor. In -his illustrations we see our ancient friend variously depicted, as -industrious, intelligent, honest, and full of courage, without vapouring. -The tailor in ‘King John’ is represented as the retailer of news, and the -strong handicraftsman listens with respect to the budget of the weakly -intelligencer. - - “I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, - The while his iron did on the anvil cool, - With open mouth swallowing a tailor’s news; - Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, - Standing on slippers (which his nimble haste - Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet), - Told of a many thousand warlike French - That were embattlèd and rank’d in Kent.” - -It is clear that nothing less than an invasion had driven this -hard-working artisan from his shop-board to talk of politics and perils -with his friend at the smithy. The German poet Heyne has something of a -similar description of the tailor, in prose: in his ‘Reisebilder’ there -is an admirably graphic account of how the Elector John William fled -from Düsseldorf, and left his _ci-devant_ subjects to render allegiance -to Murat, the grand and well-curled Duke of Berg; and how, of the -proclamations posted in the night, the earliest readers in the grey -morning were an old soldier and a valiant tailor, Killian,—the latter -attired as loosely as his predecessor in ‘King John,’ and with the same -patriotic sentimentality in the heart which beat beneath his lightly -burdened ribs. - -But, to revert to “Sweet Will,” how modestly dignified, assured, and -self-possessed is the tailor in ‘Katherine and Petruchio!’ The wayward -bridegroom had ridiculed the gown brought home by the “woman’s tailor” -for the wayward bride. He had laughed at the “masking-stuff,” sneered at -the demi-cannon of a sleeve, and profanely pronounced its vandyking (if -that term be here admissible) as - - “carved like an apple-tart. - Here’s snip and nip, and cut, and slish and slash, - Like to a censer in a barber’s shop.” - -To all which profanity against divine fashion, the tailor modestly -remarks that he had made the gown, as he had been bidden, - - “orderly and well, - According to the fashion and the time.” - -And when Petruchio, who is not half so much of a gentleman in this scene -as Sartorius, calls the latter “thimble,” “flea,” “skein of thread,” -“remnant,” and flings at him a whole vocabulary of vituperation, the -gentle _schneider_ still simply asserts that the gown was made according -to direction, and that the latter came from Grumio himself. Now Grumio, -being a household servant, lies according to the manner of his vocation; -and where he does not lie, he equivocates most basely; and where he -neither lies nor equivocates, he bullies; and finally, he falls into -an argument, which has not the logical conclusion of annihilating his -adversary. The latter, with quiet triumph, produces Grumio’s note -containing the order; but it costs the valet no breath, and as little -hesitation, to pronounce the note a liar too. But a worm will turn; and -the tailor, touched to the quick on a point of honour, brings his bold -heart upon his lips, and valiantly declares, “This is true that I say; an -I had thee in place where, thou shouldst know it;” and thereupon Grumio -falls into bravado and uncleanness, and the tailor is finally dismissed -with scant courtesy, and the very poor security of Hortensio’s promise to -pay for what Petruchio owed. The breach of contract was flagrant, and the -only honest man in the party was the tailor. - -So much for honesty; as for bravery, commend me to forcible Francis -Feeble. He too was but a “woman’s tailor;” but what an heroic soul was -in that transparent frame! He reminds me of Sir Charles Napier. When -the latter hero was complimented by the Mayor of Portsmouth, he simply -undertook to do his best, and counselled his worship not to expect too -much. Sir Charles must have taken the idea of his speech from Francis -Feeble; and what an honour is that for the entire profession, not of -sailors, but of tailors! “Wilt thou make me,” asks Falstaff, “as many -holes in an enemy’s battle, as thou hast done in a woman’s petticoat?” -“I will do my good will, Sir,” answereth gallant Feeble, adding, with -true conclusiveness, “you can have no more.” Well might Sir John -enthusiastically hail him as “courageous Feeble,” and compare his -valour to that of the wrathful dove and most magnanimous mouse,—two -animals gentle by nature, but being worked upon not void of spirit. -Indeed, Feeble is the only gallant man of the entire squad of famished -recruits. Bullcalf offers “good master corporate Bardolph” a bribe -of “four Harry ten shillings in French crowns,” to be let off. Not -that Bullcalf is afraid! Not he, the knave; he simply does not care -to go! He is not curious in things strategic; he seeth no attraction -in stricken fields; but he would fain be out of harm’s way, because, -in his own words,—“because I am unwilling, and, for mine own part, -have a desire to stay with my friends; else, Sir, I did not care, for -mine own part, so much.” To no such craven tune runneth the song of -stupendous Feeble! Mouldy urges affection for his old dame as ground -of exemption from running the risk of getting decorated with a bloody -coxcomb. No such jeremiade is chanted by Titanic Francis. “By my troth,” -gallantly swears that lion-like soul,—“by my troth, _I_ care not!” _He_, -the tailor, cares not! neither subterfuge, lie, nor excuse will _he_ -condescend to! Moreover, he is not only courageous, but Christian-like -and philosophical; as, for example:—“A man can die but once;—we owe God -a death. I’ll ne’er bear a base mind; an it be my destiny, so; an it be -not, so; no man’s too good to serve his prince; and, let it go which way -it will, he that dies this year is quit for the next.” This was not a -man to march with whom through Coventry a captain need to be ashamed. So -valiant, and yet so modest! So conscious of peril, and yet so bold in the -encountering of it! So clear in his logic, so profound in his philosophy, -so loyal of heart, and so prepared in the latter to entertain any fate, -whatever might be its aspect, or the hour of its coming! Surely, if the -prompter’s book be correct, the _exit_ of this tailor must be directed -to be marked with music, to the air of ‘_A man’s a man for a’ that_.’ -Anything less appropriate would fail to do justice to the situation. - -In Francis Feeble then the spirit of the tailor is immortalized. Compared -with him, Starveling, in the ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’ is simply -tender-hearted. He is one of the actors in the play of ‘Pyramus and -Thisbe,’ and he is the most ready to second the motion that the sword -of Pyramus should not be drawn, nor the lion be permitted to roar, lest -the ladies, dear souls, should be affrighted. Starveling is more of the -carpet knight than Feeble. The one is gallant in stricken fields, the -other airs his gallantry in ladies’ bower. - -It was right that the race of Feebles should not expire. It was said -of old, that to be the sire of sons was no great achievement, but that -he was a man indeed who was the father of daughters. Such no doubt was -Feeble, one of whose spirited girls married a Sketon; and their eldest -son it is, as I would fondly think, who figures so bravely among the -followers of Perkin Warbeck, in John Ford’s tragedy of that name. Sketon -is the most daring of the company, and the blood of the Feebles suffers -no disgrace in his person. Sketon, like the great Duke of Guise, is -full of dashing hope, when all his fellows are sunk in dull despair. -While so august a personage as John à Water, Mayor of Cork, is thinking -twice ere he acts once, Sketon thus boldly and tailor-like cuts out the -habit of invasion, and prepares the garb of victory:—“’Tis but going -to sea, and leaping ashore,” saith he; “cut ten or twelve thousand -unnecessary throats, fire seven or eight towns, take half-a-dozen cities, -get him into the market-place, crown him Richard the Fourth, and the -business is finished!” Is not this a man whom Nature intended for a -commander-in-chief? He is not only quick of resolution, but of action; -and yet, I dare be sworn, Sketon had read nothing of what Caius Crispus -Sallust says thereupon. And I beseech you to mark one thing more. You -know that when the foolish Roman Emperor would not permit the statue of -Brutus to be borne in the funeral procession of Britannicus, lest the -people should think too much upon that imperatoricide, the obstinate and -vulgar rogues thought all the more upon him and his deeds, for the very -reason that his statue did not figure among those of other heroes. So -in the above heart-stirring speech of valiant Sketon, we miss something -which reveals to us how chaste and chivalrous a soldier was the grandson -of Feeble. His views go to bold invasion, to the burning of towns, and -the sacking of cities, and to splendid victory, built upon the cutting -of throats, which he nicely, and as it were apologetically for the act, -describes as “_unnecessary_ throats.” A taste of the quality of the -roystering soldier is perhaps to be found in this speech; but you are -entreated to remark, that all the vengeance of the tailor is directed -solely against his enemy, _man_. The women, it is evident, have nothing -to fear at the hands of Sketon. He does not mention rudeness to them, -just as the ancient legislator did not provide against parricide, simply -because, judging from his own heart, he deemed the crime impossible. -Sketon and Scipio deserve to go down to posterity hand in hand, as -respecters of timid beauty. There was a Persian victor, too, who would -not look upon the faces of his fair captives, lest he should be tempted -to violate the principles of propriety. Sketon was bolder, and not less -virtuous. To my thinking, he is the Bayard of tailors. It would wrong him -to compare him even with Joseph Andrews; and I will only add that if old -Tilly, at Magdeburg, had been influenced by the virtue of Sketon, there -might not have been less weeping for lost lovers, but there would have -been more maidens left to sit down in cypress, and mourn for them. - -Sketon, foremost in fight, is first to hail the man whom he takes for -prince, when victory has induced the Cornish men of mettle to proclaim -at Bodnam, Richard IV. “monarch of England, and king of hearts.” Jubilant -in success, he does not complain when Fortune veils her face. Defeat and -captivity are accepted with dignity when they are compelled upon him; -and when swift death is to be the doom of himself and companions, he -does not object to the philosophical disquisition of his old leader and -fellow-sufferer, Perkin, that death by the sword, whereby the “pain is -past ere sensibly ’tis felt,” is far preferable to being slowly slain at -home by the doctors. For he says:— - - “To tumble - From bed to bed, be massacred alive - By some physicians, for a month or two, - In hope of freedom from a fever’s torments, - Might stagger manhood.” - -And accordingly Sketon follows Warbeck to death without a remnant of -fear; and I _must_ add, that Henry VII. showed little generosity when he -remarked upon their executions, as he sat comfortably at home, - - “That public states, - As our particular bodies, taste most good - In health, when purged of corrupted blood.” - -Ford, the dramatic poet, offers indirect testimony to the morality of the -English tailor, by his introduction of a French member of the fraternity -in ‘The Sun’s Darling.’ The author calls his piece a moral masque; but -Monsieur le Tailleur utters some very immoral matter in it, such, it may -fairly be supposed, as he could not have put into the mouth of a kinsman -of Starveling. - -Massinger’s tailors again show that they were as much the victims of -their customers as their descendants are now; and the “Who suffers?”—the -facetious query of Mr. Pierce Egan’s ‘Tom and Jerry,’—would have been -quite as appropriate a way of asking the name of a “Corinthian’s” tailor -two centuries ago. “I am bound t’ye, gentlemen,” says the grateful -builder of doublets and trunkhose to his lordly customers. “You are -deceived,” is the comment of the page; “_they’ll_ be bound to you; you -must remember to trust them none.” The scene here, it is true, is in -Dijon; but Massinger, like Plautus, portrayed his country’s manner in -scenes and personages drawn from other climes. This is easily to be -discerned in the former author’s play of ‘The Old Law.’ The scene is laid -in Epirus. A tailor waits upon the young Simonides, who has just joyfully -inherited the paternal estate; but the youthful courtier despises the -operative employed by his sire. - - “Thou mad’st my father’s clothes,” - -he says.— - - “That I confess. - But what son and heir will have his father’s tailor, - Unless he have a mind to be well laugh’d at? - Thou hast been so used to wide long-side things, that, when - I come to truss, I shall have the waist of my doublet - Lie on my buttocks;—a sweet sight!” - -This is purely descriptive, not of Epirote, but of old English costume. -The former never changed; our fashions have constantly varied; and the -very long-waisted doublet scorned by Simonides, who talks like the rakish -heir of an old Cheapside drysalter, has descended from the saloon to the -stables. It was once worn by lords; it is now carried by grooms. - -But perhaps, on the question of fashions, the remark of the simple-minded -tailor in Beaumont and Fletcher’s ‘Fair Maid of the Inn,’ who is duped -so consumedly by Ferabosco the mountebank, is very apt to the matter. -He has travelled, and is willing even to go to the moon, in search of -strange and exquisite new fashions; but, as he says, “all we can see or -invent are but old ones with new names to ’em.” The poets I have last -mentioned exhibit quite as great a contempt for chronology as any of -their harmonious fellows. Thus, Blacksnout, the Roman blacksmith, in the -‘Faithful Friends,’ living when Titus Martius was King of Rome, tells -Snipsnap, the Latin tailor, that he had not only been in battle, but had -been shot “with a bullet as big as a penny loaf;” he adds, with much -circumstance:— - - “’Twas at the siege of Bunnill, passing the straits - ’Twixt Mayor’s-lane and Tierra del Fuego, - The fiery isle!” - -Snipsnap is the tailor of the poets’ own period. He calls for drink -with the airy freedom of a be-plumed gallant, pays magnanimously, as -be-plumed gallants did _not_, cuts jokes like a court-jester, and boasts -that he can “finish more suits in a year than any two lawyers in the -town.” Blacksnout’s remark in reply, that “lawyers and tailors have their -several hells,” is rather complimentary than otherwise to the last-named -gentle craft; for it places the tailor, who exercises the time-honoured -observance of “cabbage,” on a level with the lawyer, who purchases his -luxuries through the process of partially stripping his clients. The -“hell” here named is supposed to be the place wherein both lawyers and -tailors put those shreds, of which Lisauro speaks in the ‘Maid in the -Mill:’— - - “The shreds of what he steals from us, believe it, - Make him a mighty man.” - -Ben Jonson alludes to this particular locality in ‘The Staple of -News.’ Fashioner waiting past the appointed time upon Pennyboy, Jun., -compensates for his dilatoriness by perpetrating a witticism, and the -young gentleman remarks thereupon:— - - “That jest - Has gain’d thy pardon; thou hadst lived condemn’d - To thine own hell else.” - -Fashioner was like Mr. Joy, the Cambridge tailor of an olden time. If -that hilarious craftsman had promised a suit to be ready for a ball, and -did not bring it home till the next morning at breakfast, his stereotyped -phrase ever took the form of—“Sorrow endureth for a night, but ‘Joy’ -cometh with the morning!” But, to return to the _hades_ of tailors. -The reader will doubtless remember that Ralph, the doughty squire of -Hudibras, had been originally of the following of the needle, and— - - “An equal stock of wit and valour - He had laid in, by birth a tailor.” - -Ralph dated his ancestry from the immediate heir of Dido, from whom - - “descended _cross-legg’d knights_, - Famed for their faith.” - -And then are we told, with rich Hudibrastic humour, that Ralph, the -ex-tailor, was like Æneas the Pious, for— - - “This sturdy squire, he had, as well - As the bold Trojan knight, seen _hell_;” - -which locality, as connected with the handicraftsman, is described as -being the place where tailors deposit their perquisites. - -We have digressed a little from Snipsnap, the English tailor, whom -Beaumont and Fletcher have placed with other thoroughly English artisans -in the piece already named, ‘The Faithful Friends.’ Snipsnap holds his -profession to be above that of a soldier, but yet modestly excuses -himself from fighting, on the score that, although a tailor, he is _not_ -a gentleman. Being provoked, however, he knocks down the rude offender, -and has a thorough contempt for the constable,—a contempt in the -entertaining of which he is so well justified by the logical remark of -Blacksnout:— - - “A constable’s - An ass. I’ve been a constable myself.” - -The bravery of Snipsnap is a true bravery: he is conscious of the peril -in which he stands as a soldier, and, ere going into action, bethinks -him of old prophecies that he should be slain; but when he pictures to -himself the public scorn that ever follows cowardice, and that, if he and -his fellows be poltroons, every wench in Rome will fling dirt at them as -they pass by, saying, “There are the soldiers who durst not draw their -blades,” then is the heroic soul fired, and Snipsnap exclaims:— - - “But they shall find we dare, and strike home too: - I am now resolved, and will be valiant; - This bodkin quilts their skin as full of holes - As e’er was canvas doublet.” - -“Spoke like a bold man, Snip!” says Bellario, the old soldier. Ay, and -like a discreet and thinking man. There is no foolhardiness and rash -action in Snipsnap; but, like the greatest of heroes, he looks his peril -calmly in the face, and then encounters it with a gallantry that is not -to be resisted. - -And it is to be observed that the tailors of the poets are as generous -as they are brave. Witness Vertigo in ‘The Maid in the Mill;’ the lords -among whom he stands owe him money, and yet affect to have forgotten his -name. One of them ventures, indeed, to hope that he has not come to press -his claims; and what says this very pearl and quintessence of tailors? - - “Good faith, the least thought in my heart; your love, gentlemen, - Your love’s enough for me. Money? hang money! - Let me preserve your love!” - -Incomparable Vertigo! What a trade might he drive in London upon those -terms! A waistcoat for a good opinion, a fashionable coat for esteem, and -a full-dress suit to be paid for with the wearer’s love, in a promissory -note made payable at sight! - -Vertigo understands the dignity of his profession; indeed, he wears a -double dignity, for he is a “woman’s tailor,” as well as “man’s;” and -when he is about to measure Florimel, how bravely does he bid the lords -“stand out o’ th’ light!” How gallantly does he promise the lady when he -swears—or asserts rather (for the tailors of the poets never swear,—that -is, never swear profanely; they are like the nun in Chaucer, whose -prettiest oath was but “by St. Eloy!”)—when he asserts then that she has -“the neatest body in Spain this day;” and further, when Otrante, the -Spanish Count, in love with Florimel, remarks that happily his wardrobe, -with the tailor’s help, may fit her instantly, what self-dignity in the -first line of the reply, and what philosophy in the second!— - - “If I fit her not, your wardrobe cannot; - And if the fashion be not there, you mar her.” - -Ben Jonson does the trade full justice with regard to their possession -of generosity; thus, in ‘Every Man Out of his Humour,’ Fungoso not only -flatters the tailor who constructed his garment out of the money due for -its fashioning, but he borrows some ready cash of him besides. Upon this -hint did Sheridan often act; and thus posterity suffers through the vices -as through the weaknesses of our ancestors. But the philosophical spirit -of the true artistic tailor has been as little neglected by rare Ben, -“the _Canary_-bird,” as the same artist’s generosity. The true philosophy -of dress is to be found in a speech of Fashioner’s, in the ‘Staple of -News,’ and which speech is in reply to the remark of young Pennyboy, that -the new clothes he has on make him feel wittier than usual: “Believe it, -Sir,” says Fashioner, - - “That clothes do much upon the wit, as weather - Does on the brain; and thence, Sir, comes your proverb, - _The tailor makes the man_. I speak by experience - Of my own customers. I have had gallants, - Both court and country would have fool’d you up, - In a new suit, with the best wits in being, - And kept their speed as long as their clothes lasted, - Handsome and neat; but then as they grew out - At the elbows again, or had a stain or spot, - They have sunk most wretchedly.” - -The policy of the tailor is as good as his philosophy, and has the same -end in view, for Pennyboy exultingly says:— - - “I wonder gentlemen - And men of means will not maintain themselves - Fresher in wit, I mean in clothes, to the highest; - For he that’s out of clothes is out of fashion; - And out of fashion is out of countenance; - And out of countenance is out of wit.” - -And the moral of all is, that if a man would prosper in the world, he -should, at all events, not neglect his tailor. - -Of all the poets yet named, Ben Jonson is the only one who introduces a -somewhat dishonest tailor, Nick Stuff, in ‘The New Inn;’ but Apollo was -angry at the liberty, and visited the poet with the retributive damnation -of the piece. Stuff is a “woman’s tailor;” we have none such now in -England, except as makers of ladies’ riding habits. They are rare in -France, but there are as many women’s tailors as female dressmakers in -Vienna; and the latter often order the tailors to take measure for and -cut out the dresses, which the female sewers then, to use a French term, -_confection_. Nick Stuff used to attire his wife Pinnacia in all the new -gowns he made; and in ever-changing and gallant bravery Pinnacia—but let -her describe Nick’s ways of vanity after her own fashion:— - - “It is a foolish trick, madam, he has; - For though he be your tailor, he is my beast; - I may be bold with him, and tell his story. - When he makes any fine garment will fit me, - Or any rich thing that he thinks of price, - Then must I put it on and be his ‘Countess,’ - Before he carry it home unto the owners. - A coach is hired and four horse; he runs - In his velvet jacket thus, to Romford, Croydon, - Hounslow, or Barnet.” - -Pinnacia proceeds to portray further excesses, but I think there must -be some exaggeration in this; and _for_ this the poet was punished -by the condemnation of his piece. The thing is as clear as logical -deduction can make it. The ‘New Inn’ contained great reproach against -the tailors: the ‘New Inn’ was hissed off the stage: _argal_, for a poet -to speak reproachfully of tailors, is to bring down ruin upon his head! -This deductive process is borrowed from Cardinal Wiseman; and if it be -found defective, I beg to shield myself under that gentleman’s eminent -authority. It _is_ something like accounting for Tenterden steeple by -Goodwin Sands; but of course _I_ cannot help _that_. Let the candidate -for the tiara look to it! - -Taking Nick Stuff as a true sample of those of his craft, who formed -the exception to the general rule of professional honesty, I must say -for such as he, that if he were a knave, it was because for years he -had had an evil example before his eyes in the persons of men better -off than himself, who had not _his_ plea of small means and long credit -as an excuse for bettering his condition at the public cost. If the -fashioners of clothes were sometimes not so careful as they might be in -the application of the principle of honesty, the makers of the cloth were -infinitely worse. _They_ lay under the imputation of being universally -fraudulent. We have no better, and need no better, proof on this matter, -than what is afforded us by the testimony of good old Latimer, who had -a sharp eye to detect vice, and a bold tongue to denounce it. In his -third sermon preached before King Edward VI., there is the following -graphic passage:—“I hear say that there is a certain cunning come up -in the mixing of wares. How say you?—were it not a wonder to hear -that clothmakers should become ’pothecaries, yea, and as I hear say, -in such a place whereat they have professed the Gospel and the word of -God most earnestly of a long time.” And then the preacher, after some -animadversions on the devil,—whom he styles in another sermon as the -only prelate he knows who is never absent from his diocese, nor idle -when in it,—thus proceeds:—“If his cloth be seventeen yards long, he -will set it on a rack, and stretch it out with ropes, and rack it till -the sinews shrink again, till he hath brought it to eighteen yards. When -they have brought it to that perfection, they have a pretty feat to thick -it again. He makes me a powder for it, and plays the ’pothecary. They -call it flock-powder. They do so incorporate it to the cloth, that it is -wonderful to consider. Truly, a good invention! Oh that so goodly wits -should be so ill applied! they may well deceive the people, but they -cannot deceive God. They were wont to make beds of flock, and it was a -good bed, too; now they have turned the flock into powder, to play the -false thieves with it. These mixtures come of covetousness. They are -plain theft.” From this singular passage it is apparent that what is -popularly known at Manchester as “devil’s dust,” was an invention which -the cotton lords of today have inherited from their fathers in Mammon, -the cloth lords of some three centuries ago. That ever-active prelate, -the devil, is therefore as busily engaged in his diocese now as he was -in the days whose doings are condemned by Latimer. In some respects -however there is improvement, if we may believe the assertion made by -Mr. Thackeray, in his ‘Essays on the Essayists,’ to the effect that even -hermits out at elbows would lose their respectability now if they were to -attempt to cheat their tailors. Other men succeed in doing so, without -forfeiting the privilege conceded by Mark Antony to Brutus of being “an -honourable man.” - -Charles Lamb remarks, in his ‘Essay on the Melancholy of Tailors,’ -that “drink itself does not seem to elevate him.” This assertion seems -contrary to that in the acting tragedy of ‘Tom Thumb,’ wherein Queen -Dolalolla so enthusiastically exclaims:— - - “Perdition catch the railers! - We’ll have a row, and get as drunk as tailors.” - -It is to be observed, however, that Fielding is not responsible for -this illustration, which has been made by some adapter, who has had the -temerity to do for the heroic tragedy in question what Cibber did for -‘Richard,’ and Tate for old ‘King Lear.’ The lines however were delicious -when Wilkinson played Queen Dolalolla in the tragedy-style of Peg -Woffington. - -The illustration is insulting; and therefore is it anonymous. The poets -generally have, as I have shown, been complimentary to the tailors. Few -of the sons of song have reviled the true “makers of men.” When they -_have_ done so, they have not dared to expose themselves to the sartorian -wrath by boldly avowing their name. None ever did so on so extensive -a scale as the author of the three-act piece, called ‘The Tailors: -a Tragedy for Warm Weather;’ and no author has remained so utterly -uncomeatable by the public curiosity. What is the mystery about Junius, -touching whom there are a thousand guesses, compared with the greater -impenetrability of this secret author, about whom no man ever heard a -conjecture? - -It is now nearly ninety years ago since a manuscript was sent from -Dodsley’s shop to Foote, the manager of the “Little Haymarket.” The -manuscript was that of the Warm Weather Tragedy, and Foote was requested -to return the copy if it were not approved of. The great comedian knew -better. The burlesque play of the anonymous author was acted with a -strong cast. Foote himself was the Francesco; Shuter played Abrahamides, -the Flint; Western did justice to Jackides; old Bannister was ponderous -as Campbello; and gay Jack Palmer was just the man to enact that Lothario -of stage-tailors, the seductive Isaacos. Mrs. Jeffries represented the -false wife Dorothea, and Mrs. Gardner the faithful maid Titillinda. It -was said by the critics of the period, that the radical fault of this -burlesque play was, that “in burlesque, the characters ought to be -persons of consequence, instead of which they are here tailors;” but -the truth is, that the fault lies in the fact, that the tailors talk as -correctly as persons of consequence, and are not half so bombastic as -Nat Lee’s kings and queens. The profession exhibited much unnecessary -susceptibility in being offended at this piece. Its tendency, if it have -any at all, is rather to elevate than depress the public appreciation -for the tailor, whether in his aspect of master or of “Flint” out upon -strike. The entire action is devoted to the history of a strike for -wages, with a supplemental love-plot annexed. The head master-tailor -is a highly respectable individual, who has our sympathy because he -is betrayed by his wife; and the chief Flint wins admiration, because -he gets hanged and is cheated out of his mistress. The strike ends -unfavourably for those who make it; but though the author sets out with -the determination to render all his _dramatis personæ_ ridiculous, he -cannot do it. He is like the prophet who was compelled to vaticinate -against his inclinations; and the deity of dramatic poetry and tailors -compels him to reverence where he would fain have committed desecration. -The very first sentence in this play contains an allusion to Elliott’s -brigade, that famous band of warriors made up almost entirely of tailors. -I must refer my readers to the piece itself, if they be curious to see -how the subject is treated in evident contrariety to the author’s own -design; he makes all the characters utter commonplace common sense, when -his intention was to make them lose themselves upon stilts in a sea of -tropes, tirades, and thunderings against tyranny. - -The antiquarian will not fail to notice that Bedfordbury is a locality -set down in this piece as a place where tailors’ men did congregate some -century ago. They still much do congregate on the same spot. A century -before the period of the piece, Frank Kynaston, the poet, resided in -a house adjacent to the “Bury,” and the memory thereof is still kept -up in the name Kynaston-alley, which is within that same “Bury” of -classical associations. Thus do tailoring and the _belles lettres_ -continue to be in close connection; and where Kynaston’s muse kept -itself warm, the sacred goose of the _schneider_ still glows with fervid -heat. The operatives of the “Bury,” moreover, look as much like poets -as tailors,—so abstract are they of air, so romantically heedless of -personal appearance, and so unromantically and really “half-starved.” Not -of them can be said what Titillinda says of Abrahamides— - - “Whose form might claim attention even from queens.” - -Finally: want of space, and not of material, brings that troublesome -adverb upon me. If it be objected, that the tailors of the poets _do_ -sometimes waver in critical situations, and condescend to tremble in -presence of emergency, I have to answer, that such facts prove their -heroism, as being akin to that of the Conqueror and Cœur de Lion. -When the former was being crowned at York, he heard such an uproar in -the streets, caused by the massacre of the inhabitants by the amiable -Normans, that he sat upon his throne shaking with affright; “vehementer -tremens,” says Orderic Vitalis, and he is very good authority. As for -that tinselled bully, Richard, nobody doubts his single virtue—courage; -but bold as he was, we all know that when in Sicily, he discreetly ran -away from a bumpkin who threatened to cudgel him for attempting a matter -of petty larceny. Francis Feeble and his brethren may, therefore, not -be ashamed if they have foibles in common with William of Normandy and -Richard of Bordeaux. - -Dr. O. Wendell Holmes has cleverly conjectured what a tailor, poetically -given, might say of the beauties that cluster about the closing day; and -he has thus described - - Evening. - - BY A TAILOR. - - “Day hath put on his jacket, and around - His burning bosom button’d it with stars. - Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, - That is like padding to earth’s meagre ribs, - And hold communion with the things about me. - Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid - That binds the skirt of night’s descending robe! - The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, - Do make a music like to rustling satin, - As the light breezes smooth their downy nap. - - “Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, - So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? - It is; it is that deeply-injured flower - Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee, - Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. - Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright - As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath - Sweeten’d the fragrance of her spicy air; - But now, thou seemest like a bankrupt beau - Stripp’d of his gaudy hues and essences, - And growing portly in his sober garments. - - “Is that a swan that rides upon the water? - Oh no! it is that other gentle bird, - Which is the patron of our noble calling. - I well remember, in my early years, - When these young hands first closed upon a goose; - I have a scar upon my thimble-finger, - Which chronicles the hour of young ambition. - My father was a tailor, and his father, - And my sire’s grandsire,—all of them were tailors; - They had an ancient goose,—it was an heirloom - From some remoter tailor of our race. - It happen’d I did see it on a time - When none was near, and I did deal with it, - And it did burn me,—oh, most fearfully! - - “It is a joy to straighten out one’s limbs, - And leap elastic from the level counter, - Leaving the petty grievances of earth, - The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, - And all the needles that do wound the spirit, - For such an hour of soothing silence. - Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, - Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel - With all around me; I can hail the flowers - That sprig earth’s mantle; and yon quiet bird, - That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. - The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, - Where Nature stows away her loveliness.— - But this unnatural posture of the legs - Cramps my extended calves, and I must go - Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.” - -To conclude: the poets have been quite as guilty of petty larceny as -ever was poor tailor. Pope stole from Pascal, and Addison from Pope; and -Churchill’s line in his Rosciad, to the effect that - - “Common sense stood trembling at the door,” - -is a plagiarism from George Alexander Stevens’s ‘Distress upon Distress; -or Tragedy in True Taste.’ This is more of “cabbage,” and less of -coincidence, than the line in one of the ‘Roxburgh Ballads’ anent -tailors, wherein we find an allusion in the phrase “turn up my ten toes,” -which is, as nearly as possible, a translation of part of the ladies’ -threat in the ‘Lysistra’ of Aristophanes. Altogether a volume might be -filled with examples to prove that poetry and tailoring have one spirit -in common. - -But it is time to turn from poetry to prose, and come more nearly to our -subject “touching tailors.” We will take individually those whose great -deeds have shed glory on the craft. First on the roll of fame is noble -Hawkwood. - - - - -SIR JOHN HAWKWOOD, THE HEROIC TAILOR. - - “The dew of grace bless our new knight today.” - - BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER: _Knight of Malta_. - - -On the 10th day of August, 1668, Mr. Samuel Pepys passed a portion of -his morning at Goring House, the mansion of Lord Arlington, a nobleman -who conversed with him amicably, and introduced him to other lords, with -whom the gallant secretary prattled after his fashion, to say nothing of -the flattery and compliments paid him by Lord Orrery. In the afternoon -we find him at Cooper’s, the miniature painter’s, who was painting the -portrait of that excellent lady Mrs. Pepys. The portrait was excellent -in every way, save that it was not like Mr. Pepys’s wife, and that she -wore a blue garment, which he could not bear. However, the courteous -husband paid £38. 3_s._ 4_d._ for the picture, crystal, and case, that he -might, as he prudently says, be out of the painter’s debt; and thereupon -he adds:—“Home to supper, and my wife to read a ridiculous book I bought -today of the History of the Taylors’ Company.” - -The title of the book which Mrs. Pepys read aloud to her husband, and -which is a book that a lady might well blush to read either aloud or to -herself, runs as follows:—‘The Honour of the Merchant Taylors; wherein -is set forth, the noble arts, valiant deeds, and heroic performances of -Merchant Taylors in former ages; their honourable loves and knightly -adventures, their combating of foreign enemies, and glorious successes in -honour of the English nation; together with their pious acts and large -benevolences, their building of publick structures, especially that of -Blackwell Hall, to be a market-place for the selling of woollen cloaths. -Written by William Winstanley. London, 1668, 8vo. With the head of Sir -Ralph Blackwell, with a gold chain, arms of London on the right, and of -the Merchant Taylors on the left.’ - -Just twenty years later another volume was printed with nearly a -similar title. The alleged object was to give a biography of the -renowned tailor and soldier, Sir John Hawkwood; and for this reason we -will give the later work priority of notice. There will be amusement, -if not instruction, in remarking how exquisitely our ancestors wrote -biographical works in the days of dark King James. - -This black-letter biography describes Hawkwood as a modest tailor lad who -fell honestly in love with his master’s daughter, Dorinda. But Dorinda -had a soul above buttons, and having given up her heart unasked to -Impolite, a young, foolish heir, she cut the thread of Hawkwood’s desire -with the shears of cruelty, and tore away from his protestations in a -heat that even the paternal goose had never known. - -Hawkwood, for a gallant man, committed an ungallant action; he discovered -the lover of Dorinda by reading the correspondence locked up in the -lady’s cabinet, and he avenged himself by writing a note in the lady’s -name which brought poor Impolite to a meeting, whereat he was seized and -led to a madhouse as incurably insane through the sweet passion of love. - -The victim was subjected to a treatment which would undoubtedly have -rendered a sane man mad, but he prattled so respectfully of medicines to -the doctor, that the latter dismissed him as “cured.” In the meantime -Dorinda refused to ratify her bond with a discharged lunatic; and the -uncle of Impolite, a sort of melodramatic Gaspero, hired two ruffians, -Bragwell and Daniel, to mutilate Hawkwood, as a punishment for his -having been the cause of the breaking off of the match. - -These gentlemen fell upon the bold young tailor as, “ever frolic and -gay,” he was returning from Green-Goose Fair, held at Bow, on St. -Wilielmus’s day, “so much honoured by the tailors as their patron.” But -the ruffians found a Tartar, and Hawkwood incontinently slew both. The -gallant apprentice, having slept upon the matter, resolved to go abroad, -in order to avoid unpleasant inquiries; and having composed a score of -execrable verses to his mistress, wherein he committed worse murder upon -the Muses than before upon the ruffians, and having thrust the same under -the bedroom-door of the cruel Dorinda, he went his solitary way with a -heavy heart and a small bundle under his arm. - -Winstanley, the author of this delectable bit of historical romance, -exhibits a merry trait of originality by suddenly announcing that the -murdered ruffians were, after all, like our friend Mr. John Robinson in -the song, “not dead at all;” and delicately does he narrate how those -respectable individuals, by coming to themselves, found that they were in -the very worst possible society. Forthwith they slew a sheep, and having -cut out the heart thereof, they exhibited the same to Gaspero, as the -heart of the valiant tailor, and received from their employer not only -their wages of sin, but an invitation to stay and dine and spend the -night at his house. - -The ruffians having been soon after got out of the way, Gaspero took to -seeing ghosts and other unpleasant things, by way of showing his remorse -for having been accessory to the murder of a tailor. But in the meantime -his supposed victim was mirthfully passing from inn to inn; and as those -establishments were ever furnished with a haunted room, it was his humour -to sleep in the same, and lay the ghosts and other spirits which he found -there. - -Soon, weary of this life ashore, Hawkwood took to the sea, accompanied -by Lovewell, another young tailor, and another victim of the gentle -vision, who had unsuccessfully endeavoured to sun himself in a Lamira’s -eyes. At the conclusion of the voyage, the adventurous youths landed in -Ireland, and became ’squires of dames, taking up their quarrels, fighting -in their behalf against any odds, and performing wonderful actions, such -as could only have been imagined by the most unscrupulous of liars. When -Pelion has been mounted upon Ossa, and the heap of mendacity is reared -to a sufficiently stupendous height, the author grows tired of romantic -fibbing, and descends to the lie commonplace. He brings his heroes to -England, and with them two pages, who had joined their slim selves to -the heroic tailor-knights’ fortunes; and who of course turn out, as is -perfectly natural, to be Dorinda and Lamira in disguise. Then, at the -end of the first act of the drama, there is a double wedding, a dance of -characters, and an elaborate detail of after circumstances which I will -not pause to relate. - -Such was the treatment which Hawkwood and history received at the hands -of an anonymous author in the year 1687. The volume in question, of which -there are two copies in the British Museum, is, in fact, a coarsely -printed black-letter tract; the paper such as even a modern grocer -would turn up his nose at; and the woodcuts violating every propriety, -regardless at once of perspective and humanity. - -The volume however which Mrs. Pepys read to her husband is worse in every -respect. There is a copy in the Guildhall Library; and I have to thank -the most courteous of librarians, Mr. Allchin, for the opportunity I -have enjoyed of perusing it. Perhaps the second edition, of which I have -spoken above, was prepared expressly for the benefit of the youthful -mind. The first is certainly bad enough to pollute the minds of all who -read or listened to the reader. I will only add, that the illustrating -artist has been so hard put to it, that he frequently makes one design -represent two different events, the scenes of which are wide apart. He -might have alleged _one_ thing in favour of his so doing; namely, that -the illustration in question quite as truthfully represented one scene -with the actors therein, as it did the other. Of this there can be no -doubt; and I may further add, in behalf of the pictorial illustrations, -that they assuredly did not offend against the second commandment, for -there is nothing in them that is a likeness of anything in heaven above, -or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth; and if it be -an old joke to say so, it is, at all events, better than any of the jokes -to be found in the volume which Mrs. Pepys read with complacency to that -wicked little man, her redoubtable husband. - -The true story of John Hawkwood needs no romance to lend it brightness, -or season it with wonders. It has marvels enough of its own; and these, -redolent of romance, are, in fact, sober and incontrovertible truth. - -If Essex has been famous for calves, it has also had its share of heroes; -heroes (if one may say so) in evil as in good; with its very villages -producing them, and that in the humblest localities. If Frinton rejoices -because of Cornelius and Tilbury, the poison swallowers, Sible Hedingham -is glad because of John Hawkwood, the tailor and soldier. - -In the village last-named, and in the reign of Edward the Second, -there lived a tanner called Gilbert Hawkwood. His vocation not being a -profitable one, he resolved that it should not be followed by his son. -The latter, instead of tanning hides of brutes, was taught the mystery of -covering those of men. In simple, honest English, he was apprenticed to a -tailor; and did not at all like it. - -Cornhill was at that time the stage whereon tailors most did congregate; -and as troops were constantly passing that way, to and from the vicinity -of the tower, John Hawkwood, wherever he met with them, sighed as he -contrasted their jolly swash-buckler sort of air with his own melancholy -look, gait, and calling. The King, Edward the Third, was then waging -a most unjust war with France, and needed soldiers to champion his -bad cause. Hawkwood recked little of the merits of the quarrel, but -when a roving party of heroes pressed him to join, he met them more -than half-way; and never was he more jubilant than when he changed his -’prentice muffin-cap for a peaked morrion, his dark rags for a gay suit, -and a sword and a shield were the implements of his work, instead of a -needle and thimble. - -Now young Hawkwood was not a lad to be satisfied with being simply a -“man-at-arms.” Michel, in the French play, when he recounts how he was -pressed into the service, says, “Mon Général me nomma soldat; mais ma -nomination n’a pas eu de suite.” The boy from Sible Hedingham was made of -other stuff than that which could make him be content with singing, like -the pleasant gentleman in the ‘Dame Blanche,’—“Ah! quel plaisir d’être -soldat!” He was resolved to lead as well as serve; and he served well, -to give him the better chance of leading. It is the only policy that -permanently succeeds. - -Officers were not dainty in those days, either of speech or anything -else. Difficult as they were to satisfy, Hawkwood accomplished it. The -man who laid on his blows with such good heart, and thwacked the foe so -lustily and to excellent purpose, albeit in anything but an excellent -cause, was a man whose sword was sure to carve out fortune for him. -Accordingly, he soon passed from poor private to plumed captain. His -purse was not much the better filled because of his brighter corslet -and his new feathers; and as the foe he had to encounter was as badly -furnished as himself, he got abundance of honour, but few pistoles. The -King beheld him mowing down adversaries, as though he had been expressly -engaged by Death to gather in his harvest. On the battle-field, the -royal Edward dubbed the tailor knight. “Thou art the bravest knight,” -said he, “in all the army.” “Umph!” murmured the cavalier of the needle, -“and the poorest too!” - -But he had what to a brave man was better than bezants, dearer than -dollars, and above marks and moidores,—he had praise from the Black -Prince. That chivalric personage was perfectly ecstatic at witnessing -the deeds which Hawkwood enacted on the bloody, but glorious, day at -Poitiers. The praise enriched him as though it had been pistoles. What -baron, standing in need of a gentleman cut-throat, would hesitate to -engage, at any cost (it was only promising and breaking a pledge), a -man with a sharp sword and a stout arm, who had a verbal character -from such a master as he whose sword is now rusting in peace above the -time-honoured tomb at Canterbury? - -Hawkwood needed some such testimony. The Peace of Bretigny had been -ratified in 1360; and they who before had not had leisure to be ill, -were all becoming seriously indisposed for want of action. As employment -did not come, they made it for themselves. If kings could be stupendous -scamps, why not commoner men? They waited long enough, as they -thought, for hire for their swords, till at last they put the latter -to private use. A band was formed, and called “Les Tards Venus,”—the -“Come-at-Lasts,”—as if apologetically and modestly expressive of their -patience. Some people would have been the better pleased had the -self-styled tardy gentlemen been content to “wait a little longer.” The -more learned members of the society, perhaps the chaplains, called the -band the “Magna Comitiva,” or “Great Band.” A greater band of brigands -certainly never existed, the chaplains included! - -When it is thus said of those worthy gentlemen, of course the expression -is based upon the principles, and measured by the standard, of these our -own later and degenerate days. Hawkwood and his truculent friends thought -they had a vested right to remain in undisturbed possession of every -castle, their ownership of which was founded on their having murdered the -last proprietor at his own hearth. We have foolish ideas on such matters; -and we must only judge of these perfect gentlemen,—so at least historians -tell us,—not by the criterion of that Christianity which they professed, -but by the customs which they observed. As Mr. Justice Erle remarked the -other day, we shall soon have thieves pleading the custom of Hounslow -Heath. - -Hawkwood was one of the most terrible of those men who either made war -on their own account, or let out their swords and sinews in the service -of any party who promised to pay them, and guaranteed the plunder. He -became awfully renowned under the not very menacing title of “John of the -Needle.” But his needle was four feet long; and if to “sew up” a person -means to slay him, the phrase probably had its origin from the times and -the actions of this most ruthless of tailors. He swept, with his English -followers, the south of France; where the sound of his bugle and the -flutter of his pennon always heralded devastation or death. England and -France were at peace at that time, and the King of France complained to -his brother of England. The gracious Edward, who thought as little of -lying as the Czar Nicholas, gave his “parole de gentilhomme” that he was -highly disgusted; but privately he signalled the freebooter with a “Well -done, Hawkwood!” - -“John of the Needle” did not fail to prick his way according to his fancy -and profit after this hint. He was captain of the most famous and most -successful “horde” that ever sang, “Stand and deliver!” Not that he acted -in rough highwayman fashion,—not he! Meek tailor as he _had_ been, he -had become too much of a gentleman and soldier for that. He robbed and -murdered only in accordance with the rules of chivalry; and he would -have hung a common thief who had dared to hint that he was a brother by -profession. - -His black-mail produced him tons of “red gold,” and his forays now -extended to the banks of the Po. There _was_ something of the spirit of -Merry Sherwood in him, for he had a sort of jolly delight in attacking -the palace and stripping the person of a bishop. This kind of gentle -amusement however was not at all to the taste of the Bishop of bishops -at Rome; and the appeal made by the Vatican to the King of England had -better success than that which had been made by the King of France. - -Hawkwood submitted both to his own sovereign and to the Church. From the -latter he purchased peace,—making large gifts, which were thought nothing -the worse of that they were the product of robbery. John thereupon took -to regular service: he first entered that of the Pisans, in 1364, and -those roystering individuals soon furnished him with as much fighting -as he could reasonably have stomach for: when they were not inclined -to fight, he hired out his sword and person to powers willing to fight -against them. Sometimes a single baron, having a quarrel with another -baron, and wishing to get possession of his goods, engaged Hawkwood to -transact the little business for him. He of the needle went at it with -a will; and when he had secured the castle and property of the fallen -noble, he generally defied the other to take them from him, with a “Come, -if you dare!” - -This system was never objected to: an arrangement _à l’amiable_ was -entered into, and Hawkwood was accounted as honest a man as before. In -twenty-three years’ service in Italy he thus fought on any and every -side. It was only when he got satiated with variety that he settled -down to constancy, and swore stable allegiance to the Florentines. One -incident of the style of warfare, and his skill in carrying it on, will -suffice to show of what metal our Essex needle was fashioned. - -One of the most creditable pieces of work ever accomplished by Sir John, -was in the course of the war which Florence carried on against Milan in -1391. No one of the Condottiere captains hired to lead mercenaries to -battle ever achieved such glory as our old Essex tailor on this occasion, -and Florence deemed the cause safe that was entrusted to his management. -In the present case, Milan was to be assailed on two opposite sides. The -noble Count d’Armagnac attacked it from the west, and got thoroughly -beaten ere Hawkwood had sufficiently advanced to make his onslaught by -the east. The latter with his army was about five leagues from the city -when he heard that his colleague had been routed: he became thoughtful, -but not dismayed. - -The country in which he found himself was like one of the pattern-books -once so well-known to him. It was all patches of land, and between those -patches intersections of streams. Indeed, the country had nothing of the -regularity of a tailor’s pattern-book, for the patches were of various -shapes, and the intersecting streams running in all directions: the -country between the Alps and the Po has ever been a doubtful and spongy -sort of land whereon to struggle for the award of victory. - -Hawkwood was retreating, but the Adige, the Mincio, and the Oglio were -yet to be crossed when the Governor of Milan, Giacopo del Verme, came -upon him with his conquering legions. He sat mute and observant: the -hazard was extreme. He could not cross the rivers without first beating a -vastly superior enemy: to attempt it after a defeat would have been utter -destruction. He therefore did nothing but bide his time; and when the -enemy had become weary of looking on at him, and had learned to despise -him, he suddenly fell upon them with a power against which there was so -little preparation that, having thrashed his foe into a condition that -made immediate pursuit impossible, he struck his tents and crossed the -Oglio, under no worse fire than the sarcasms of his sore and helpless -antagonists. - -He went on, picking his way, until he reached a plain which was -surrounded by the dykes of the Po, the Mincio, and the Adige, and lying -below the level of those rivers. The dykes of the last river had been -pre-occupied and fortified by the foe; the stream of the river too was -broad and rapid, and when Hawkwood had surmounted all other obstacles he -was terribly puzzled as to how he was to overcome this. The puzzle was -not made easier to him when, from the little eminence on which he and his -little army were stationed, like rats upon a brick in a flooded sewer, he -beheld the entire plain turning into a lake. The progress of the change -worked like a dissolving view at the Polytechnic; and, when the ex-tailor -felt the water percolating through the lower chinks of his leg-armour, he -was thoroughly satisfied, or rather dissatisfied, that his opponent was -playing him a sorry joke. “Nay,” cried he, on second thoughts, “it is not -so; the men shall not catch so much as a cold!” - -The dykes had been cut, and he forthwith began himself to cut out a -plan of triumph. He would neither be starved, nor beaten, nor moistened -into submission. So he averred; and he had just declared as much when a -messenger from the hostile leader, who occupied the only strip of land -on which a man could walk dry-shod, sent by that road and messenger a -present, which was delivered into Hawkwood’s own hands: it was a fox shut -up in a cage! “Umph!” lowed the Essex calf, “it may be that I am a bit of -a fox, and Reynard may know a trail that will take him safe home, and may -spoil the sport of his pursuers by a ‘stole away.’” - -He at all events went boldly in the darkness of that same night to look -for one. He and his men plunged into the water, and waded through it in -a direction parallel to the dykes of the Adige. Through mud and water up -to the horse-girths, and across trenches, which engulfed the heavier men, -who could not clear them, they all waded on; and, when the second night -had nearly been spent, and numbers had been lost by cold, fatigue, and -hunger, the survivors—the almost despairing infantry—clinging on to the -tails of the horses which floundered before them, at length emerged again -on to dry ground, upon the Paduan frontier. - -The enemy did not dare to follow him in this hazardous undertaking, -which had, as it deserved, so successful an issue. But even that enemy -acknowledged that there was not a commander in Italy who, for bravery and -for resources in moments of difficulty, could for a moment compare with -Hawkwood the Tailor. - -If Florence enjoyed an unusually lengthened term of peace and prosperity, -the happy result was chiefly owing to the gallantry of Hawkwood and his -men. The value which the State set upon his services was exemplified when -Florence disbanded all her foreign mercenaries, save John of the Needle -and one thousand men, the Macedonian phalanx of the land. - -His unwonted ease however was not to the taste of the active soldier. He -had ever been in turmoil, and could not exist without it. What says the -old naval captain in the French song?— - - “A présent, que je suis en retraite, - Je me vois forcé de végéter; - Et bien souvent tout seul je tempête - De n’avoir jamais à tempêter. - Un vieux compagnon de lame, - Aussi folâtre que moi, - Me dit de prendre une femme; - Eh! mais pas si mal, ma foi! - Car j’aime le tapage— - Et je suis tapageur.” - -Just so with honest John. He had passed the best years of his life in -war, and he could not do without at least a little healthy skirmishing; -and he provided that which he had hitherto lacked, by taking a wife, -and that wife a dark-eyed, lightning-tongued Italian. The lady, Bianca -Sforza, and domestic controversy, kept him from “growing pursy,” like Sir -Giles; and there was ever a very hot fire at the hearth of the tanner’s -gallant son of Sible Hedingham. - -In his later days he did what retired veterans are apt to do, and are -wise in their aptness. He took to meditation, and, not to attending Bible -societies, as hearty old admirals do now, but to not less praiseworthy -service, a sample of which may be seen in his foundation of the English -hospital at Rome for the reception of poor travellers. The funds, -I believe, still exist, though they are diverted from the purpose -contemplated by the founder. - -It would serve, he thought, to balance much of a heavy account with -Heaven; and he was comforted in that direction by those most skilful -drawers of wills, the Romish priests. Having settled this matter, and -feeling, like the Irish gentleman on his death-bed, that he had nothing -to lay to his charge, for he had never denied himself anything, he -calmly died in the Strada Pulverosa, in Florence, in the year 1393. He -was buried with a magnificence that perhaps has never been surpassed. -The very details of it dazzle the mental vision; and I will therefore -leave my readers to conceive of it under the shadow of imagination. He -was finally laid to rest in the Church of the _Reparata_, beneath a tomb -in which there is metal enough to make thimbles for all the tailors in -Christendom. - -There is a cenotaph in honour of the hero in Sible Hedingham church. It -is a profusely ornamented memorial, with the pretty conceit of the sort -so dear to our forefathers, of _hawks_ flying through a _wood_. It is due -to him in whose honour it was erected, to say that if friends declared -his almost superhuman courage and ability, hostile writers conceded with -alacrity to the eulogy flung upon him in showers. - -There is in Essex a manor of Hawkwood, which is supposed to owe its -name to the gallant tailor-soldier; and the house on which, was reputed -to have been built by his heirs. It is ascertained, however, that this -manor of Hawkwood was so known in the reign of King John; and perhaps the -renowned John’s ancestors originally came from its vicinity, and took its -name for a surname, when surnames were rare, and they hardly knew what to -call themselves. One author indeed has suggested that the received story -of the lowly origin of Hawkwood is all fiction, and that he was really of -gentle blood. But I protest against any such suggestion, for in that case -what would become of all this history I have been telling? - -In sober seriousness, the main facts are doubtless as they have been -told. They are not mere romantic details of romantic times. In much later -days we have heard of tailors turning out heroes. There is no worthier -illustration of this fact that I can remember, than “daring Dörfling;” -and his little story I will briefly tell, if my readers will only -vouchsafe me ear and patience; as Crispin says, “Cela ne sera pas long.” - - - - -GEORGE DÖRFLING, THE MARTIAL TAILOR. - - “Of stature tall, and straightly fashion’d; - Like his desire, lift upwards, and divine.” - - MARLOWE: _Tamburlaine_. - - -George Dörfling was born in Bohemia, in the year 1606. It is popularly -said in that country, that when a child is born there, a fairy presents -herself at his side and offers him a purse and a violin, leaving to -him to choose which gift most pleases him. According as he makes his -selection, is his future character determined. If he takes the fiddle, he -turns out a musician. If he grasps at the purse, he invariably becomes a -thief. Every Bohemian is declared to be either the one or the other. I -may add, that under the shadow of the Hradschin, I have met with “Czeks” -who were both, and with very many who were neither. - -I fancy that at Dörfling’s birth there was much confusion, both in -the domestic and the magic circle. In the former there must have been -something peculiarly wrong. George could make no Shandean calculations -touching his birth, for he never knew his parents’ names; and as he -turned out neither player nor robber, except on a very heroic scale, -the fairies do not appear to have afforded him the usual exercise of -judgement which they commonly permitted to discriminating infants. - -There _was_ one thing, however, of which young George would _not_ doubt. -He felt quite sure that he was born. He had no hesitation upon that -question; and he was a philosopher of the Descartes school, without ever -having heard anything of the Cartesian philosophy. He soon gave himself, -or had given to him, a name. He had first seen light in a village; and -he was accordingly called George Villager, or Little Villager. “Dorf” -implies _village_, and “Dörfling,” _villager_; and accordingly the little -Bohemian took that humble name,—nobody having the slightest idea that he -would ever make it famous, and upon it place a baron’s coronet. - -The village authorities had no coronets wherewith to grace his head, and -in place thereof they put a thimble on his finger and a needle in his -hand. Greatness could hardly have begun with smaller pretensions. The boy -was apprenticed to a tailor, and a very excellent tailor he made. - -But what he did _not_ make was money. In his village he could acquire -little cash and no fame. The boy was ambitious, and he declared that he -would walk to Berlin, and build wide-skirted coats for the army generals. -The villagers thought him mad; and the melancholy sexton’s laughing -daughter ceased to laugh when the handsome lad spoke of his resolve. He -was not to be turned from his resolution by Katinka the fair; and so, -with a light bundle, a lighter heart, and a purse lighter than all, he -kissed his Ariadne, with the easy air of a dragoon leaving garrison, and -with hope in his heart, turned his face towards Berlin. - -He walked on uninterruptedly until he reached the banks of the Elbe; -there he found the waters out, and his purse in the same condition. And -yet not in the same condition; for the waters had overflowed, and his -purse had not. He had reckoned upon fording the stream, but if he would -cross he must needs ferry it. The Styx itself is not to be traversed -without a fee, and in that respect the Elbe was like the Styx. Charon -was inflexible. Dörfling solicited aid from a group of young officers. -Like Lieutenant Perry, he was called “a fool for his pains.” The police -standing near, finding him penniless, deemed him disreputable. They -asked for his papers; and when one little official, a mere starveling, -read aloud that the stalwart lad was only a tailor, the crowd pushed him -aside with contempt, and bade him stand out of the way of better men. - -One of the officers nevertheless approached him, with more of a seductive -than a contemptuous look about him. “At your age,” said he, “a handsome -fellow like yourself should have handsome clothes to help his looks, and -a well-furnished purse to give dignity to his clothes. If you want to -starve, by all means continue tailoring; but if you would become a man, -and a gay one too, throw away that accursed bundle of rags, and cross the -ferry in a better service.” - -“Well,” said Dörfling, “here have I been dreaming of nothing more than -sewing button-holes in Berlin, and now have I a prospect of a marshal’s -_bâton_. It’s a long road however from a recruit’s barracks to a -marshal’s saddle. I doubt I had better stick to the needle.” - -The fact however was that he had little or no doubt about the matter. He -did not fling his bundle away, as he was enjoined to do. He turned its -contents into a knapsack that was offered to him, and in five minutes -he was crossing the ferry, a recruited soldier in the service of the -Elector of Brandenburg. He was quick-witted, docile, and zealous; and -the handsome and able recruit was not only speedily noticed, but he made -himself worthy of the observation devoted to him. He performed every duty -of his station without a demur; was the first on parade after _réveillé_, -and the last in the military class of instruction as long as teaching -was going on there. That he was the neatest man of his corps was his -least merit, for his old habit helped him to keep tidiness in his new. -Therewith was his good humour unimpeachable and unruffled. Like all truly -brave men, he was of a sunny disposition, loved children and music, and, -if he had a somewhat dangerous tongue and rather too winning ways on -some occasions, why the Fräuleins never complained of either; and if they -who were the most concerned did not, I do not know that any one else has -a right to reproach him. - -Promotion was rapid, and with promotion he gained celebrity. He was -talked about near other watchfires than those of Brandenburg, and in -other camps than the one in which the once private soldier now served -as captain. His merit may be judged of when I say that the great Count -Thurn solicited his co-operation; and that, under that renowned leader, -the ex-tailor in epaulettes fought like a lion at Prague, and won golden -opinions, not only from friends who witnessed, but from foes who suffered -by his bravery. - -He was not a mere fire-eater; he had a clear head as well as a heavy -hand, and was as apt in planning enterprises sure of success, as he was -ready to serve in the enterprises projected by others. There was a spice -of Major Dalgetty about him too. He loved, next to a good cause, touching -which the major was indifferent, good living; and knowing that he should -find the one, and hoping to enjoy the other, under the banner of the -great Gustavus, he served as “General-Major” in the Swedish army, in -1642, and never once sheathed his sword during the Thirty Years’ War. - -At that time he certainly possessed the advantage of shedding his blood -on the righteous side of the quarrel; but, as for good living, why, -if by that be meant light diet, he had that daily. Visionary theories -he said he could endure well enough, but visionary dinners were an -abhorrence. It often happened that in his own quarters there was not -even the _vision_ of a dinner: in that case he had no objection to head -a species of _razzia_, and carry off the supplies from the commissariat -of the enemy. On one of these occasions the hungry foragers encountered -strong opposition, and in the struggle which ensued Dörfling’s lieutenant -was shot dead by an arquebusier. He was the most nearly famished of the -lot, and had contended for the meal with all the ardour which appetite -can give. “Young Naumann is dead,” remarked an aide to Dörfling. “Poor -fellow!” rejoined Dörfling, “he would have cared for it less had it only -been after he had dined.” - -The swiftly slain got but scanty epitaphs and shallow graves in those -times; and if any mourned the loss of the lieutenant, they found -consolation in the fact that his absence from the mess left one share -more to be divided among the hungry members. They drank out of the -enemies’ flasks to the memory of their ill-fated comrade, who had -perished before dinner; and that done, they hurried to a work the issues -of which prevented several of them from ever again seeing supper-time. -Dörfling however was not among the missing. _He_ was ever active, happy, -and energetic; most at home where the fire was thickest and the fray -hottest, and too busy to be unhappy, until the Peace of Westphalia, which -put so many notched swords that need never have been drawn back into -their scabbards, and laid down temporary arrangements, which might have -been permanent had the parties concerned used reason before resorting to -ramrods. - -In rusty inaction however neither could Dörfling nor his sword -ingloriously lie. To cut throats was accounted a more honourable -occupation than to cut cloth, and the “General” was not at all disposed -to retire as yet from business; particularly as his renown increased -with the number of his fields. He was absent from scarcely one, if from -one, of Frederick William’s great battles, fought up to the year 1695, -against Swedes, Poles, and French. As he grew old He grew less nice as -to the complexion of the quarrel in which he was engaged; nor would -the circumstances of the time admit of this. At the best a soldier is -but a legalized and hired _bravo_, bound to sustain all the quarrels -of the master whose livery he wears. Such servants must serve and be -silent; strike hard, and speak little, except to the purpose in hand. -To do Dörfling justice, he performed this sort of duty after a most -exemplary fashion. He preferred feeling that the cause in which he fought -was a good one; and if it were not, he threw the responsibility on his -employers, and took his share of the plunder with an easy conscience. -His share was often to a very considerable amount; and long before he -died, he was accounted as rich as all the retired tailors and living -field-marshals in Europe put together. - -As morality then went, he had fairly earned it all; and truth to -tell, it had not all been won on the battle-field, or in towns given -up to plunder, or at hearths devoted to devastation. He gained no -inconsiderable portion by diplomacy; that is, not by mendacity in -courteous phrases and elegant circumventing of the truth, but by serving -the monarch by whom he was accredited with honest fidelity, irrespective -of how he might offend those _to_ whom he was commissioned. - -Not that he ever gave offence to man or woman, prince or peasant girl, -willingly or knowingly. The gentle tailor lad of the remote Bohemian -village was ever gentle, yet not undetermined, at the council boards and -levées of kings. Never was there man more gallant. It is said of the late -Duke of Wellington that, at past fourscore, he, in one day, attended -early morning prayer, gave away two brides, transacted business at the -Horse Guards, took his usual rides, made his ordinary visits, was present -at a council and a “Drawing-room,” looked in at one or two exhibitions, -entertained forty people at dinner, gave a ball after it, and escorted -the last of the fair dancers to her carriage, gallantly saluting her as -she stepped therein at sunrise! This was a well-spent day for a veteran; -and it was just such a day as Dörfling loved to pass, full of mingled -pastime and business. For it was his maxim, as it was the Duke’s, that -a man must be _doing_ something, unless he wished to become the devil’s -man. And so, at various courts, the gallant old Dörfling was an example -of activity courteously performed, to all who cared to profit by it. As -ambassador, he was highly welcome whithersoever his credentials took -him; and it was said of him that his suavity was such, that an unwelcome -missive delivered by him fell less harshly on the ears, than a compliment -from the lips of messengers not so exquisitely trained in the school -of _bienséance_. Not that Dörfling lacked language to apply properly -to acts which displeased him. Had the Czar stolen his “carpet-bag,” as -that stupendous felon did Sir G. H. Seymour’s, the German soldier would -have called him an arrant knave, and not a “gracious sovereign,” as the -British diplomatist did, in his excessive good-nature. - -Dörfling lived to enter his ninetieth year! When he passed from the -shop-board to the barracks, people accounted of him as a man who, in -abandoning a peaceful calling for a perilous vocation, had committed a -sort of early suicide. There were plenty of old tailors, it was said, -but very few aged soldiers,—at least, sound ones. It may be doubted -however, humanly speaking, whether he would have lived half so long as a -quiet, meditative tailor, as he did by exposing himself to be shot at, -moderately computated, once an hour during nearly three-quarters of a -century of his subsequent life. - -During that term he never met reproach but once. It was at the hands of -the officer who had induced him to enter the army, and who could never -forgive the recruit for rising to a very superior greatness to that -achieved by the recruiter. They were both old men, when the officer in -question sneeringly alluded to Dörfling’s origin. “True!” roared the -hearty veteran, not a bit ashamed of the fact (the less perhaps that it -was known to everybody),—“True! I have been a tailor, and have cut cloth; -but harkye, the sword at my side is the instrument with which I shall cut -the ears of those who are audacious enough to make of that fact a ground -for mockery or reproach!” - -Well said, brave tailor! nobody raised a sneer at thy expense after that, -I warrant! No wonder that at thy grave tailors, soldiers, and honest men -yet repair, as to the shrine of a saint whose memory is worthy of respect. - -But if Germany has one, we have a hundred of such heroes. When the -Spanish Armada was threatening our shores, the tailors were among the -first to enrol themselves among the patriotic defenders of the country. -They are said to have been mounted on mules, and, when intelligence was -once brought to Queen Elizabeth,—intelligence as false as though it had -come by Electric Telegraph,—that a brigade of tailors and their mules had -been destroyed, “Let us be consoled,” said the royal lady, “we have lost -neither man nor horse.” - -I may also again notice the fact, that, at the siege of Gibraltar, the -brigade which did Elliott best service against the enemy consisted almost -exclusively of tailors from London. Really the profession is overdone -with heroes! It has its one in the navy, and of him I will now speak, -though more briefly than of his predecessors. - - - - -ADMIRAL HOBSON, THE NAVAL TAILOR. - - “Commend us to the Admiral, and say, - The King will visit him, and bring health.” - - SHIRLEY: _Chabot_. - - -In the reign of Queen Anne, in the pleasant village of Bonchurch, in -the Isle of Wight, there lived an honest villager, whose son he had -apprenticed to a tailor in the not less pleasant insular locality of -Niton. - -Young Hobson was here engaged at his humble craft, when he heard that a -British fleet was passing the back of the Wight; and he went with his -fellow-workmen to view that goodly sight. It was a spectacle which fired -his youthful breast with naval ardour; and, abandoning his articles of -indenture to serve the Queen under the articles of war, he proclaimed -himself a volunteer, jumped into a boat, and was taken on board one of -the ships of the fleet, where likely lads, such as he was, met with warm -welcome and hard usage. - -The youthful volunteer rejoiced at the first, and defied the second. He -was just of the stuff of which sailors should be made; and when, the -day after he joined, they fell in with a French squadron, the Niton -tailor exhibited such undaunted valour, such self-possession, and such -joyousness of spirit, that his promotion was at once commenced, nor did -it stop until he had attained the rank of admiral. - -He was an upright and gallant English sailor. Less actively employed -than the other brave ocean chiefs of this stirring period, his name -is less familiar to us; but he was never wanting when called upon, and -was always rejoiced to find his services were required. The Company of -Cordwainers however, it must be confessed, have more fair reason to be -proud of their admiral than the tailors of estimable Hobson. The latter -had not the chance, like Sir Cloudesley Shovel, the son of a shoemaker, -to whom the future admiral was bound apprentice, to take Gibraltar in -bold companionship with such a comrade as Rooke; and accordingly his -effigy is not to be found in Westminster Abbey like that of Shovel. Not -that the shoemaking admiral has much to boast of. Addison truly remarks -of the figure of the latter, that “instead of the brave rough English -Admiral, which was the distinguishing character of that plain, gallant -man, he is represented on his tomb by the figure of a beau, dressed in -a long periwig, and reposing himself on velvet cushions under a canopy -of state. The inscription is answerable to the monument; for, instead of -celebrating the many remarkable actions he had performed in the service -of his country, it acquaints us only with the manner of his death, in -which it was impossible for him to reap any honour.” Horace Walpole, -in alluding to the tailoring and upholstering spirit of the statuary, -remarks that “Bird bestowed busts and bas-reliefs on those he decorated; -but Sir Cloudesley Shovel’s, and other monuments by him, made men of -taste dread such honours.” - -I have dealt with the naval tailor here, in order that he might not be -separated from his gallant brethren ashore. We will now pass to the -civilians; and first, of a brace of worthies who wore their honours -meekly, but whose labours deserve no less eulogy than posterity has -awarded to them: I allude to the tailors and antiquarians, Stow and -Speed. - - - - -JOHN STOW, THE ANTIQUARIAN TAILOR. - - “Such a man - Might be a copy to these younger times.” - - ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. - - -It has been well said of John Stow, that he was, in his way, a sort of -Hebrew of the Hebrews; a citizen born of a citizen; like his father, a -tailor; but he was in himself a tailor, “and something more.” - -He was born in Cornhill, the year that the gossips there were admiringly -eloquent on the glories of the royal tournament and ball at Greenwich, -where Henry VIII. helped to break three hundred lances before supper; and -then, attired as a Venetian nobleman, led out Anne Boleyn to dance, and -set all present calculating on the coming events shadowed forth beneath -the lights, by such a pair of dancers. The year was that not uneventful -one of 1527. - -It was a jovial place, that Cornhill, at the time I speak of; less so, -perhaps, than some dozen years before, when Chantry priests lounged -at the open stalls and talked as familiarly with the tailors’ wives, -as French abbés of later days with jocund lady duchesses. The Chantry -priests were the Giovannis of the district,—the abhorrence of grave -husbands, and the especial favourites of their wives. In 1527 something -of this had ceased, but Cornhill was still the emporium of jokes as -well as jackets; and many were the witticisms which the apprentices, -from their unfronted shops, exchanged with the passers-by, and more -particularly with the damsels. - -The household of our ancient friend John must necessarily have been a -jovial one; for when the female head thereof was at the point of death, -leaving four sons, three daughters, and an ex-husband to follow her to -St. Michael’s, Cornhill, she made a bequest which tends to show the -predilections of her family,—perhaps the fashion of the time. She left -them ten shillings to be spent in drink, on the day of her funeral; while -she bequeathed but half that sum to be laid out in the purchase of bread -for the poor. - -These were only incidental bequests. John Stow, the father, was, like -John Gilpin, a citizen of credit and renown; and if he had a place of -business in Cornhill, he did not sleep there, as vulgar tailors might. -Not he! he had his country house, Sir, and that where you now might look -for one in vain—“at the backside of Throgmorton-street.” It was then -a rural district, and the old tailor tabernacled with gentility. His -immediate neighbour was no less a man than the minister Cromwell. John -had a garden forty-four feet long, for which he paid “six and eightpence” -annual rent; but Cromwell forcibly took possession of a portion of it, -and refused to pay for what he had stolen. Honest John submitted, for the -reason that he knew he could get no redress; and perhaps he was residing -in dudgeon in Cornhill when his eminent son was compensatingly sent to -shed a halo round his name. - -There is an establishment in the City, drafts on which are not so much -coveted as on Jones, Lloyd, and Co. I allude to the venerable Aldgate -Pump. Adjacent to the well, to which the “one-arm’d City cow” is now the -crown, Stowe, the son, was driving his double trade of hopeful student -and rather indifferent tailor, in 1549. A stirring little incident took -place in front of his house, which caused him to deeply reflect as to the -way in which men wrote history. - -There had been an insurrection in Norfolk and Suffolk. It was the -chronic malady of our constitution at that time to be always suffering -from “breakings-out.” As many lying reports thereof reached the -City, as if London enjoyed, as we do now, electric telegraphs, “own -correspondents,” and unpurchasable newspapers rather interested in the -stocks. Indeed, truth was as perilous as gunpowder. Thus, the Bailiff of -Rumford had kissed his wife in the morning ere he came to London market. -He was standing at his stall in the latter place, running his fingers -through samples of corn, when “Sir Stephen,” a priest, asked, “What -news?” “Well,” said the Bailiff, “men are rising, even in Essex. Thank -God, all is quiet however, my way.” - -Now Sir Stephen was a casuist; and he had a case and an accident, by -which he argufied a conclusion in no time that the Bailiff was a traitor. -“Men are rising even in Essex, thank God!—be that thy speech, then, -naughty traitor? Have him away to the Sheriff!” The market having been -dull, the standers-by were delighted to find something wherewith to -enliven it. They would not listen to the offered explanations of the -bewildered Bailiff; he _must_ be a rebel; and they hoped for a fine day -for the hanging. The poor fellow was examined, tried, pronounced guilty -upon the deposition of the priest, and sentenced to be hanged, opposite -Stow’s house. The convict entered a meek protest against being put in so -painful a state of suspense, which they promised to attend to after the -ceremony. - -Well, the man was put to death, and it was a most fortunate thing that -Stow, the tailor, was there to see it. He beheld the composure of the -victim, believed his denial of guilt; and when he heard him proclaimed -as a traitor, he was struck with the fact, that, if such proclamations -were the documentary ground-work of history, the latter was very pretty -reading indeed for those who loved fiction. He forthwith removed to -Lime-street Ward, where he undertook to repair records as well as what -he had hitherto put his hand to. For nearly half a century he passed -his days, and good portion of his nights, in the search after that most -ticklish of virgins to catch—historical truth. The natural consequences -ensued. He did not make money as an author, and he starved as a tailor. -Tailor and author! double the ordinary woe of men! The little he made -at his trade he devoted to the purchase of books useful to him in his -profession. - -Now honest John was of a Romish family, albeit the _gaillardise_ of the -Chantry priests had helped to make a convert of him. But he had a respect -for the antiquity of things, if not of facts, connected with the old -faith; and when mention was made of a tailor who worked little, but who -studied much, who professed a reverence for truth, and yet who spoke -almost lovingly of antiquated ceremonies, he was at once suspected of -being suspicious. The suspicion was heightened by the false accusations -of a younger brother; and down came Ecclesiastical Commissioners upon his -little library, to see if out of it they could not prove him a Papist and -rebel, worthy the scourge and the stake. They made sad havoc among his -dearly-beloved books; and were more than once on the point of committing -him to prison, when a volume with an incomprehensible title came under -their thumb. But John answered so wisely and so well, that they could -find no guile in him; and they left him in some little peace, and up to -his ears in papers. - -He was thus visited more than once, and always at the instigation of -his vagabond brother. It was after one of these harassing, and to him -perilous perquisitions, that he happened to be reading an account of some -sorry knave who was hanged at the Elms in Smithfield; the comment which -he himself hung upon the text was significant, and to this effect:—“God -amend, or send like end to, all such false brothers!” But he was rewarded -for many of his vexations by the honour which he reaped out of the -harvest of criticism which sprang out of the publication of his first -great work, the ‘Chronicles’ of England from the coming of that uncertain -gentleman Brute, to the accession of his certain descendant, bluff Harry -the Eighth. John did not hurry over this work; he took his time; thought -over it when making liveries for the corporation, walked miles for it, -read libraries for it, and spent all the cash thereon which he possessed, -could beg, or could borrow. O ye gentlemen literateurs, who turn out -successive volumes of history faster than John Stow could make jerkins, -think of a plodding forty years spent in perfecting this one work! - -The author was poorer when he completed his novel, painfully elaborate, -yet clear and useful book, than he was when he commenced it. He was -not a better tailor than before; and altogether his prospects were -not brilliant. But he wore a stout heart, lived upon hope, and fondly -thought, good old man! (I trust that no “d—d good-natured friend” -disturbed that thought), that every phrase he wrote was rich in truth. -Now some of it is as true as Robinson Crusoe, and yet quite as veracious -as much with which we trouble ourselves under the venerated name of -“history.” - -Towards the end of the sixteenth century the now feeble old tailor, but -cheerful scholar, produced his ‘Annals of England,’ the dedication of -which had been accepted by Archbishop Whitgift. He had asked the City, -proud to call him her “Chronicler,” to help him in his heavy charges, by -bestowing on him two freedoms. I do not remember that the application -was successful, but I do retain in my memory how truth-loving John was -treated by the Vintners’ Company. The modest author, to support his -petition for some slight favour prayed of them, read to those jolly -fellows in court assembled some sheets of his great work. They were bored -to death, and treated him like a beggar. They would neither help him, nor -let him help himself by examining the records in their possession. - -He kept a cheerful heart through it all. He winced indeed under the -ignorant additions made to his works by other editors, but he not the -less cordially aided them in perfecting their own contributions to -antiquarian history; and when he met with crosses in either his literary -or his sartorial aspect, the old man calmed his irritation by reading and -by annotating ‘Chaucer.’ But he was growing old and helpless. Although he -was called the City’s fee’d Chronicler, it is not certain whether this -was or was not a mere “façon de parler.” Of one thing there is no doubt -whatever. That ill-dressed king, James I., contemplating Stow rather as a -tailor than an author, granted him a license whereby he was empowered to -go about and collect charity,—gather benevolences, a chartered Bedesman. -But as he happened to be so afflicted with gout in the feet that he could -not perambulate with his petition, the license was next to useless. Stow -looked at his willing but helpless legs, and said with a melancholy smile -that he was maimed in the members wherewith he had most offended; for -that no man had walked as many miles as he had in search of material -for his books. Nevertheless, strengthened by the royal license, he set -up for a weary day or two as a beggar; and all that he gained was seven -and sixpence from St. Mary’s Wolnoth. Magnificent alms for a veteran -antiquary! - -And yet the fourscore years which had just passed from the day of his -birth, when he was finally deposited in the consecrated ground of St. -Andrew Undershaft, were not unhappy years. Under trial, next to trust in -God, I do not know of any better anodyne, more potent balm, than literary -occupation; and of that, Stow, that tall, thin, cheerful, pleasant, -bright-eyed, strong-memoried, sober, mild, courteous, truth-loving tailor -and antiquary, had his fill. - -He loved truth above everything, and quite as intense was his hatred of -quacks, pretenders, and those stupendous “shams” which have so often made -eloquent and bilious the energetic Carlyle. He loved one thing with as -strong a love as he felt for truth,—antiquarian pursuits. If ever old -times should come round again, the Society of Antiquaries should feel -themselves in duty bound to adopt him, properly authorized, as a patron -saint; and appeal to him at much-perplexed meetings with a “Sancte -Johanne de Stow, ora pro nobis!” to which he will doubtless answer “Sto, -adjutorius!” - -What a sifter he was of old legends! And what truths he, after all, did -save from much rubbish! How well he proved that the sword in the City -arms was not there because of the Lord Mayor’s having struck down Jack -Straw or Wat Tyler, but that it stood there as the Sword of St. Paul, -in honour of the apostle. He swept away the fables of old London with -herculean power, clearing them away as Niebuhr has those of ancient Rome, -yet leaving nothing half so pretty in their place. He was the first who -insisted that Richard the Third was by no means such a deformed fiend as -he was painted by those who had written under his enemy Henry VII. and -his successors. - -James IV. of Scotland owes it to Stow that his head found a burial-place, -after a world of adventure quite enough to turn it. James the Fourth, as -my readers doubtless remember, was slain in the fatal fight at Flodden -Field. At the end of the day of bloody arbitrement there brought to a -close, the body of the unlucky monarch was found among a heap of the -fallen. The discoverers made prize of the corpse, wrapped it up in -lead, and transmitted it as a thanksgiving offering to the monastery -at Sheen, in Surrey. It was well taken care of by the honest people -there as long as the monastery stood; but when the dissolution of these -religious establishments took place, and the edifice was converted into -a mansion for the Duke of Suffolk and his warm-hearted spouse, Mary, the -sister of Henry VIII. and the widow of Louis XII. of France, the new -occupants put their royal cousin’s body into a fresh wrapping of lead, -and unceremoniously rolled it into an upper lumber-room. There it served -for sundry vile purposes, until some rude workmen engaged in the house -lopped off its head out of sheer wantonness. Their master, a glazier -of Wood-street, Cheapside, anxious for as much of a king’s company as -a glazier could possibly get, carried the head with him into the City. -There, on the man of putty’s sideboard, the dried remnant of a crowned -king, with its red hair and beard, and a “sweet savour” thence springing, -was long the admiration of the glazier’s evening parties, and a -never-ending subject of conversation for his guests. There Stow saw this -skull of the anointed James, but at a time when the savour had ceased to -be sweet, and when it had become a too familiar bore at the _soirées_ of -its proprietor. - -The soul of the honest and refined tailor, the sentiment of the zealous -antiquary, was shocked at the spectacle of gallants, emancipated -apprentices, and giggling City girls, knocking about the mazzard of the -gallant king, as they sipped their muscadel or tasted their cakes and -ale. John Stow expostulated, and the glazier consented to ransom the -royal sconce. The tailor quietly and decently interred it within the old -Church of St. Michael’s, Wood-street, the site of which is now occupied -by Wren’s edifice; and the dust of the once-crowned brow of James of -Scotland forms a portion of a path daily trodden by the unconscious -lieges of Wood-street. - -I have already noticed what incident induced our literary tailor to -meditate upon the delusions of history. Another incident taught him that -appeals to the passions are destructive in their results, and confirmed -him in his opinion that gentleness has more real power for good than -violence. - -Nearly opposite the East India House stands the Church of St. Andrew -Undershaft, “because that of old time, every year,” says Stow in that -admirable ‘Survey of London’ with which his name is associated, “on -May-day in the morning, it was used that an high or long shaft or -May-pole was set up there before the south door of the said church.” -The church was not so high as the pole or shaft, and it received, in -consequence, its name of “Undershaft,” to distinguish it from other -edifices dedicated to St. Andrew. Chaucer, describing a lofty braggart, -says he “bears his head as high as the great shaft of Cornhill.” The -pride of the shaft fell, and the shaft too, on the evil May-day of the -year 1517. - -Edward III. had confirmed the enactment of Edward I., permissory to -the unrestrained settlement of foreigners in this country. The first -monarch especially encouraged the Flemish cloth-workers, whose looms were -shortly equal to the manufacture of the whole wool England could produce. -Thereupon the exportation of English wool, and the importation of foreign -woollen cloths, were alike prohibited; and Cornhill and tailors had a -paradisiacal time of it. But in course of years, foreigners poured in -to traffic in this country, and as they took no English wares away with -them, but heaps of English gold and silver, a very general discontent -was engendered, gradually grew, and had reached its height in 1517. In -the Lent of that year, John Lincoln, a citizen and demagogue, called -upon Dr. Bell, who was engaged to preach the Spital sermon at Easter, -and so worked upon him, that Bell denounced the foreigners from the -pulpit, with a fanatic fervour that might be envied by Dr. Cahill, when -descanting on the never-to-be-forgotten “glorious idea” of massacring -English Protestants. “The heavens,” thus rang the Bell, “belong to the -Lord of Heaven, but the earth he hath given to the children of men. -England is the spot which he has given to Englishmen; and as birds defend -their nests, so ought Englishmen to defend their soil from the intrusion -of aliens. Yea, even as the swallow repelleth the usurper from her -ancient abode, should they drive out those who would divide with them -the inheritance of their fathers.” On this hint, the valiant tailors’ -apprentices, and others of like kidney, began to insult all foreigners -whom they encountered in the streets; and on the eve of May-day, an -encounter, foolishly brought about by the authorities and some lads -playing at bucklers in Cheapside, and who objected to disperse at rude -bidding, swelled to a tumult, in which the foreigners’ dwellings were -plundered and burned; but no personal hurt inflicted. Down descended -the troops upon the rioters; some hundreds were captured; Lincoln, the -leader, was hanged; and the King was reconciled to the City at a banquet -of grace, given in Guildhall. Two-and-thirty years elapsed before the -May-poles were again erected, as signals for those light of foot and of -heart to come and dance and be merry. - -When the old pole was once more erected, decked with ribbons and spring -flowers, in front of St. Andrew’s, the holy wrath of a curate, “Sir -Stephen” of old, was fired against it. He flew into the stone pulpit -at Paul’s Cross, and he denounced the parishioners of St. Andrew’s as -accursed idolaters, inasmuch as they had set up an idol, and by naming -their church “under the shaft,” they had done honour to the pole as well -as to the apostle. Stow, who appears to have been ubiquitous, was among -the listeners, but not among that portion of them who were subsequently -actors, and who rushed from beneath the pulpit, swept along St. Mary -Axe, and seizing the idolatrous shaft, righteously hewed the same into -fragments, and then religiously burnt the whole at the very church door. -Ah, thought honest John with a sigh, if they thus destroy what was old -yet lovely, I will take more pains than ever to preserve the memory of -what perishes;—and he faithfully did so. - -It was the over-zeal of members of adverse parties that made of this -learned tailor a Christian, rather than a Romanist or a Reformer; and -he was too gentle of heart to feel unlimited wrath against any but the -defacers of monuments: his own was as little free from assault however -as his own stall had been, when he was alive. The idle deboshed fellows -about Cornhill used foully to assail him and his apprentices, for no -better reason than that he would not share in their naughtiness. He -received the battery of their heavy tongues without reply, and even bade -his loving helpmate to be quiet when the queans on the _pavé_ mocked her -as the spouse of a poor scholar. For be it said, Cornhill was frequented -by the lowest as well as the highest in the land, and its prison “Tun” -for night-brawlers, and its pillory for other offenders, bespoke a -neighbouring lawless population; and this is further proved by Lydgate, -who says, in his ‘London Lick-Penny:’— - - “Then into Corn Hil anon I rode, - Where was much stolen gear among; - I saw where hung mine own fair hood, - That I had lost among the throng. - To buy my own hood, I thought it wrong; - I knew it well, as I did my creed, - But for lack of money I could not speed.” - -Stow’s monument was ostensibly raised to his memory by his widow, but -there is no doubt that it was by subscription. It is of terra cotta; -and the figure, once painted to represent life, is seen as the original -used to be seen, seated at a table, engaged with pen and book. Maitland -states that the remains were disturbed, and even removed, but he does not -say whither nor wherefore, in the year 1732. Like the mortal remains of -Fernand Cortes, no man can speak decisively of their resting-place. - -Leaving those who love such research to make due inquiry after them, we -will now hold brief converse touching another celebrated “John of the -Needle,” the Chronicler Speed. - - - - -JOHN SPEED, THE ANTIQUARIAN TAILOR. - - “Summus et eruditus Antiquarius.”—SHERINGHAM. - - -So said a learned antiquary of a humble, but also learned, and a -pains-taking brother. Far more reluctant was Nicolson to give praise -where praise was due. The latter person does indeed say of the laborious -John, that he had a head the best disposed towards history of any of -our writers. “Speed,” says Nicolson, “would certainly have outdone -himself, as far as he has gone, beyond the rest of his profession, if the -advantages of his education had been answerable to those of his natural -genius. But what,” he adds most impertinently, “what could be expected -from a tailor? However,” reluctantly continues this costive eulogist, -“we may boldly say that his chronicle is the largest and best we have -hitherto extant;”—nay, he even adds that Sheringham was right in speaking -of honest John Speed as “summus et eruditus antiquarius.” - -So, go on, little Farington, in pleasant Cheshire, to be proud of your -son. Just three centuries have dissolved in the abyss of Time, since his -father, on his shop-board, heard the boy’s first cry from an inner room; -and if any one could have _then_ asked, “What could be expected from a -tailor?” he might have pointed to the little stranger, and exclaimed, -_Ecce filius!_ - -Stow was an indifferent tailor, yet excellent author. Speed was both; -and he was more fortunate than his brother antiquary and tailor. After -he had _served_ in Cheshire, he settled in London as master, and he -had Sir Fulke Greville for a customer. The men, wide as they were apart -socially, were brothers intellectually; and both loved and comprehended -literature. Sir Fulke paid his tailor after a better fashion than that -of most fine gentlemen of his day. He took the artisan from his board, -and set him a student at his books. The result was profitable not only to -those then present living, but also to posterity. Speed nobly inaugurated -the opening years of the seventeenth century by producing his ‘Theatre -of Great Britain,’ wherein the three kingdoms of our own empire are -presented in their exact geography, and there is an elaborate detail not -only of counties, but of county towns. The maps were designed by the -author, who applied to his use, in the text, much scattered matter from -other sources. - -Some few years after, he published his ‘History of Great Britain under -the Conquests of the Romans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans; their originals, -manners, wars, coins, and seals, with the successions, lives, acts, and -issues of the English Monarchs, from Julius Cæsar to our most gracious -Sovereign King James.’ In this work, he judiciously borrowed from Camden, -and was supplied with materials by Sir Henry Spelman, Sir Robert Cotton, -and other eminent antiquarians. The book very much raised a reputation -that was already of no mean height. - -Nor did he confine himself to antiquities. Two years had scarcely elapsed -since the appearance of his last work, when he produced his octavo volume -on a religious subject:—‘The Cloud of Witnesses, or the Genealogies of -Scripture, confirming the truth of holy history and humanity of Christ.’ -For many a long year was this essay prefixed to the English translation -of the Bible and King James vested the copyright of it in the author and -his heirs _for ever_;—we emphatically say “for ever,” as a hint to the -pirate publishers. - -“What could be expected from a tailor, Master Nicolson?” Well, were you -yourself a better man? Did you live half a century and seven years in -harmony with your wife? and did eighteen children—twelve sons and six -daughters—call you father? What could be expected from a tailor? Why, -thou sorry slanderer, John Speed excelled thee in all things. A dozen -and a half of his children stood at his grave-side, in St. Giles’s, -Cripplegate, in 1629; and above that grave his name lives, whereas thine -is forgotten. - -“What could be expected of a tailor?” Whatever might be expected, he -performed much. The most famous of his many sons was that Dr. John -Speed, who was patronized by Laud; and from him, through Colonel Speed, -descended that Countess de Viri, wife of a Sardinian ambassador in -London, whom Lord Cobham adopted as his child, after the death of her -own father the Colonel. To her visit to Gray we owe that charming ‘Long -Story’ narrated by Gray, and which consequently would never have been -written but for John Speed, the tailor and antiquary, of Farington. The -ladies are described as - - “A brace of warriors not in buff, - But rustling in their silks and tissues.” - -Of Speed’s fair descendant the poet sings:— - - “The other Amazon, kind Heaven - Had arm’d with spirit, wit, and satire; - But Cobham had the polish given, - And tipp’d her arrows with good-nature.” - -Being on the subject of dress, I may add, that Speed’s -great-granddaughter was attired “in bonnet blue and capuchine;” and -I may further and finally remark, that to have written history and -divinity with a learned pen, and to have been remotely the cause of -the authorship of Gray’s ‘Long Story,’ may fairly save Speed, and -indeed the fellow-craftsmen who should hold him in honour, from such -a _nez-retroussé_ sort of sarcasm as “What could be expected from a -tailor?” - -Speed the tailor is remembered when Bishop Nicolson is forgotten. We will -pass from him to consider a tailor’s son of another kidney,—garrulous, -vain, rakish, clever, and ever-welcome Samuel Pepys. - - - - -SAMUEL PEPYS, THE OFFICIAL TAILOR. - - “All gentlemen - That love society, love me; all purses - That wit and pleasure opens, are my tenants.” - - FLETCHER: _Wit without Money_. - - -Samuel Pepys was the son of a tailor of the city of London; and although -he affected much gentility when he himself prospered, he was honest -enough to confess, in cipher and short-hand which he thought nobody could -read, that let others say of his family what they might, he for his -own part did not believe that it was of anything like gentle descent. -Notwithstanding this confession, our friend Samuel had something within -him of the aristocratic cobbler who, in the ‘Taming of the Shrew,’ makes -inebriate boast that “the Slys came in with Richard Conqueror!” - -As Pepys was born in 1632, and his sartorial sire did not retire from his -useful occupation until 1660, Samuel, the elder surviving son of a family -which reckoned of offspring a dozen save one, must have had considerable -homely experience of a humble life. The elder Pepys, having inherited a -small landed property at Brampton, near Huntingdon, of some forty pounds -a year, enjoyed his condition of modified squireship for the liberal term -of twenty years. It was but a poor condition after all, and the retired -tailor was often compelled to have recourse to his son, who sometimes -gave him money, now and then bestowed upon him an innutritive compassion, -and on one occasion magnifically endowed him with a pair of old shoes! - -Old Pepys was still a tailor in the City when Samuel was a sizar at -Cambridge, at which seat of learning he obtained the distinction of -being reprimanded for being “scandalously overserved with drink yᵉ night -before.” It is further remarkable that while his sire was still behind -his counter or upon it, the ambitious son, at the age of twenty-three, -married a portionless girl of fifteen, with no other possession than the -pride of being descended, on the mother’s side, from the Cliffords of -Cumberland, and consequently from Henry VII., whose daughter Mary, after -being Queen of France, espoused the Duke of Brandon, and from the latter -union had issue those two daughters, one of whom became mother of Lady -Jane Grey, and the other became wife and mother in the honoured household -of the great Cumberland Cliffords. When Aladdin, the tailor’s son of -Bagdad, married that sweet princess with the never-to-be-remembered -name, two wider extremes scarcely met than when Samuel joined hands with -Elizabeth de St. Michael, who brought the blood of Tudor to mingle with -that of Pepys. - -After all, Pepys the tailor was allied to good blood before, in spite -of the self-denying modesty of the son. Sir Edward Montague, afterwards -Lord Sandwich, was the cousin of Samuel, and a kinsman worth having; -for he lifted young Pepys from his father’s shop-board to the Board -of Admiralty. In our own days it would be difficult to find an Earl -at the West End who had for his cousin a tailor, or tailor’s son, in -the East; and if such relationship did now exist, the occidental noble -would show scant alacrity in benefiting his oriental and hard-working -kinsman,—unless indeed the latter were an illegitimate son: then the -illicit relative would be sure of a post in a public office. It is -wonderful how legitimately in some of those offices the interests of -England are now served by illegitimate gentlemen,—gentlemen who owe -nothing to their scampish sires but the disgrace of their birth, and the -good luck of a very desirable appointment. - -The career of the old tailor’s son was a remarkable one. He left a yet -quiet home, and a not yet jealous wife, to attend Sir Edward Montague -upon his expedition to the Sound, in March, 1658. - -On his return from this expedition he became a clerk in the Army Pay -Office, and commenced keeping his incomparable Diary,—the record of -his profitable toil, his immoderate vanity, and his little rogueries. -As secretary to the two “generals” of the fleet, he was on board the -flag-ship which brought back Charles II., and which bestowed on England a -gift for which the Church is annually thankful. In 1660 he was promoted -to the office of Clerk of the Acts of the Navy; and if to the scenes of -his labour, like Charles Lamb at the South Sea Office, he repaired very -late in the morning, but compensated for _that_ by retiring very early in -the afternoon, it must be also confessed that he accomplished much useful -work in a short time, and achieved objects for which his superiors got -all the honour. - -In the time of a disastrous war, this tailor’s son continued to exercise -hope and energy when all around him was despair. Samuel Pepys then -stood amid desponding officials, like the great Guise amid the sullen -French officers in Italy ere victory had consented to sit upon their -helms. In the time of the Plague too, the little man (he was as tall as -Epaminondas) ungrudgingly took his turn of the pestilence as others had -done of the sword; and when nine-tenths of the healthy but craven people -had fled from town, he remained at his office and daily stood face to -face with grimmest death. - -He held temporarily the appointment of Treasurer to the Commissioners -for the Affairs of Tangier, and also that of Surveyor-General of the -Victualling Department. He had been passively engaged during the Great -Plague; he was actively and usefully so during the Great Fire; and when -the Officers of the Navy Board were summoned to answer before Parliament -for the enterprise of De Ruyter against Chatham in 1668, his bold -eloquence procured an acquittal for himself and colleagues. He occupied -a seat in Parliament, where he, at different times, represented Castle -Rising and Harwich; and when excess of toil induced him to undertake a -tour through Holland and France, he devoted much of his time to making -collections respecting the affairs of the navies of those countries. -Pepys was a widower, when his powerful enemies, envying the greatness -achieved by a tailor’s son, twice endeavoured unsuccessfully to bring him -into grievous trouble on the alleged ground of his being a Papist. The -accusation did him no disservice in the eyes of Charles, who appointed -him Secretary for the Affairs of the Navy; which appointment he retained -from 1673 until the constitution of the Admiralty was changed in 1680. -Three years after, he accompanied Lord Dartmouth on the expedition for -demolishing Tangier; and shortly after his return was appointed Secretary -of the Admiralty, with a salary of £500 per annum,—an appointment which -he retained till the period of the accession of William and Mary, when -he suffered temporary imprisonment in the Tower, and subsequent brief -captivity in the Gatehouse, on the charge of being attached to the -royal family of the Stuarts, and especially to the ex-King James II., -at whose coronation he had served as one of the Barons of the Cinque -Ports. In his dignified retirement at Clapham he led a life of some -luxury and considerable usefulness. Christ’s Hospital reckons him among -its benefactors, and the Royal Society among its honoured Presidents. He -died in 1703, leaving behind him more books than money-bags; but yet, -as he bade his heirs remember, “more than what either myself or they -were born to.” He best deserves to live in our grateful memories as -the renovator of the navy of England. James II. long got for this the -credit that was due to the gay yet efficient secretary; but we now know -that to a tailor’s son is due the merit of once more raising the naval -bulwarks of Britain to be a defence for those at home, and a terror to -her assailants. When the Company of Clothworkers drink “the memory of -Samuel Pepys” out of the splendid cup which he conferred on that Company -in honour of his father’s calling, let them never forget why that memory -especially deserves to be honoured. When the elder Pepys refused to bind -his son to his own vocation, he was unconsciously helping his country to -achieve future naval victories. Of such a man then the profession may -be proud; and we will now proceed to collect from the son’s diary some -evidences as to how tailors lived, moved, and had their being some two -centuries agone. - -The first glimpse we have of Pepys and his father is pleasant enough. On -the 26th January, 1659-60, he writes:—“Home from my office to my Lord’s -lodgings, where my wife had got ready a very fine dinner, viz. a dish -of marrow-bones, a leg of mutton, a loin of veal, a dish of fowl, three -pullets, and a dozen of larks all in a dish; a great tart, a neat’s -tongue, a dish of anchovies, a dish of prawns, and cheese. My company -was my father, my uncle Fenner, his two sons, Mr. Pierse, and all their -wives, and my brother Tom.” The old man was still a tailor in the City, -when his son, on the 12th of the following February, records:—“Walking -with Mr. Kirton’s apprentice during evening church, and looking for -a tavern to drink at, but not finding any we durst not knock: to my -father’s,”—whom he found rejoicing that “the boys had last night broke -Barebones’ windows.” Pepys was not ashamed of the old tailor, but, a -fortnight later, took him with him “to Mr. Weddrington, at Christ’s -College, who received me very civilly, and caused my brother to be -admitted.” And indeed the old tailor saw very good company at home. In -June, 1660, while yet in business, Pepys and his wife, on repairing -thither, found “Sir Thomas Honeywood and his family were come of a -sudden, and so we forced to be altogether in a little chamber, three -stories high.” The old tailor moreover was a match-maker, in his way, -for in August we find him “propounding Mr. John Pickering for Sir Thomas -Honeywood’s daughter;” a propounding that was certainly made by one of -the most singular of agents that ever undertook the business of the -old firm of Cupid, Hymen, and Co. The father too appears to have been -employed by the son; the latter got him to make “a black cloth coat out -of a short cloak, to walk up and down in,” when London was in mourning, -in September, for the Duke of Gloucester; and in October we find him -again patronizing the paternal establishment, where he calls on a Sunday -“to change my long black cloak for a short one (long cloaks being now -quite out), but, he being gone to church, I could not get one.” When the -old house was broken up, Pepys consented to take his sister from off the -now ex-tailor’s hands. “I told him plainly,” he says, “that my mind was -to take her not as a sister, but as a servant, which she promised me -that she would, and with many thanks did weep for joy,” though it may -have been for something else. Pepys was more generous to the old man -himself. “My father,” he writes in December of this year, “did offer me -six pieces of gold in lieu of six pounds that he borrowed of me the other -day, but it went against me to take of him, and therefore did not.” He -seems to have occasionally had a joyous dinner or two out of his ancient -sire to compensate for the sacrifice. The death of Uncle Robert in the -following year made a sort of country gentleman of our tailor, who needed -the advancement, for the son, on balancing his father’s affairs as a -tradesman, found £45 due to him, with debts to the same amount, and the -balance of _zero_ showing all that he possessed of his own in the world; -and yet the good old workman had sent his sons to college, and _that_ -may account for his poverty. In his retirement the elder Pepys exercised -his taste on alterations of his house at Brampton,—changes which his -son speaks of as being “very handsome:” in other respects he was like -great men in their retirement, and amused himself by writing letters, -which appear to have been real “letters of news:” having his crosses -however, as country gentlemen will have, and those chiefly from legal -disputes touching his inheritance, which happily came, nevertheless, to -a favourable conclusion. Pepys the junior warned Pepys senior against -the sin of extravagance, and that with such unction that both counsellor -and counselled and domestic listeners were melted to tears. The end of -the advice thus given was that the sartorius emeritus should keep the -expenses of himself and family “within the compass of £50 a year,”—no -very princely income, it must be confessed, and one that ought to have -saved them from the subsequent reproach of the official son, or rather -of his lady wife, touching “the ill, improvident, disquiet, and sluttish -manner that my father, and mother, and Poll do live in the country, which -troubles me mightily, and I must seek to remedy it.” The remedy adopted -to restore gentility to the hearth of the old tailor was one of some -singularity. “All the morning,” says Pepys, under the date of September -4, 1664, “all the morning looking over my old wardrobe, and laying by -things for my brother John and my father, by which I shall leave myself -very bare of clothes, but yet as much as I need, and the rest could but -spoil in the keeping.” Magnificent benevolence! But the old man doubtless -looked modish in the son’s cast-off suit, and the influence it had on -the locality is perhaps seen in the subsequent offer of marriage made -to “Poll,” the tailor’s daughter, by one who had “seven score and odd -pounds land per annum in possession, and expects £1000 in money upon the -death of an old aunt.” This expectation was, I suppose, never realized, -for “old aunts” are proverbially immortal, or given to cheat, after -tormenting, their heirs, when they do condescend to pay the long-standing -debt of nature. The wooer had however some positive advantages, for he -possessed neither father, mother, sister, nor brother; and the value -of such a man cannot be too strongly impressed upon speculating young -ladies. To balance these advantages he had the slight drawback of being -“a drunken, ill-favoured, ill-bred country fellow.” On the strength -of a prospect of increased gentility, the elder Pepys, now half-blind -and parcel-deaf, rode up to town on horseback, and saw the glories of -the city, and had his picture taken, to hang in the dining-room of his -illustrious son, who enthusiastically records of him that he loved -that son, “and hath ever done so, and is at this day one of the most -careful and innocent men in the world.” Pepys sent him back on a new -horse, and with £20 for the general use of the family. “It rejoiceth my -heart,” says the journalist, “that I am in a condition to do anything to -comfort him,—he is such innocent company.” The old house of business in -Fleet-street perished in the Great Fire; and up rode the ancient occupier -of it on his new horse, to view the spot where he had long toiled and -which he could no longer recognize. The journey was too much for the man -of fine feeling, and he returned home only to wrestle with long illness; -but we find him again in town in the following year, where, with his son -and daughter-in-law, he dined at no less a table than “Sir W. Pen’s, -which they invited us to out of respect to my father, as a stranger, -though I know them as false as the devil himself.” By which remark we may -see that society, two centuries ago, was not better than it is now, which -must be a vast comfort to all who make the reflection. As Pepys records -of his father that he was the simplest of men, we may fairly wonder that -in the year of troubles, present and expectant, 1667, he entrusted the -old gentleman and his own wife with the mission of privately burying his -gold. “My father’s method made me mad,” says the son. “My father and my -wife did it on Sunday, when they were gone to church, in open daylight, -in the midst of the garden, where, for aught they knew, many eyes might -see them.” But Pepys found remedy for this exquisite process; and he -afterwards spent some happy hours in the low-roofed cottage at Brampton, -wherein the secretary expected to pass his own days of retirement, and -therefore loved to adorn it and to see it growing in prettiness. - -Finally, the honest old tailor made a will, in which he wrote himself -“Gentⁿ,” as though he were too modest to make the assertion in the full -dignity of the complete word. And in this will, which could not have -been drawn up by a lawyer, for it is easily understood and leaves no -openings for legal objections, he bequeaths the lands and goods to which -he succeeded at Brampton, to his son “Samuel Pepys, Esqʳᵉ.” He left seven -pounds to the poor; ten pounds to each of his two grandsons; his largest -silver tankard to Pauline,—an appropriate legacy, for “Pall” married the -toper; a gold seal-ring to his son John; and if anything remained over -and above these bequests, he left the same to be divided among his three -children, amicably. He left no debts; and on that score, the honest old -tailor of Brampton may rank before many a baron, who neither paid his -tailor’s bills when living, nor left wherewith to honestly discharge -them, after his decease. - -If there was one thing Pepys loved best, next to good wine and good -company, it was the stage. Let us see if we cannot find him a brother -among the actors. - - - - -RICHARD RYAN, THE THEATRICAL TAILOR. - - “Honest man; - Here’s all the words that thou art worth.” - - DAVENPORT: _The City Nightcap_. - - -Dignum and Moses Kean, the latter the uncle of Edmund Kean, were one day -standing employed in jovial converse under the Piazza in Covent Garden, -when Charles Bannister passed by with a friend. Dignum and Moses had been -but indifferent tailors, before the one turned vocalist and the other -mimic. “I never see those two fellows together,” said Charles, “without -thinking of one of Shakspeare’s plays.” “And which is that?” inquired his -friend. “_Measure for Measure_,” said Charles. - -It is a custom with some Arab tribes for a man, when he becomes a father, -to take his name from his son. Thus the bachelor Mahmoud ben Youssef, -or Mahmoud son of Joseph, if he marries, no sooner has a boy, whom we -will call Taleb, then he becomes Mahmoud Abu Taleb, or Mahmoud father of -Taleb. In some such fashion the poor tailor Aaron Kean has no other name -in history than that of the father of Edmund,—the greatest of our actors -since the days of Garrick. The family of the Trees has, from as humble a -source, been as bountiful, in its way, to the stage. - -The ever-youthful Harley,—who looks almost as young now as he did when -in 1815 he first appeared in London, at the Lyceum, as Marcelli in ‘The -Devil’s Bridge,’—is not far removed from the profession on which I have -been touching. His sire was a draper, and he himself is said to have -been initiated into the mysteries of stay-making, and to have tried those -of physic and the law, ere he settled down to comic acting and delighting -the town. - -But I must go further back than this, for my illustration of one who -passed from a humble calling to add dignity to and gain credit in the -exercise of a difficult vocation. When the manager was busy “casting” a -new tragedy called ‘Cato,’ written by a gentleman about town, whose name -is connected with the ‘Spectator,’ and lives in the “Addison” roads and -terraces about Kensington, there was some hesitation as to the actor who -should represent Marcus. A youthful and aspiring player looked blushingly -on as the hesitation occurred. “There is hope, ay, and promise too, in -that blush,” said Addison; “Dick Ryan shall be my lover.” “Why, a year -ago he was only a tailor,” whispered Booth, who played the principal -character. “A London tailor,” said the manager, Syphax Cibber. “And a -present pretty fellow,” murmured Maria Oldfield. “And _my_ Marcus,” said -Addison, “or I do not make over the profits to the house.” And it was so. -It may be a legitimate boast for the profession, that Addison selected a -young tailor to play Marcus in his tragedy of ‘Cato,’ and that Garrick -took from the same source some hints for the improvement of his Richard. - -In the latter case, Garrick and Woodward went together to see Ryan’s -Richard, thinking to be merry at witnessing such a character played by -such a person. Ryan was then ungraceful in carriage, slovenly in style, -and exceedingly ill-dressed; but Garrick discerned, in spite of all, some -original ideas, to which he gave development, and therewith he struck out -new beauties which he perhaps fairly claimed as his own. Foote alluded to -this in a prologue spoke by him at Ryan’s benefit in 1754, in which he -said, in allusion to Ryan himself, - - “From him succeeding Richard took the cue; - And hence the style, if not the colour, drew.” - -Garrick, however, was not generous enough to allow of the young tailor’s -excellence; and in Bayes he used to caricature Ryan’s manner by -delivering the passage beginning with - - “Your bed of love from dangers will I free,” - -in a sharp tone and lengthened, hesitating manner. Quin showed more -regard for the ex-tailor, by giving his farewell performance on the -Bath stage (in ‘Falstaff:’ Henry IV.), not for his own, but for Ryan’s -benefit. This was in 1752. The receipts were so great, that Ryan applied -to Quin, in a subsequent year, to repeat the performance. “I would play -for you, if I could,” wrote the generous old fellow in reply, “but I will -not _whistle_ Falstaff for you. I have willed you £1000. If you want -money, you may have that; and so save my executors trouble.” - -Ryan had years before this met with an accident, which is so -characteristic of the times that I may here recount it without apology. -It was an accident which made such services as those rendered him by -Quin highly acceptable. He had been playing Scipio, in ‘Sophonisba,’ at -Covent Garden, and was passing down Great Queen-street, about midnight, -when one from among a group of footmen stepped off the pavement, followed -him into the road, and, as the actor turned round, discharged a pistol -close to his face, bidding him at the same time “Stand and deliver!” The -robber plundered the player only of his sword, and _that_ he dropped in -the street. As he was unbuckling it from Ryan’s side, the latter said, -“Friend, you have killed me, but I forgive you.” The watch, too polite -to intrude upon the pleasures of the thieves, picked up their victim, -and conveyed him to the house of a neighbouring surgeon, who found that -his patient had half his teeth shot out, and his face and jawbone much -shattered. Of course, he was incapable of playing Loveless, in ‘Love’s -Last Shift,’ as he was announced to do, on the 17th of the same month. - -A benefit was got up for the wounded ex-tailor on the 19th. Everybody -loved him, and public and players exerted themselves in his behalf. The -play was ‘The Provoked Husband.’ Royalty patronized it; and many who -could not attend, sent cheques on their bankers as their representatives. -Ryan lay for some little time in a deplorable state, and it was very much -doubted whether he would ever be able to articulate again. The public -looked with sympathy upon their favourite actor; and when, on the 26th of -the following month, April, he made his appearance in a new part, that of -Bellair, in the ‘Double Deceit,’ great was the delight of the playgoers -to find that “their esteemed Ryan,” as he was called, was little, if any, -the worse in speech, spirits, or gracefulness, and that the footpad’s -pistol had not destroyed the man for whom Garrick himself had shown -respect, by at once imitating and caricaturing him. Ryan however never -did perfectly recover, although he retained his position on the stage for -many years longer. - -It was probably more necessity than inclination that kept him on the -stage till 1760, in which year he died, after playing the lovers in -Tragedy and the fine gentlemen in Comedy for more than thirty years. The -line which he took was subsequently ably filled by Charles Kemble, and -for something like the same period. But Charles Kemble had, naturally, -advantages which Ryan did not at first possess, and which he only slowly -acquired. The former however was the subject of much critical ridicule -when he first appeared, so awkward was he in spite of his natural -advantages. If Ryan never became thoroughly graceful, he was always -perfectly easy; and, notwithstanding a harsh and dissonant voice, he -could, like Edmund Kean, so manage that organ as to create good effect -out of its very defects. He had, with some slight extravagance, excellent -judgement, sense, and feeling; and Johnson could not have said to the -honest tailor turned actor, as he did sneeringly to Garrick, that Punch -had _no_ feeling. In scenes where Comedy trenched upon the domain of the -sister Muse by the exhibition of profound emotion, Ryan was very great; -and probably no actor has so nearly resembled him in this respect as Mr. -Robson, whose origin is as modestly respectable as Ryan’s was. They who -can recollect Elliston, as he played, in his latter days, the genial -Rover, may have some idea of what Ryan was, when he grew old, in Captain -Plume,—namely, defiant of age, and full of the natural assumption of a -spirit that seemed backed by the strength which was not there, but which -had a substitute in irresistible goodwill. - -The gay and graceful Woodward was a contemporary of Ryan’s; and though he -was not originally a tailor, he was a pupil of “Merchant Tailors’,” and, -if I mistake not, head scholar there in his youth. One good consequence -resulting therefrom was, that Woodward never had a benefit without -active and liberal patronage on the part of that establishment, which -felt itself honoured at ranking so distinguished an actor among its -celebrities; and distinguished indeed was Harry Woodward. Since his time -the part of Bobadil has never been justly represented; it may be said -to have died with him. At a period when correct costume was not cared -for, he was ever careful regarding the proprieties of dress; and, more -fortunate than Ryan, he sustained the assaults of Time without letting -the consequent ravages be seen. Charles Mathews is, in many respects, -exactly what Woodward is said to have been; but Woodward could play a -far wider range of characters. His scamps were perfect for their cool -impudence; his modern fops, for their brazen impertinence; his fops of -earlier days, for their elegant rascality; his every-day simpletons, for -their vulgar stolidity; his mock-brave heroes, for their stupendous but -ever-suspected courage; and his Shakspearian light characters, for their -truly Shakspearian spirit. He was gracefully shaped, and bore a serious -dignity of countenance, but he was no sooner before the foot-lights than -a ripple of funny emotion seemed to roll over his face; and this, with -the tones of a capital stage voice, never failed to arouse a laughter -which was inextinguishable until the green curtain separated the old -pupil of Merchant Tailors’ from his ecstatic audience. - -The younger Rich used, like Foote, to ridicule actors who had abandoned -other professions for the stage, and generally on the ground of their -ignorance. But neither Ryan the actual tailor, nor Woodward the “Merchant -Tailor,” ever exhibited so much ignorance as Rich and Foote themselves. -Rich always confounded the words _turbot_ and _turban_; and he was once -heard to insist upon the necessity of “laying the _empharsis_ on the -_adjutant_.” Foote had more wit than Rich, but not more wisdom. “I almost -forget my own name,” said the latter, by way of apology for calling Foote -by no other appellation than “Mr.” “Well,” remarked Foote, “I knew you -couldn’t write your name, but I didn’t suppose you could forget it.” The -latter displayed his own ignorance when he laughed at the idea of a ghost -taking a corporal oath. He forgot that such an oath was so called because -it was taken on the _corporale_, or cloth which covers the elements in -the Sacrament. - -But even tailors on the stage would be nothing if the poets did not write -for them; and here is a poet-tailor to our hand, doing honour to two -crafts. - - - - -PAUL WHITEHEAD, THE POET TAILOR. - - “He lived a poet in this town - (If we may term our modern writers poets), - Sharp-witted, bitter-tongued, his pen of steel. - His ink was temper’d with the biting juice, - And extracts of the bitterest weeds that grew. - He never wrote but when the elements - Of fire and water tilted in his brain.” - - HEYWOOD: _Fair Maid of the Exchange_. - - -Among the tailors who have been authors, Paul Whitehead takes a very -respectable rank; which is more, I am sorry to say, than he does among -men. The career of the two Whiteheads has a moral in it. William, the -son of a Cambridge baker, was, like Paul, the tailor’s son, a most -successful tuft-hunter; but then he hunted chiefly after patricians of -principle,—of good principle. William was a gentle lad; he walked through -the university of his native city with quiet credit, and passed into -Lord Grey’s family as private tutor; where he taught mildly, and wrote -classical tragedies of so soporific a nature, that the reading of them -might safely be recommended to the sleepless by hypnologists. William -the baker was a highly respectable and never-too-soon-to-be-forgotten -individual. - -It is otherwise with roystering Paul the tailor. Chapel-yard, Holborn, -was the cradle (in 1709) of this boisterous and biting poet. His father -would have been content to see him take measures to follow his example; -but as Hervagault, the first pseudo-Dauphin, quitted his father’s board -to make assault upon the throne of Capet, so Paul, backed by his friends, -aimed at the realm of rhyme, and would wear his father’s coats, but would -not make them. His sire apprenticed him to a mercer; the ambitious son -went and entered himself at the Temple. - -Paul was one of those daring wits whom profane men most admire; and as -the young tailor’s style was one which had respect for neither Olympus -nor the mortals, he became a laureate, like William the Baker, but not, -like him, poet-laureate to the King. - -Paul of Castle-yard was laureate to the “Bucks.” He was a member of the -most reprobate clubs of the day. He was a member of the brotherhood of -Medenham Abbey,—not of the pious and pot-heaving Cistercians, who gurgled -their throats with good old wine, but of the God-denying and profligate -crew that had Sir Francis Dashwood for their prior. Paul was the Parny -of this and similar sets; and when his patrons required a lay against -loyalty, a rhyme against royalty, a metrical kick at kings, songs against -statesmen, or diatribes against dunces, the Muse of the tailor’s clever -boy was ever ready for the nonce. For clever he was, despite the abuse -of Churchill—himself very far from immaculate. If Paul was a reprobate, -Churchill was that, and a parson to boot,—two professions which should -never be united in one and the same individual. And yet Churchill wrote— - - “May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) - Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul!” - -The man who wrote these lines was in every way inferior to him against -whom they were levelled; certainly inferior to him in talent, though it -perhaps may be conceded that he excelled him in vice, power of abuse, and -ill-nature. - -Paul the tailor was to Churchill, the reverend bruiser, what Cobbett -was to Hunt. The first had argument in his assertions; the latter had -as little logic as humanity. Paul, too, had taste, and imitated only -models of the rarest beauty; and this imitation was better than a low -originality without taste at all. His thoughts were marked by a manly -strength, and his phrases abound in a rich vein of poetical expression. -His quarry was folly wherever found, and particularly “the big, rich, -mighty dunces of the State.” Not that dunces, as he said, were to be -found there only:— - - “Dulness no more roosts only near the sky, - But senates, drawing-rooms, with garrets vie; - Plump Peers and breadless bards alike are dull, - St. James’s and Rag Fair club fool for fool.” - -And here is a pattern of the fashion after which Paul laid his yard about -the ears of one who was “by birth a senator, by fate a fool:”— - - “Full placed and pension’d, see Horatio stands! - Begrimed his face, unpurified his hands. - To decency he scorns all nice pretence, - And reigns firm foe to cleanliness and sense. - How did Horatio Britain’s cause advance! - How shines the sloven and buffoon of France! - In senates now, how scold, how rave, how roar, - Of treaties run the tedious train-trow o’er! - How blunder out whate’er should be conceal’d, - And how keep secret what should be reveal’d! - True child of dulness! see him, Goddess, claim - Power next thyself, as next in birth and fame.” - -The author was a persecuted man, rather that he was considered a tailor, -who had no authority to sit at home and comment on what was done “i’ the -Capitol,” than that he was a satirist. Pope was more severe; but Pope -was a gentleman, and was held unassailable. If Paul was prosecuted, it -was that Pope, in the penalties inflicted on the humbler bard, might see -the perils which did himself environ. Poor Paul nevertheless grumbled at -being thus made a scapegoat, and he said thereupon:— - - “Pope writes unhurt; but know ’tis different quite - To beard the lion, and to crush the mite. - Safe may he dash the statesman in each line; - Those dread his satire who dare punish mine!” - -So wrote the Tory tailor who abused the Whigs, who were at that time -most flourishing at court, and most arrogant in drawing-rooms. The day -came when the Tories took root at court, and swaggered in saloons: and -then, sooth to say, court life and lounging in boudoirs seemed no longer -reprehensible in the eyes of the satirist. When he abused the throne, -he never expected to be allowed to make a _congé_ at the foot of it. -Benedick, in a similar style, when he abused matrimony, never expected to -be a married man. And, besides, we may allow in well-abused Paul,—once -pillowed on his sire’s sleeve-board,—the tergiversation of principle -which was so coolly practised by such mighty fine gentlemen as Dryden, -and that insufferably impudent and dishonest fop, Waller. - -One at least of Paul’s works led to a public demonstration of some -importance; and I may as well notice it here as where it would otherwise -as naturally come—under the head of “Masks.” Walpole, writing to Sir -Horace Mann, in November, 1741, says:—“I believe I told you that Vernon’s -birthday passed quietly; but it was not designed to be pacific, for at -twelve at night, eight gentlemen, dressed like sailors, _and masked_, -went round Covent Garden with a drum, beating for a volunteer mob; but -it did not take, and they retired to a great supper, that was prepared -for them at the Bedford Head, and ordered by Whitehead, the author of -‘Manners.’” - -In this last piece the author had committed onslaught on some members -of the House of Lords; the latter assembly summoned and imprisoned -Dodsley the publisher, Whitehead himself having absconded. The publisher -confessed that he had not read the tailor’s strains, but that, as the -work was a satire, he had compelled the author to affix his name to the -title-page, and take the responsibility. One of the libelled Lords, -Essex, moved the discharge of Dodsley; and not only Whitehead, but Pope, -was kept quiet by fear of prosecution. - -Whitehead had already known what imprisonment was. He had, like many a -foolish youth, been ambitious of maintaining an acquaintance with the -actors, and he was particularly intimate with Fleetwood the manager. He -had not read the admonitory remark of the Wise King, that he who goeth -security for his neighbour shall smart for it; and the consequence of -putting his name to a bond ultimately placed his person in bonds also, -and he expiated in the Fleet his act of generous folly. - -But he soon recovered from the effects of this. He was something of a -beau, and he did what beaux were wont to do,—married an heiress. The lady -was Anne Dyer, daughter of an Essex baronet, Sir Swinnerton Dyer. She -was homely and somewhat imbecile, but she had ten thousand pounds,—“dix -milles vertus en louis bien comptés,”—and Paul always regarded her as -a woman who had rendered him some little service. As duty was then -accounted of, this was acting with most singular uprightness. - -He now took to what Mrs. Partington calls his “opium cum digitalis,” and -ceased to publish, though not to write. His republican friends attacked -him as a renegade; his royalist foes assailed him as an atheist; and Paul -laughed at both. To show however that he had strength if he chose to -exert it, he wrote his ‘Gymnasiad,’ a punching philippic against boxing; -and he dedicated it to Boughton the “bruiser,”—and all this in the face -of fashion, which then took prize-fighters by the arm, and walked with -them in the Mall, proud of the acquaintance. - -The atheistical gentleman who turned his satire from the Cabinet to the -“ropes,” was well rewarded by Ministers; and Lord le Despenser gave -Paul the post of Deputy-Treasurer of the Chamber, with £800 a year to -reconcile the patriot to becoming a placeman. He now took his annual -tours like a nobleman, and in the course of one of them he found himself -at Deal. There, in a little literary circle, Mrs. Carter met him, to -that pious and learned lady’s profound horror. She had scarcely patience -to hear him read one of his productions; and she who had translated -‘Epictetus,’ in order to gain consolation from his philosophy for being -the native of a place so dull, dreary, dirty, dear, and dismal as Deal, -could hardly recall a maxim or two to her mind to fortify her against -the annoyance of playing second fiddle to the atheistical son of an old -London tailor! - -Yet Paul was one of the finest of gentlemen in his way, and associated -with the very finest of the same class. He not only had his country-house -at Twickenham, but a coruscant circle about him of wits whose brilliancy -was not considered as tarnished by the most mouldy blasphemy. He was, as -I have said, the choice spirit of that club which met at Medenham Abbey. -We are struck with a species of horror when we contemplate Augustus and -his friends reclining at a banquet dressed out as, and named after, the -gods whom they professed to adore. It was a thousand times worse with -the atheistical wits who met at Medenham to drown themselves in drink, -to wallow in every inconceivable extravagance of vice, and amid it all -to laugh at Heaven’s lightning. To crown the horror, these exemplary -individuals took the guise and names of the Apostles; and nude Marthas -and Marys held the bowl to the lips of Simon Peter and of Jude. But -enough of this awful habit of the day. Suffice it to say, that Paul -Whitehead and Wilkes, the immaculate patriot, were the most licentious of -these pseudo-apostles, and gloried in their shame. - -The hour in which the former was called to answer for the crime, struck -in 1774. Paul was then residing in Henrietta-street, Covent-garden; -and, when he felt the hand of the Inevitable upon him, he burned all his -erotic and infidel poetry, as if _that_ could hide his sins from the -eye of his Judge. He added to this the heathenish folly of bequeathing -his heart to Lord le Despenser. That exemplary nobleman accepted the -legacy; and the precious bequest, solemnly inurned, was pompously borne -to West Wycombe Church, attended by a procession of minstrels, singers, -and admiring friends. As to the quality of the clergy present, it may -be judged of by the fact that they stood unprotestingly by while the -vocalists, engaged by the Medenham apostles, sang, with rapt expression, -the following strophe:— - - “From earth to heaven Whitehead’s soul is fled; - Refulgent glories beam about his head; - His Muse, concording with resounding strings, - Gives angels words to praise the King of Kings.” - -When such things were sung of a Medenham apostle, in presence of an -unprotesting clergy, we need not wonder that there were a few serious -men, with a certain John Wesley at the head of them, anxiously seeking -for a “method” to remedy the enormous evils of the times. - -We perhaps have deferred too long to notice the establishment of which -such men as Stow and Speed were members, and which has furnished many a -scholar or gallant gentleman to illustrate arts or arms. Let us then say -a word of honoured “Merchant Tailors’.” - - - - -MEMS. OF “MERCHANT TAILORS.” - - “My heart is yours, - And you shall see it spring, and shoot forth leaves - Worthy your eye; and the oppressed sap - Ascend to ev’ry part, to make it green - And pay your love with fruit, when harvest comes.” - - LOVE TRICKS, _by Shirley, a pupil of M. T._ - - -I regret to say it, but the Rev. H. B. Wilson, the reverend author of -that half-hundredweight quarto which gives the history of the Merchant -Tailors, and which the author hoped would find its way into our villages, -is ashamed of the origin of his heroes. He has even enough of false pride -to beg that writers will spell Merchant Ta_y_lors with a _y_, and not -with an _i_! Tailors with an _i_, he says, may be mistaken for a trade; -while Taylors with a _y_ may be taken for a name! So was Sir Piercie -Shafton ever blushing at the idea of his father’s calling; and so do the -Smiths with an _i_, fancy that they glide into gentility and euphony by -becoming Smyths with a _y_. - -How long the City guild of tailors has sustained a corporate dignity -it would be hard to say; we know however that Edward I. confirmed the -guild under their old name of “Merchant Tailors and Linen Armourers.” -Their symbolic shield bore a tent between two mantles, denoting that the -honest men of the guild made cloaks for all customers, and tents for -the royal army. Many a marquis has not half so delicate a device; and -the _Mercatores Scissores_ have been worthily translated by those far -less useful gentlemen,—the members of the College of Arms. The oath of -the livery bound the new brother to the utmost possible respectability -of life; but the oath was not broken when the taker of it, in a fit of -enthusiastic pride, broke the head of a “Merchant Skinner” who dared -claim precedency over the “Tailor.” A “bloody coxcomb” was too often the -crest of the valiant Mercatores Scissores. - -Of the members of the company, in the olden time, the most illustrious -was Hawkwood, to whom I have assigned a chapter, as becoming his -super-sartorial dignity. Here I will only briefly speak of the school, -and the more illustrious men whom it has furnished to the public service. -The latter are bound to drink the immortal memory of the royal founder of -the “Merchant Tailors and Linen Armourers.” - -The school was established by the company in 1560-1, “for children of -all nations and countries indifferently;” a liberal provision, which -was contracted in 1731 by an order of court, whereby express exclusion -was made of the children of Jews. Among the statutes, there is especial -injunction that, “in the schoole, at noe time of the yere, they shall -use tallow candle in noe wise, but wax candles only;” an injunction -which shows less regard for grammar than gentility. The school rather -tripped at the beginning; for though Mulcaster, the head master, was an -accomplished scholar, the ushers brought with them from the north such a -Bœotian accent, that the boys went home talking “broad Yorkshire!” - -Mulcaster, the master, too could occasionally indulge in very harsh -English of the vulgar tongue, abusing the “visitors” roundly,—a rudeness -that ought not to have been seen at a school lit only with wax candles, -and having six or seven and thirty scholarships at St. John’s. Mulcaster -was a choleric man; but in his mastership of a quarter of a century he -“turned out” four bishops. These, when boys, had been the widest awake, -while the master slept; for, as Fuller tells us, “he slept his hour -(custom made him critical to proportion it) in his desk in the school, -but woe be to the scholar that slept the while. Awaking, he heard them -accurately; and Atropos might be persuaded to pity, as soon as he to -pardon. The prayers of cockering mothers prevailed with him as much as -the requests of indulgent fathers, rather increasing than mitigating his -severity on their offending children.” In our days, Dr. Hessey can make -good scholars by a more merciful and dignified process. - -Wilkinson, the successor of Mulcaster, had the famous Whitelock for a -pupil; and under the third master, Smith, we find at the school a boy -named Juxon, who afterwards stood on the scaffold with Charles I., and -smoothed the sovereign’s path from time into eternity. Boyle and Dee -were also at this time young “Merchant Tailors,” whose subsequent manly -merits reflected lustre on the old foundation. Smith’s successor, Haynes, -was, like Mulcaster, rather ready with his tongue and heavy with his -hand. He chastised unmercifully; and, on being menaced with complaint -to the wardens, he was so audacious as to declare that he did not care -a “phillip” for them. His ushers, too, appear to have been rough of -speech; and “Bridewell rogue” was the tutorial epithet for a rebellious -pupil. Haynes too was accused of encouraging little lotteries for his -own profit, and not for the recreation of the pupils. “For,” says the -complaint, “you suffer none to drawe any one lott, but those that bring -xiiᵈ. or above. Your biggest lot is one grammer of xᵈ. which is the -greate lott; the rest are ink-hornes, hobby-horses, gingerbread, paints, -and puddings of very small value.” The master of Merchant Tailors’ is -indignant thereat, and protests that not only is the matter one of -pure entertainment, but that he makes nothing by it, and that he finds -the drawers in “dyett bread, comfitts of all sorts, ffiggs, raysonnes, -allmonds, stewed prunes, wiggs, beare, and some wine, and all kinds of -ffrute, which the season of the yeare affordes.” - -A story is told of one of Haynes’s pupils, which, like many other -stories, has had different individuals for its hero. It is to this -effect. A very proud and an intolerably ignorant gentleman was constantly -boasting that he enjoyed the advantage of having been a member of both -Universities. “You remind me,” said the old Merchant Tailors’ pupil, “of -a circumstance worth narrating. I have two cows at home which calved -at the same time. One calf died, but I let the other calf suck both -the cows.” “Well,” said the member of two Universities, “what was the -consequence?” “A prodigiously great calf indeed, Sir.” - -For many years the scholastic portion of Merchant Tailors’ appears to -have suffered by repeated visitations of the Plague. Then came the Great -Rebellion, with a modifying of the rules, which were made excessively -stringent, and under which the pupils were converted to as sour a series -of classes as if they were enrolled in Dotheboys Hall. But then came the -Restoration, and therewith relaxation; and the young “tailors” pushed -up their beavers from off their eyes, turned up their lank hair into -seductive curls, put their hands on their hips, and looked saucily at the -maids of Cheapside. In the midst of it all burst forth the Great Fire; -and the “tailors,” for a time houseless, got their lessons by fits and -starts, till they were once more tabernacled, in high spirits, within a -comfortable dwelling. - -One would have thought that all would have been harmony in the new -house; but such was not the case. For some time, indeed, nobody could -discover a grievance; but having looked everywhere to find one, and all -in vain, recourse was had to religion, and of course a few were created -_instanter_. Good, the master, continued to pray as heretofore in Latin. -The boys roared out for plain English precations. The City took various -sides of the question,—for, against, and a little of both languages. The -Latinists at last prevailed, and the orthodox declared that the heel of -the Apocalyptic Beast was on the brow of the scholars, and that the -sun of England had set for ever. It is a sun however that hitherto has -exhibited a great alacrity in rising again. - -Of course the zealous party ousted Good in time. The members of it -held that daily prayers and much devotion after a ceremonious manner -savoured of Popery, and poor Good was turned out as a Papist; the boys -marvellously improved, and became very remarkable for their habits of -“profane swearing and debauchery, and misdemeanours.” St. Lawrence -Pountney was imitating Whitehall. A good deal of irregularity prevailed -throughout the periods of James II. and William and Mary. One instance -may be cited, namely, that of treating the boys who missed their election -to St. John’s College with canary and cake. It was like teaching them -that drink was a solace for disappointment. To be sure they had a sermon -first from the chaplain; but chaplains in those days were particularly -addicted to punch. - -See the consequence! The school-kitchen was enlarged; the boys were -divided into the “table” and the “bench;” and, as an illustration of -these jolly juvenile “tailors,” it may be stated that Sam Phillips, a -“tailor” of the “table,” seduced little Will Nash, a “tailor” of the -“bench,” and took him to taverns, and playhouses, and gaming-houses, -and was tried for the same before the school authorities, who found him -guilty indeed, but construed mild of human frailty, and condoned him -on promise of his mending his naughty ways,—which he, like a gallant -“tailor,” scorned to do, and turned out a reprobate accordingly. - -Not that the pupils were generally reprobate, but the masters unwise, -and regardless of their own regulations. Thus, when young Buckingham, -who was a very worthy juvenile “Merchant Tailor,” wrote the play of -Scipio Africanus, and had it represented, the masters, who denounced -stage representations, suspended the duties of the school, and sent all -the boys into the pit to clap the piece. It was like the British Senate -solemnly adjourning, as both Houses once did, in order to see Master -Betty play Hamlet. - -But let me do all justice to the masters. If they turned their Christian -pupils into the pit of a very licentious theatre (Lincoln’s Inn Fields), -they exhibited their anxiety for pure morality by again turning all the -Jewish pupils out of the school. Israel was their scapegoat. - -Quin’s ‘Scipio’ inoculated the boys and masters too with a scenic furor; -and the latter individuals consistently upheld the morals of the _alumni_ -by permitting them to perform the most beastly of the beastly pieces of -Terence,—the ‘Eunuchus.’ Thus Merchant Tailors’ sank or rose to the nasty -practice of Westminster; and again I say, “See the consequence!” Garrick, -who used to patronize the performances, enticed Silvester, who played -in the epilogue to the ‘Phormio,’ to a wider stage; and Silvester’s -readiness to play anything, from Hamlet to harlequin, was subsequently -immortalized by Bannister, Junior, in the character of Sylvester -Daggerwood. - -Nor can excuse be taken under the plea that the masters only patronized -the classic drama in a tongue defunct. One of the masters, himself a -clergyman, the Rev. P. Townley, wrote one of the most lively farces in -the English language, namely, ‘High Life below Stairs.’ This, too, was -long before the Terence period of the Merchant Tailor plays. It has had -two very lively results. Mrs. Abington’s Lady Bab fired many a “tailor” -youth, and the whole piece caused an insurrection among the liveried -gentlemen in the free list who waited for their masters in the Edinburgh -gallery. As for Dublin, when _the_ Abington went there and played Kitty, -the fashion of her cap set the whole town in a fever; and nothing else -was seen on fashionable heads but one made after that illustrious fashion. - -The matter was not mended at Merchant Tailors’ when musical performances -were subsequently introduced, and the satires in Ruggles’s ‘Ignoramus’ -were sung by the boys to sacred airs by Soper, by Hasse, and by Handel. -The mothers of some of these lads had to regret, like Niobe, that -the gods had made their children vocal. These operatic displays were -ultimately suppressed. - -Finally, under the mastership of Cherry, Townley’s successor, a scene -of another description took place, which caused infinite commotion. -When the French Revolution broke out, the “Tailors” became infected; -and inscriptions scrawled on the walls of the school-passages proved -how disloyalty pervaded the breasts of the youthful writers. But from -writing they proceeded to action. On the 13th of January, 1796, the -Queen’s birthday, a tricoloured flag was hoisted on the Tower Walls, -where, strange enough, it was allowed to remain for three hours, side -by side with the royal standard. The City burst forth into a tumult of -indignation or delight. When the authorities, acting on information, -proceeded to the fortress, the insulting emblem had disappeared; but it -was traced to a hiding-place beneath the bed of the son of the Rev. Mr. -Grose, assistant chaplain at Merchant Tailors’. The horrified sire burnt -the rag of rebellion to ashes, while his son confessed his guilt, and -implicated in the raising of the insurrectionary standard a fellow-pupil -named Hayward, under whose suggestions young Grose professed to have -acted. Their fellow-pupils showed the vigour of _their_ loyalty by -nearly pounding Hayward to a pulpy consistence like that of the men whom -Professor Whewell, as I have elsewhere noticed, concedes as possibly -existing in the wide plane of Jupiter. The offenders were solemnly -expelled; and since that period, the establishment has flourished in -usefulness to the public and credit to its conductors. - -It is an establishment which, despite some drawbacks, has produced not -a few eminent “Merchant Tailors.” I can cite but a few, and, among the -many, name the good and modest Bishop Andrews, and the learned Dove, who -in the reign of James preached the funeral sermon of Mary Queen of Scots, -at Peterborough. Spenser the Greek scholar, and the three virtuous sons -of the virtuous Sandys, Bishop of London; Fox, the son and biographer -of the Martyrologist; Heth, who logically tranquillized the public in -1582, when Harvey of Cambridge informed the world that it was coming to -an end; the pious Bowsfield and Gwinne, who renewed a love for Church -music after the Reformation, were all “Merchant Tailors.” So too were -those eminent Oxford men, Searchfield and Perin; Paddin, the physician at -James’s death-bed; Ravens and Buckridge, Latewar, Whitelocke, and Boyle; -Price, Tomson, and Lymby, Rawlinson, Rainsbee, Sansbury, Lauson, and -Tuer; with Wren and Campin, who upheld the honour of Merchant Tailors’ -at Cambridge. What they did in general learning, in divinity, poetry, -or law, in the Hampton Court Conference, in the student’s closet, in -ambassadorial councils or the tented field, behold, is it not written in -the dictionaries of biographers? - -To them may be added Hutton the controversialist, and the clever and -profligate Hill, who lived an Epicurean and died a Romanist, and to whose -opinions Ben Jonson alludes when he says:— - - “Thou Atomi ridiculous, - Whereof old Democrite and Hill Nicholas, - One said, the other swore, the world consists.” - -Glancing our eye adown the long roll, we distinguish the name of -Whitelocke, who was indebted for much of his education to Laud, and who, -when that prelate was in difficulty, refused to act on the committee -whose members had determined to push that difficulty to death. Pious -Juxon, the poetic Lodge, and honest Foster, the country clergyman,—who -wrote a treatise called ‘_Hoplocrissma Spongus_, or a sponge to wipe away -the weapon-salve, wherein is proved that the cure taken up among us by -applying the salve to the weapon is magical and unlawful,’—these follow; -and, not less honoured, succeed the names of Sutton and Buckland,—the -first, zealous Reformer; the second, as zealous Romanist. To these -may be added Wilde, the dramatist; Jones, the ornament of the English -Benedictines; tuneful Shirley, a greater dramatist than Wilde; and -Hutton, who was distinguished for his learning in French and Italian as -well as in classical literature. Further we find Dr. Speed, the son of -the chronologist; William Meaux or Meuse, who is described as having -“entered in the physick line;” the loyal divines Walwyn, Good, and -Edwards; and a host of men less known to fame, and who were expelled the -University for being consistent in their political opinions. Calamy is -a name not to be omitted; and Archdeacon Layfield is remembered as the -clergyman who was punished for having the letters I. H. S. in his church, -by being dragged in his surplice through the City, and who refused to pay -either fifteen hundred pounds or five to save himself from being sold to -the Algerines or the Plantations. - -Snelling, the tragic writer; Howe, the naturalist; Frank Goldsmith, who -wrote for love and not for hire; Gayten, pleasant author of ‘Pleasant -Notes upon Don Quixote;’ Hewit, the clergyman, executed for loyalty to -the cause of Charles, and whom his old schoolfellow Wilde attended on the -scaffold; and perhaps greater than all, Davenant the commentator, brother -to the laureate, and son to Shakspeare’s melancholic host at Oxford, were -others of the _alumni_ of our house. - -Nor must I omit the name of Will Quarles; Calamy and Shirley, men even -more noted, I have already incidentally mentioned: they both died -within the same week, of fright caused by the Great Fire of London, -a catastrophe which made a poet of another “Merchant Tailor,” the -well-known Markland. Indeed a great many of the pupils became at least -respectable poets, which is, after all, no great praise, as applied to -the sons of song. - -Pepys and Evelyn record no more interesting incidents connected with the -Great Fire than are to be found in the reports, given by other writers, -of the deaths of these two distinguished pupils of Merchant Tailors’. -Shirley had exceeded by two years the allotted aggregate of “threescore -years and ten” when he and his second wife, Frances, were driven from -their habitation in Fleet-street. They took refuge from the flames in the -neighbouring parish of St. Giles’s in the Fields. But so overcome were -this much-tried and ancient pair, that they both died on the same day, -and within a month of the great calamity. The hapless couple were buried -in one grave in St. Giles’s, and became the associates of a goodly but -silent company,—among others, Chapman, the poet, and translator of Homer, -and Lord Herbert of Cherbury; a company that was afterwards enlarged -by the mute presence of Charles the Second’s “Dick Penderell,” Andrew -Marvell, the infamous Countess of Shrewsbury, who held Buckingham’s horse -while the Duke slew her husband in a duel, and Sir Roger L’Estrange, who -is called “the wit,” upon the principle of naming ill-painted animals -on village sign-boards,—you would not have made the necessary discovery -without the explanatory ‘legend.’ - -As for poor Calamy, he too died of the Fire. He was driven through the -burning ruins, and so shocked was he at the sight of the destruction that -had fallen on the great theatre of his popularity, that he never again -quitted the room at Enfield, whither he was conveyed, but died on the day -that Shirley and his wife were buried. Thus perished two of the greatest -of the _alumni_ of whom Merchant Tailors’ can boast. To the roll of those -pupils we will again resort. - -First among them we find handsome Ezekiel Hopkins, with whom all the -women were in love,—in love both with his preaching and his person. -Oh, happy Ezekiel! cunning Hopkins! Presbyterian when Presbytery was -in power; Independent when to be so was to be “No. 1;” and winning all -hearts from the episcopal pulpit of St Mary’s, Exeter, and subsequently -St. Mary’s, Aldermanbury, when Episcopacy and Royalty walked hand-in-hand -among the lieges. Excellent Ezekiel! But, if he had his conceits, his -schoolfellow Webb had his hobby; and nothing could convince _him_ that -the Chinese language was not the language spoken by Adam and Eve before -the Fall. - -Moreover there was the penniless and threadbare student Bonwicke; and the -well-paid Bernard, tutor to the Dukes of Grafton and Northumberland, sons -of Charles II. and the Duchess of Cleveland; but for his employers he was -too pure and grave a man. And there was Wells, the Nonconformist and, sad -blot in the school escutcheon, Titus Oates, who was also a nonconformist -to morality and religion; and Needler, fit name for pupil of such house, -and who wrote in defence of the Trinity when half England had more -delight in the argument than the end for which the argument was raised. -Several others of the pupils, now grown men, in the reign of James II., -were hanging over their pulpits, half Romanists, half Reformers. Like -the tomb of the old prelate at Canterbury, they were neither in the -Church nor out of it, but a little of both. Indeed many of these men -were singularly constituted; and we may cite as an instance the case of -young Dawes, who began his poetical career by composing a poem, which I -should not like to read, entitled the ‘Anatomy of Atheism.’ Nevertheless -Merchant Tailors’ School boasted of Dawes, and of Boulter and Wilcox, -whose election to Magdalen was called by Dr. Hough, the President, the -“Golden Election,” as the Charterhouse boasted of Addison. The “small -change” here hardly represented the value of the larger piece. - -Sayer and Oliver, two fellow-pupils of the school, were successive -Archdeacons of Surrey; Joshua Barnes and Peter Heylin were also of the -“Table” or the “Bench;” and Wright, Vicar of Okeham, was of the latter, -and not less famed for his steady refusal of all preferment. Like ‘Silver -Penny,’ so named for his pure eloquence, though it might have been -also for his liberality, and who has made so exquisite a restoration -of Mongeham Church, near Deal, he loved the temple of which he was the -priest too well to wish to change his office. Then there were botanical -Sherrard; Torriano, of Italian blood; Dee, descended from that Dr. Dee -who fooled Elizabeth so “consumedly;” and William Bridge, himself the son -of a tailor and draper, and who contributed a Threnodia to the cairn of -melodious mourning heaped upon the dead body of William the Third. - -Merchant Tailors’ had peculiar joy in the accession of Anne, for it was -through one of the pupils that the succession of this sovereign lady -was undisputed. Crowther had married her mother, Anne Hyde, to the Duke -of York; and he did this so cautiously and entirely according to law, -with ample proof to support it, that James strove in vain to procure an -annulling of the marriage, and Merchant Tailors’ looked on the position -of the female monarch as one which had been achieved for her by one of -the popular scholars of the house. It was expected that she would have -shown her royal gratitude by conferring the Bishopric of Lincoln on -little Doctor Dawes, another scholar; but Dawes preached unpalatable -truths to her, and Anne would not move him from an honorary chaplaincy. -“You have lost a bishopric by your preaching,” said a good-natured friend -to him. “I do not know how that may be,” said Dawes, “but I certainly -never mean to try to gain one by preaching.” Divinely well said, O -doughty Dawes! You well deserved what you afterwards attained, the See of -Chester. - -Among the pupils who _were_ raised to the Bench, Mews, of Winchester, -was perhaps as remarkable as any. His death certainly was so. He was -subject to fainting fits, from which he was used to recover by smelling -hartshorn. He was once in conversation with a clerical friend, when -he was suddenly attacked by one of these fits. He was speechless, -but he pointed to the bottle of hartshorn on his table. The friend -seized the bottle, and, opening the prelate’s mouth, poured the whole -of the contents down his throat, by which the bishop was suffocated. -Notwithstanding this neat achievement, the zealous clerical friend did -not succeed to the vacant see. - -I could name many more “prelates” and “parsons,” who were all good men -and true, and who did honour to the establishment wherein they had -received their earlier education; but the glory of all these pales -before the brighter reputation of Ambrose Bonwicke, that “pattern for -a student,” who was ever so mild, save when he helped his father, the -schoolmaster, to flog the boys; so loyal, save when he refused to read -the prayer for the prosperity of the House of Hanover; and so wise, save -when, in honour of religion, he brought on death by his austerities. He -lacked no eulogists after his decease; and it is suggestive as to what -was considered early rising in the days of the first George, when we find -young Bonwicke praised for getting up at half-past six! Merchant Tailors’ -School was prouder of him than it ever was of the greatly intellectual -Lowth. On the other hand, it was ashamed of Tooley, of St. John’s, who -edited Tully’s ‘Offices,’ for the good reason that he was a namesake -of the author; and this, his poor qualification, was also his solitary -one. He effected one other deed,—the seducing of Amhurst to such bad -ways, that the latter ex-alumnus of Merchant Tailors’ was expelled the -University. Amhurst, in a preface to his poems, declared that he was so -punished because he was said to “love foreign turnips and Presbyterian -bishops; and to believe that steeples and organs were not necessary to -salvation.” - -Amhurst was among the “odd fellows” of the school. So was Leigh, who died -at Gravelines, and whom the Roman Catholics proved to have died in their -faith, by burying him within the church in that lively locality. Duncan -Dee belongs rather to the bold than the odd fellows. He will ever be -remembered as the intrepid defender of Sacheverel. Among the worthiest -fellows was Wheatly, for ever famous for his immortal illustration of -the Book of Common Prayer. Among the stout-hearted fellows was that -paradoxical Dr. Byrom, of short-hand notoriety, who was loved for his -wit and worth, and whose diary has lately been published by the Chetham -Society. He was the son of a linendraper; married for love; struggled -for life at his leisure; earned a decent maintenance by teaching and -practising the system of short-hand which he had invented; spent his last -days in well-earned ease; and is famous for his epigrammatic epitaph on -that irregular and chemical genius and jolly fellow, Dr. Byfield, who -invented the _sal volatile oleosum_, and who was thus celebrated by Byrom -over a flask at the Rainbow:— - - “Hic jacet Dr. Byfield, diu volatilis, tandem fixus!” - -I may add, as being worthy to be classed among the clever fellows, -Derham, whose ability was honoured by a sneer from Voltaire; and finally, -among the audacious fellows was Zinzano, a conscientious clergyman, who -thought to make Milton be forgotten by writing “an entirely new poem -entitled ‘Paradise Regained,’” which turned out to be a treatise on the -art of gardening! But the pupil whose name conferred most glory (so it -is alleged) upon the records of the school during the Georgian days, was -Clive,—that young hero who began by climbing church-spouts, and ended -so miserably after he had added a wide empire to our little kingdom. If -the celebrated Cline, another “Merchant Tailor,” killed more men in the -practice of his profession, Clive, who was by no means contemptible as -a slayer of legions, added millions of living subjects to our imperial -sway. The only pupil who has been “distinguished from the crowd by being -remembered to his infamy,” is Luke Milbourne, the antagonist of Dryden. - -It has been said that Dr. South was a pupil of Merchant Tailors’, but -this is not the case. He was however appointed chaplain to the Company; -and he showed how he appreciated the honour, by taking for the text of -his inauguration sermon the words, “A _remnant_ shall be saved!” - -The greater portion of the men of whom the Merchant Tailors are proud, -are men who made themselves, so to speak, and were not indebted in -any way for fortune to their tailors. There was another class of men -however, of whom the contrary may rather be said,—men who assumed the -poor vocation of the beau, and found it a bankrupt calling. They have -existed in all ages, and we will go back to those of old times. _Seniores -priores._ - - - - -Chapters on Beaux. - - - - -THE BEAUX OF THE OLDEN TIME. - - “Le Beau ne plaît qu’un jour, si le Beau n’est utile.”—ST. LAMBERT. - - -Dress, like all other things, has been amply used and abused in all ages; -but there is this to be said for man, that he is the only animal born -without being provided with a necessary costume. This shows that he is a -migratory animal; and if he be not naturally covered so as to suit all -climates and himself, he has reason given him to meet all exigencies, and -it is only a pity that he exhibits so little taste in the application of -it. His storehouse, or rough wardrobe, is in the vegetable and animal -kingdom; and plants die that man may live, and animals are skinned that -the lord of creation may be covered. - -The passion for fine dressing commenced undoubtedly with the ladies. -When the Tyrian Alcides was one night loitering by the sea-side, his -arm encircling one of those nymphs whom demigods and boatswains’ mates -find in every port, and their eyes, when not looking into each other, -were fixed on the shadowy splendour of the western star, his dog, a -lank and hungry hound, came upon a shell, which he immediately began -crunching. Thereupon there issued a liquid from the expiring fish -within, so exquisite in colour that it attracted the eyes of the lady, -who immediately declared that never again should she know peace of -mind until she had a dress of that self-same hue. She bade the hero -never to appear in her presence again until the garment was procured; -and poor Hercules, who appears to have had as much perplexity about -ladies’ petticoats as lions’ hides, was sadly puzzled before he and an -eminent firm succeeded in procuring a dye which produced a garment of -the hue required, and would have made the fortune of the discoverers, -had they not been accustomed to the same sort of extravagances which -make bankrupts of London tradesmen. In spite of this, the Tyrian purple -long held on Fashion’s throne an undisputed sway; and no beau of old -appeared in the world without a mantle of this colour hanging from his -ivory shoulders. Agesilaus was one of this fashion-determining class; -but unlike modern followers of the philosophy of the mode, he turned -his ideas of dress to good account. For instance, when he was combating -in Pontus against the barbarians, as the finely-clad and tender-hearted -gentlemen there were called by their enemies, Agesilaus saw that they -were most superbly attired, but that they also were very delicate of -body. He accordingly gave orders that all the captains should be brought -in naked, and be sold by the public crier; but that their garments should -be sold separately. And this he did that the allies might know that they -had to fight for rich spoils with a poor enemy, and so might rush to the -attack with greater ardour. He had the picking of the spoil for his own -wardrobe. - -Alexander and his friends were probably the best-dressed men of all -the Greeks at any period. Of one of these friends, Agnon, it is said -he wore gold nails in both his slippers and sandals,—a piece of pride -which was like that of the English farmer during the late war, who went -to a market-dinner in a coat garnished with gold buttons. The vanity of -the farmer was wounded at finding that they attracted no notice; and he -clumsily tried to feed his pride and win observation by remarking, that -“it certainly weer very warm work to wear goold buttons in the dog-days!” - -Alexander of course slept on a couch of gold. Great Ammon’s son -deserved no less a bed; but I can hardly credit the assertion that -the sovereign’s tent contained a hundred such beds, and that the tent -itself was supported by fifty columns of gold. The beds however may -not have been for one individual’s use, and the tent was as vast as a -barracks: the couches may therefore have been for the general officers. -Five hundred Persians kept guard therein. These were the _Melophores_, -the “apple-bearers,” who carried a golden apple on the points of their -lances, and who were the admiration of all the maid-servants of the -district, attired as the Melophores were in uniforms of purple and -yellow. These were surpassed by the thousand archers, in their mantles -of flame-colour, violet, or celestial blue. These were irresistible; the -ladies at least said so, if the enemy did _not_; but even they achieved -fewer conquests (I allude less to the field than the bower) than the five -hundred Macedonian Argyraspides, the corps of “silver bucklers,” behind -whose shields however beat hearts more easily reached by the feathered -shafts of Dan Cupido than by the javelins of the foe. - -The purple-robed guard of Alexander was his chosen troop, his -_cent-garde_, charged with watching over his personal safety, and seeing -that he got safely to bed when his divinity was exceedingly drunk. They -were terrible coxcombs, were these guards, and would condescend to the -folly of flinging eggs at the passers-by, as though they knew no better -than military gentlemen returning from Epsom, or a wrathful curate of the -district of St. Barnabas pelting an anti-puseyite. These men cared little -whether Alexander were a god or not, but they had a firmly fixed idea -that their tailor had a family claim upon Olympus. - -But what were these to Alcisthenes the Sybarite, who has been -immortalized by Aristotle? This rather fast individual had a coat of -such magnificent material,—the coat worn by Prince Esterhazy, and which -that magnate never put on without losing I really _do not_ know how many -hundred pounds’ worth of pearls and diamonds, was, in comparison, a -coat for the Sybarite’s valet,—Alcisthenes had a habit, I say, of such -richness, that, on the day of the festival of Juno, it was exposed on -Mount Lacinium, to the veneration of the crowds who annually repaired -thither from all parts of Italy. It became the most attractive feature -of the festival; and the shrines were passed by, that the pilgrims might -fall into ecstasy in presence of Alcisthenes’ coat. It subsequently fell -into the hands of old Dionysius,—a Jew in his way, as we all know,—and he -sold it for one hundred and twenty talents to the Carthaginians: it was -the highest price ever realized for such a garment. - -But it was not the only coat exalted, like the serpent of old, to win -insane worship from imbecile idolators. Gibbon smiles with warrantable -contempt upon the Roman priests who, behind the altar, were preparing -miracles wherewith to astound the people. A deeper contempt attaches to -the several priests who compelled two poor honest tailors, or weavers -rather, to produce the duplicate coats, without a seam, each warranted to -have been worn by the Great Victim ere He passed to Calvary, and before -each of which, as the only one genuine, thousands, ay millions, have -flung themselves down in speechless ecstasy. - -There is _the_ one Holy Coat at Treves, and _the_ one Holy Coat at -Moscow; and the priests at either place will tell you that there were -never two. The Empress Helena discovered that of Treves, says the legend. -A Shah of Persia made a present of the Moscow garment to the Czar. Its -genuineness was warranted by a Russian archbishop, who declared that, in -a church in Georgia, a golden box placed upon a column had long contained -this coat, and that it was doubtless the seamless coat of our Lord. A -Muscovite monk standing by clinched the lie, by adding, that when the -soldiers cast lots for the possession of the coat, it fell to one who -lived in Georgia, and that this was the identical garment. Really, when -we think seriously of these things, we must not be too hard upon those -who reverenced the coat of the Sybarite. - -To return to Alexander: he was the despair of all men who, desirous -of following the fashion as he gave it, lacked means to realize the -desire. He was to his generals, what very rich Hussar colonels are to -the younger and poorer officers; or what Count D’Orsay used to be to the -counter-dandies of the Metropolis. - -Ephippus lived in the time of Commodus; and in allusion to that Emperor, -who used to dress himself as Hercules, and go out daily in his car with -the hero’s club, like a gold-headed cane, between his legs, he says:—“Is -it extraordinary that in our days Commodus does this, when Alexander, a -pupil of Aristotle, did worse in the olden time?” - -Certainly, in the article of dress, the son of Philip was as different -from the simplicity of his father, as the Prince Regent from George III. -Not only did he wear the lion’s skin, and call himself Hercules, but, -in private intercourse with his friends, he put on the winged cap and -the ankle-pinions of Mercury. If I may say so without profanity, I would -remark, that if Prince Albert were to walk through Kensington Gardens -attired like David, with a sling and a stone in his hand to fling at the -first fat gentleman he might encounter, he would not be committing a more -unseemly act than Alexander was doing when he decked himself out to look -like Mercury. - -But when this wretched madman, the Macedonian I mean, rode out in his -chariot, and forgetful of his wry neck—for he _had_ a wry neck, and -limped to boot,—and despite his very red nose and his blood-shot eyes, -dressed like Diana, the goddess of Chastity, a Persian purple robe about -him, and over his naked shoulder a bow and a quiver,—he must have looked -as ridiculous in the eyes of the beholders, as if the late Sir William -Curtis, who was so solemnly ridiculous in kilts, had exhibited himself -daily in front of the Mansion-house in the dress and attitude of the -Magdalene of Correggio. - -In more modern days, we _have_ had the gods and goddesses assumed by -mortal men; but then it has been to amuse, and not to awe the multitude. -They were often introduced in the mediæval shows when Burgundy exulted in -her Dukes. I may cite, as an instance, the solemnity of the first entry -into Lille of Charles the Bold, in his character of Duke of Burgundy. -The delicate citizens got up a “mystery” whereby to do honour to the -refined prince, which excited great amusement. It was “The Judgement of -Paris.” To represent Venus, a tall and enormous woman had been selected, -who weighed some twenty stone; Juno was as tall as Venus, but she was -withered and lean; Minerva bore a hump both before and behind; while all -three goddesses were naked, only wearing rich crowns upon their heads. -Charles the Bold must have been as much pleased with pastime like this, -as Dr. Pusey would doubtless be were he, in company with Father Newman, -to take advantage of an order for two, and go and see Mr. Paul Bedford in -the part of Norma. - -Mark Antony was, despite his habit of getting drunk by daylight, so -careful a dresser that he may be ranked among the _beaux_. Indeed he was -specially fantastic in some of his fashions; and, by way of proof that -he was the very “first fine gentleman” of his day, it is only necessary -to cite what Textor says of him in the preface to the ‘Cornucopia,’ -namely, “M. Antonius, Triumvir, corporis excrementa non nisi vasis aureis -excipiebat.” - -The Scandinavian _beaux_ were as fantastically nice in some of _their_ -fashions. Rough as they were, there were many who wasted some amount -of thought on the adornment of their persons. Such an individual was -the pride of his relatives, and by these he was called, not the flower, -but the _leek_ of the family: he generally smelt a good deal stronger. -Of such a dandy, his kindred were as proud as the “blood” of Caffarelli -was of that smartly-dressed singer. But Caffarelli was a vocal beau who -sang to some tune. He lived in a palace of his own building. Over the -gate was this inscription:—“Amphion Thebas, ego domum;” and he purchased -for his nephew and heir the Dukedom of Sante Dorato. That _was_ a -well-dressed uncle, of whom his nephew might well be—what he was not, of -course—gratefully proud. Scandinavia reminds me of the great Gustavus -Adolphus. He was not indeed himself a _beau_, but he was the first who -made modern soldiers such. It was a consequence of his insisting on the -necessity of the men being well clothed, and kept clean and warm. Except -among Pompey’s cohort, this was not the custom of the ancients, with -whom prevailed the maxim, “horridum militem esse decet.” So too thought -Tilly, whose doctrine on the matter was comprised in the phrase, “A -ragged soldier and a bright musket.” Some of Gustavus’s officers became -the tightest-laced “exquisites” of suffering humanity, and reduced -their outward surface to such a degree, that, had they lived in remoter -times, they might have passed for those unhappy persons who had entered -the temple of Jupiter in Arcadia, despite prohibition. The well-known -consequence of such an act was, that the offender became for ever -shadowless. - -There is a race of men, not at all thin, and as rich dressers as -Gustavus’s captains; I mean the Cardinals. There is a _reason_ for their -wearing red garments. Persons of early Church days used to draw Christian -zodiacs and solar systems. In the former, the saints took the place of -the old signs. In the latter, the planets were allotted to different -religions. The sun belongs to Christianity; _ergo_, _Sunday_ is the -sabbath. Rome is the solar, and therefore the holy city; and accordingly -the Cardinals wear red, because it is the colour of the sun. - -To revert once more to the pupil of Aristotle, there remains but to be -said that it was only on state occasions that he appeared in the mantle, -sandals, and horns of Ammon. His ordinary dress was a chlamys of purple, -a striped tunic (white on a coloured ground), and a wide-flapped hat or -cap, with the royal diadem girt around it. He was in fact King of Fashion -as well as King of Men; and, like Count D’Orsay, he not only patronized -tailors, but, unlike the Count, paid their bills. The two men, in all -other respects, were very different; and it cannot be said of them, as -of Mr. Hunt’s ‘Light of the World,’ and his fast man in the ‘Awakened -Conscience,’ that they are one and the same person in two costumes. - -The Greeks generally were remarkable for possessing tailors who worked -more according to the locality of their birth than to their merits; -thus, Xenophon tells us, in his Life of Socrates, that Demeas, being a -Collytensean, supported his household by making cassocks; while Menon, -whose birthplace is not given, effected the same object by making -cloaks. The custom however is more clearly defined when he adds that -the Megarensians supported _their_ families by making short jackets. -Aristophanes, in his ‘Acharnians,’ alludes to this fashion when he -makes the jovial Dicaopolis say, “Certain rascally fellows, base coin, -unfranchised, and counterfeit, and alien citizens, were in the habit of -informing against the small cloaks of the Megarians.” Between “cloak” and -“jacket,” we may conclude that the article was a vest, or an “almaviva,” -or mantle, and that it was no more lawful to wear it in Athens when the -state was at war with Megara than it was in accordance with our “customs” -a century ago to wear garments embroidered with gold-lace from France. -This barbarous habit of denouncing the employment of an article, simply -because it is the production of, or named from, an enemy, is still -prevalent in the dominions of the Czar. _If_ the thing be used, the name -must be changed. Were we to follow the same fashion, no Englishman would -condescend to put on a pair of “Russia ducks.” - -But I have fallen into modern illustrations of the beau. When that -superb animal is being treated of by Dryden, the poet names the various -characteristics of divers beaux, from whom Sir Fopling Flutter had -derived his own united excellences, which made of him the recognized “Man -of Mode.” These are among them:— - - “His various modes from various fathers follow: - One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow; - His sword-knot, this; his cravat, this design’d; - And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind. - From one the sacred periwig he gain’d, - Which wind ne’er blew, nor touch of hat profaned. - Another’s diving bow he did adore, - Which, with a bag, casts all the hair before;— - Till he with full decorum brings it back, - And rises with a water-spaniel shake.” - -I have elsewhere noticed that for a “beau” to comb his peruke was a -matter of serious business; but it was even more. To do so in presence -of a “belle” was to behave to her as became the very pink of politeness. -“A wit’s wig,” says Wycherly’s ‘Ranger,’ “has the privilege of being -uncombed in the very playhouse, or in the presence⸺” “Ay,” interrupts -Dapperwit, “but not in the presence of his mistress; ’tis a greater -neglect of her than himself. If she has smugg’d herself up for me, let -me plume and flounce my peruke a little for her; there’s ne’er a young -fellow in town but will do as much for a mere stranger in the playhouse. -Pray lend me your comb.” “Well,” says Ranger, “I would not have men of -wit and courage make use of every fop’s mean arts to keep or gain a -mistress.” _Dapperwit_. “But don’t you see every day, though a man have -ne’er so much wit and courage, his mistress will revolt to those fops -who wear and comb perukes well? She comes! she comes! pray, your comb!” -and thereupon, snatching Ranger’s comb, he commences drawing it through -the wavy honours of his wig, in order to do honour to, and be seen -doing it by, his “dear Miss Lucy.” In such wise did Wycherly hold the -mirror up to nature, as I find it in his Comedies, published by Richard -Bentley, not of New Burlington-street, but by his good ancestor, who, -in 1694, tabernacled “at the Post House, in Russell-street, in Covent -Garden, near the _Piazza’s_,” as it is written; and who delighted the -then novel-reading world with such delectable novels as ‘Zelinda,’ ‘Count -Brion,’ ‘The Happy Slave,’ ‘The Disorders of Love,’ ‘The Pilgrim,’ in -two parts, and ‘The Princess of Montferrat.’ And I can only express my -admiration at the courage of our great-grandmothers, who learned what was -unprofitable and not amusing at so vast an outlay of most patient labour. - -To one or two modern “beaux” of great celebrity I will now introduce -you. Here is a jaunty, impudent, over-dressed gentleman approaching, who -will admirably suit our purpose. Pray allow me:—“Gentle Reader, Beau -Fielding.” “Beau Fielding, Gentle Reader.” - - - - -BEAU FIELDING. - - “He pass’d his easy hours, instead of prayer, - In madrigals and Philising the fair.”—GARTH’S _Dispensary_. - - -Goldsmith once shed tears from his simple, unsophisticated eyes, as -he passed through a village at night, and thought that the sleeping -inhabitants were unconscious how great a man was journeying that way. I -fancy that most people who pass the Reigate station are in a similarly -ignorant state of unconsciousness, and are not at all aware that they are -close upon the cradle of Orlando the Fair. - -I have heard the pleasant author of that pleasant story, ‘Crewe Rise,’ -remark that the worthies of Suffolk count in greater numbers than the -worthies of any other county. If worthiness be “greatness,” in the sense -of Jonathan Wild, Suffolk may envy Surrey such a son as Robert Fielding. - -The father of this incomparable youth was a cavalier squire, with -something like £500 per annum to nourish his dignity. “Bob” was early -entered at the Temple, where he behaved like a Templar; was too idle to -study the constitution of England, but very actively worked at the ruin -of his own. He thought Fleet-street vulgar, and removed to Scotland-yard, -next door to the court, which then rioted at Whitehall. - -The “beauty” of his neighbour attracted the notice of that other scamp, -Charles II.; and as Fielding was too handsome for anything, the King only -made him a Justice of the Peace. - -The women however left him none; and their importunities induced him -to abandon justice, and devote himself to wine, love-making, and living -upon pensions from female purses. In a succeeding reign he gave up the -Church, as he had before surrendered justice; and when James II. was -King, Fielding assumed Romanism as a good speculation, and was especially -zealous not only in protecting Popish chapels from the populace, but in -giving asylum to the prettiest devotees of that faith who flew to his -bosom for refuge. - -He stuck to his profession under William III.; that is, he made none -at all; and as he was accounted of no religion, his friends had no -difficulty in getting him nominated Major-General. I think this must have -been in the Horse Marines. The gallant officer was, at all events, never -in fray more serious than with sleepy watchmen and slip-shod waiters, -whom he ran through (he was an excellent runner, when peril pursued) with -the most astonishing alacrity. - -He was the handsomest man and the most extravagantly splendid dresser of -his day. When he passed down the Mall at the fashionable hour, there was -a universal flutter and sensation. “O’Carroll,” he would then say to his -servant, “does my sword touch my right heel? Do the ladies ogle me?” - -“It does, Sir. They do, Sir.” - -“Then, O’Carroll,” would the beau exclaim aloud, “let them die of love, -and be d—d!” - -“What a perfect gentleman! what a delicious creature!” chorused the -ladies. - -“Ay, ay,” said the beau, “look and die! look and die!” - -He was not kicked off the public promenade, but he was occasionally so -ejected from the public stage. It was the habit or the fashion then -for a portion of the audience to stand upon the stage, and the actors -played, like mountebanks, in a crowd. It was further the habit of this -superlative _beau_ to make remarks aloud upon the ladies in the boxes. -The latter,—not the boxes, but the ladies,—were not slow in flinging back -retorts; and the players, enraged at being unheeded, would then fairly -turn upon Fielding and turn him out, with the ceremony, or want of it, -observed in ejecting ill-bred curs. - -But the beau was amply compensated for such treatment as this by the -favour dealt to him by “officers and gentlemen.” He was once being -pursued by bailiffs sent after him by tailors whom he had ruined. As hare -and hounds approached St. James’s Palace, the officers on guard turned -out, attacked the myrmidons of the law, pinked them all over till they -looked like ribbed peppermint, and finally bore Fielding in triumph into -the Palace! - -The equipage of “Orlando” was not less singular than he was himself. -He kept a hired chariot, drawn by his own horses, and attended by two -footmen in bright yellow coats and black sarsnet sashes. Maidens sighed -as he rode by, and murmured “Adonis!” Admiring widows looked at him and -exclaimed, “Handsome as Hercules!” He really did unite the most exquisite -beauty both of feature and stature, with the most gigantic strength. Boys -followed him in crowds, and hailed him _father_. He showered among them -as many curses as blessings. “Did you never see a man before?” he once -asked the foremost urchin of a youthful mob. “Never such a one as you, -noble general,” answered the lad, an embryo beau from Westminster School. -“Sirrah, I believe thee; there is a crown for thy wit.” - -Mr. Isaac Bickerstaff states that the beau called himself an -antediluvian, in respect of the insects which appeared in the world as -men; and the ‘Tatler’ further says, that “he sometimes rode in an open -tumbril of less size than ordinary, to show the largeness of his limbs -and the grandeur of his personage to the greater advantage. At other -seasons all his appointments had a magnificence, as if it were formed by -the genius of Trimalchio of old, which showed itself in doing ordinary -things with an air of pomp and grandeur. Orlando therefore called for tea -by beat of drum; his valet got ready to shave him by a trumpet to horse; -and water was brought for his teeth when the sound was changed to boot -and saddle.” - -Amid all this, the prince of beaux was speculatively looking abroad. At -Doctors’ Commons he had seen the will of a Mr. Deleau, who left to his -widow a town residence in Copthall-court, a country mansion at Waddon, -in Surrey, and sixty thousand pounds, at the lady’s absolute disposal. -Fielding resolved to woo, and of course to win her. - -His first application was made through an agent, to a Mrs. Villars, who -used to act as hair-dresser to the much-sought-after widow. Her services -were asked for, under promise of great reward, to bring matters about so -that Mrs. Deleau should see Fielding, if it were only, as it were, by -accident. The beau thought that if the widow saw, _he_ would conquer. -Were a marriage to follow, Fielding promised hundreds out of his wife’s -money. - -The worthy agents failed to do their hirer’s bidding. He even called at -Waddon, under the name of Major-General Villars, and was allowed to see -the gardens. He mistook a lady at a window of the house for _the_ lady -of whom he was in search, and as she smiled when he put his hand to the -left side of his laced waistcoat, and made a bow till his vertebra was -horizontal, he concluded that his fortune was made; and the next day he -sent letters in his own name, which the servants, knowing the writer, and -having their orders, dropped into the fire,—after reading them in the -servants’ hall. - -The next move was an application to see the grounds at Waddon, -professedly from the famous or infamous Duchess of Cleveland, Fielding’s -chief patroness,—so low had fallen the mother of dukes and the concubine -of a king. Permission was granted, but nothing came of the concession. - -In the meantime Mrs. Villars, by no means disposed to lose the promised -recompense, persuaded Fielding that the widow had yielded, and would pay -him a visit. He was in a state of delight at the intelligence. The lady, -however, who was to pass as Mrs. Deleau, was a “Mistress Mary Wadsworth,” -who was ready for any joke, and thought the one proposed the best she had -ever shared in,—and she had been an actress in many. These two sensitive -creatures accordingly repaired to Fielding’s lodgings one soft autumnal -eve. The beau was in a flutter of ecstasy, was continually on his knees, -and devoted himself to the lowest position in hades if he ever had loved -any woman before. The assumed Mrs. Deleau was coy, as became a widow with -sixty thousand pounds and no encumbrances. The lover pressed her to be -married that night, if she would not have him perish; but she playfully -touched his cheek with her fan, and bade him wait and hope,—sad, naughty -fellow that he was! - -After two more such visits, the soft and tender creature was seduced -to sacrifice her scruples, and consented to a private marriage at -her lover’s chambers. The party supped joyously together, and then -the bridegroom sallied forth in search of a priest. He found one at -the Emperor of Germany’s ambassador’s; and his reverence having been -introduced to the lady, satisfied her of the reality of his vocation, -and in a twinkling buckled beau and belle together in a way, he said, -that defied undoing. All the after-ceremonies religiously observed in -those refined days ensued; indeed the marriage would not have been -half a marriage without them, and so all parties but the dupers were -satisfied,—and in fact even _they_ did not complain. - -The bride left for home next morning unattended; for family reasons, she -averred, it was necessary to keep the union unrevealed, and accordingly -she only repaired now and then to see “the Count,” as her husband styled -himself, and to eat toasted cheese and drink port and vat-ale with a man -who had married her, as he exclaimed at the sacred ceremony, “with all -his heart, soul, blood, and everything else!” - -There is no comedy of the last century, however absurd the plot, and -coarse and ridiculous the incidents, that is more absurd, coarse, and -ridiculous than this comedy in which Fielding was the hero and Mistress -Wadsworth and the Duchess of Cleveland the heroines. The beau was -convinced he had married a widow with a jointure of a golden character. -The letters he addressed to the residence of Mrs. Deleau must have -caused infinite astonishment to that calm relict of the citizen of -Copthall-court; but she held the writer as mad, and thought little more -of the matter. In the meantime Fielding, who had patronized half-a-dozen -tailors on the strength of his expectations, mysteriously alluded to, -acted the strangest of parts. He married her Grace the noble Barbara -within three weeks of his union with Mary Wadsworth. He provided himself -with two stools for the support of his dignity; and in the very fashion -of the proverb, he got very terribly bruised indeed. - -The wretched duper turned out to be the dupe. He had expended his cake -and wine, his _petit soupers_, wax-lights, and sconces all to no purpose; -he had run in debt for a ring with a posy of his own choosing, “_Tibi -Soli_;” and he had paid an Italian singer Margaretta to come and sing to -his beloved, “Ianthe the lovely,” translated by himself from the Greek. -He had looked for threescore thousand pounds, and had been deluded into -the idea that he was about to be the sire of a little “Lord Tunbridge,” -and at the end of all, the bride proves a common jilt; goes boldly to -Fielding’s lodgings in Whitehall, claims him, as he walks into the -street, by the title of “lawful wife,” and gets an unsavoury name by way -of reply, and a thorough thrashing into the bargain. - -The affair soon came into the courts. Fielding, a few weeks after his -union with Mistress Mary Wadsworth, had espoused _les beaux restes_ of -Barbara Duchess of Cleveland. Till he began to beat the Duchess as well -as the Dulcinea, he appears to have transferred his “green nightcap -and slippers” by the hands of a servant from the bower of one beauty -to the boudoir of another. The Duchess, at length, offered the first -wife £200 down and £100 annually for fifteen years, if she succeeded -in establishing the first marriage. Accordingly, the Beau was indicted -for bigamy at the Old Bailey. He endeavoured to prove that his supposed -widow had been married to one Brady, who was living at the time of her -marriage with Fielding, and something like a forged certificate in -the Fleet Register was produced to support it. But with Montague for -opposing counsel (Fielding was his own) and Powell for a judge, the -Beau could make nothing of a very bad case; and, being found guilty, he -was sentenced to be burnt in the hand,—a sentence which he escaped by -producing Queen Anne’s warrant to stay execution. He was accordingly set -free; and the Duchess of Cleveland, being now also freed from him and -his very heavy hand, the ex-beauty, but now be-rouged old flirt, lived -unmolested by anything more unpleasant than a very gentle remorse for her -_péchés mignons_. - -The Beau soon fell into dire distress; and a sketch of the complexion of -this phasis of life will be found in Bulwer’s ‘Devereux.’ He is there -described as “terribly fallen, as to fortune, since the day when he -drove about in a car like a sea-shell, with a dozen tall fellows in the -Austrian livery, black and yellow, running before and behind him. You -know he claims relationship to the House of Hapsburg. As for the present, -he writes poems, makes love, is still good-natured, humorous, and odd; -is rather unhappily addicted to wine and borrowing, and rigidly keeps -the oath of the Carthusians, which never suffers them to carry any money -about them.” - -The Austrian livery however had disappeared after the break with the -Duchess. The Beau’s den is probably more correct in its details. “The -chamber looked like a place in the other world, set apart for the ghosts -of departed furniture. The hangings were wan and colourless; the chairs -and sofas were most spiritually unsubstantial; the mirrors reflected all -things in a sepulchral sea-green; even a huge picture of Mr. Fielding -himself, placed over the chimney-piece, seemed like the apparition of a -portrait, so dim, watery, and indistinct had it been rendered by neglect -and damp. On a huge, tomb-like table in the middle of the room lay two -pencilled profiles of Mr. Fielding, a pair of ruffles, a very little -muff, an immense broadsword, a Wycherly comb, a jack-boot, and an old -plumed hat; to these were added, a cracked pomatum pot, containing ink, -and a scrap of paper, ornamented with sundry paintings of hearts and -torches. Upon the ground lay a box of patches, a periwig, and two or -three well-thumbed books of songs.” The Beau himself, half bully, half -fribble, a poet, a fop, a fighter, a beauty, is described as wearing an -old morning dressing-gown of once gorgeous material; a little velvet cap -with tarnished gold tassel, military boots, and with a coarse and florid -complexion as the remains of a beauty, the expression of which “had -settled into a broad, hardy, farcical mixture of effrontery, humour, and -conceit.” - -But all his effrontery could not keep him afloat, and he finally -disappeared altogether from the “world;” and so little was known of his -end that men disputed of his burial-place, as of another Atala, and it -was quite undetermined whether he died in Hampshire or in Holland. The -estimation, however, in which he was held is amply demonstrated in the -annexed epitaph by a friend:— - - “If Fielding is dead, - And rests under this stone, - Then he is not alive, - You may bet two to one. - But if he’s alive, - And does not lie here, - Let him live till he’s hang’d, - For which no man will care.” - -In the 113th number of the ‘Tatler,’ under the motto of “Ecce iterum -Crispinus,” the catalogue is given of the effects of a defunct beau: -and probably with some allusion to Fielding. Among the articles cited -are “A very rich tweezer case, containing twelve instruments for the -use of each hour in the day.” To this succeed gilt snuff-boxes, with -looking-glasses in the lid, or portraits of equivocal ladies; “a sword -with a steel-diamond hilt, never drawn but once at May Fair;” eyebrow -brushes, a “pocket perspective,” a dozen pair of red-heeled shoes, three -pair of red silk stockings, and an amber-headed cane. The beau’s “strong -box” contains “five billets-doux, a Bath shilling, a crooked sixpence, -a silk garter, a lock of hair, and three broken fans.” His book-case is -instructive: on the upper shelf there are three bottles of diet-drink, -two boxes of pills, a syringe, and _other_ mathematical instruments; -on the second, there is a miscellaneous collection of lampoons, plays, -tailors’ bills, and an almanack for the year 1700; the third shelf holds -a bundle of unopened letters, indorsed “from the old gentleman,” with -Toland’s ‘Christianity not Mysterious,’ and a paper of “patterns of -several fashionable stuffs,”—Toland’s ‘Christianity’ being _stuff_ that -was very fashionable at _that_ time. The lowest shelf of all reveals an -odd shoe, a pair of snuffers, a French grammar, a mourning hatband, and -half a bottle of usquebagh. These “effects” paint the beau of a by-gone -time; and Fielding was the grand master of the _petits-maîtres_, who were -the proprietors of this very varied property. - -There was however as great, as impudent, and as renowned a beau as he. He -comes this way in a white hat, and his name is Nash. - - - - -BEAU NASH. - - “N’achetez pas vos principes chez ce _Gentis homo_, homme de la - nation.”—DE BONALD. - - -The gaudiest flies spring from the most unsavoury of cradles, and Beau -Nash was born in ill-odoured Swansea. He used to say, he “could not help -it.” Like Liston, it had been his own intention to be born in Shropshire; -but he and the grotesque comedian possessed not the privilege of the -embryo saint, whose prayers procured his birth in the locality and at -the period which best suited himself. Accordingly, Richard Nash was born -at Swansea in the stirring year 1674. His very boyhood was brassy, as -befitted so metallic a locality. - -In after years, when Nash was at the most brilliant epoch of his -butterfly period, and it had for some time been remarked that, much as -the Beau talked of other people, he never mentioned his own father, the -Duchess of Queensberry, in her Grace’s usual familiar style, asked the -meek Richard if he were ashamed of his sire, that he never mentioned -him. “Nay, madam,” said Nash, “if I never name him, it is because he has -reason to be ashamed of _me_.” It was the only humble speech which Nash -ever uttered, and it had truth for its foundation. - -The sire of the gay Richard was a quiet individual, a partner in one -of the Bristol glass-houses. He had more ambition than wisdom; and he -commenced blowing his son into a gentleman by sending him to Jesus -College, Oxford, at the age of sixteen. “I hope, Dick,” said the honest -man, “you will distinguish yourself before you are a year older.” “Dad,” -replied Dick, “I will astonish you _within_ that period.” And he kept -his word. Before a year had expired he had taken first-class honours -in puppyism, had become the terror or temptation of half the women in -Oxford, made an offer of marriage to a young lady as modest as himself; -and had got expelled. He _did_ astonish his father! - -The good man, on recovering from his surprise, began to perceive that -his first attempt at making Dick a gentleman had failed; but he was a -determined individual, and had resolved to succeed. Accordingly he bought -for young Master Hopeful an ensign’s commission. “Now, Dick,” said he, -“the thing is done; you are ‘an officer and a gentleman’ by right of your -commission.” Poor old citizen! he might as well have said that the zenith -was also the nadir by power of astronomy. - -I believe Nash entered the 46th. I am inclined to think so, from the -circumstance that he seemed to have lost his memory as soon as he -“joined.” He certainly forgot everything but what he had done well not -to remember. He forgot to get up to parade; could never remember, when -he did rise, the events of the preceding night; even what the chaplain -had said to him, over the punch, had gone out of his memory, as it had -from that of the reverend gentleman. He was oblivious of every point -of duty, never recollected to pay his bills, and was in all things a -consummate scamp. The colonel, who might have endured a young fellow who -was a more unprincipled scamp than himself, could not tolerate one who -was a greater wit. He made the ensign’s life miserable; and as the ensign -had determined that his life should not be of that quality, he sold his -commission, and, having spent the money, did his father the honour of -returning home. - -“Go to the devil!” said his sire; and Dick accordingly came up to town, -and entered at the Temple. Having done this, he went to the gaming table. -It was impossible for son to show more alacrity in setting out on the -journey whither his father had sent him. - -The ancient gentleman to whom his sire had consigned him must have been -proud of his young friend. The latter was at dice one half the night, at -balls and assemblies the other half; and he was in bed all day. His gains -were devoted not to the comfort of his appetite or the nourishment of his -intellect, but almost exclusively to dress. He eclipsed every beau of -whatever rank: the women adored, the men hated him, but all acknowledged -that a spirited young fellow, who had been expelled college, had found it -convenient to withdraw from the army, who was a Templar “for the fun of -the thing,” and who was all gold lace and gallantry, was worthy of being -the leader of the “_ton_;” and for that matter they were perfectly right. - -He was the conductor of the entertainments given by the Middle Temple -to William the Third. The Monarch was so pleased with the Master of the -Ceremonies that he offered to make him a knight. “That depends,” said the -impudent beau, “upon what sort of a chevalier your Majesty would make of -me. If it were a ‘poor knight of Windsor,’ I should be rich at once, and -well content.” The King shook his head, and Nash lost the honour. - -He made up for it by gaining them at whist; and he was so good-tempered -a player that even his adversaries bore his triumphs without cursing -him—much. The truth is, that he was a terrible rake; but he was not a -dishonourable fellow, according to the then existing code of honour. The -Templars entrusted him with some portion of their funds. His accounts -were once ten pounds short of correctness, and he accounted for its -deficit by saying, that he had heard a poor fellow say that ten pounds -would make him happy, and he could not resist giving him that sum. -The charity was something like that of Mrs. Haller, who gave away her -master’s wine to the sick, and got a character for generosity thereby. -However, the Templar auditors passed the accounts. The beau’s story was -probably true, for he was quick to feel for others, and the readiest man -at a lie of his own or any other period. - -Nash never frittered away his money in paying his debts. “Doing that -vulgar sort of thing,” said he, “never procures you a friend; lending -money _does_!” and he was ready to lend to the great when the dice -favoured him. The young gentleman’s maxim was quite worthy of one whose -“indignant parient” had constituted him a ward of the devil. - -His relaxations from town and Temple studies further showed the respect -he had for his eminent guardian. During a country excursion he stood in a -blanket at the door of York Minster. He professed to be doing penance for -his sins, and the clergy cut jokes with him as they passed. He performed -this pretty trick for a poor wager of half-a-dozen guineas, and he -performed a worse for a bet more trifling; he rode stark-naked through a -quiet and astonished village,—an achievement in which he was subsequently -imitated by the father of Louis Philippe. But these were little foibles -the most readily forgiven by the ladies: how could they be angry with a -fine gentleman, whose gallantry was so great that when he sat next one at -table he made love to her then and there, and swore with the most liberal -parade of oaths that he never drank any wine but such as had been “first -strained through his mistress’s smock!” - -And then the pretty process was gone through, amid a world of wild talk -that would nowadays somewhat ruffle even the Vestas of Cremorne; but the -fair creatures of William’s age declared him to be “a dear, delicate,” -and some Lady Bettys added, in their grapy enthusiasm, “a d—d gallant -fellow.” His friend Satan must have chuckled at the word. - -It is quite possible that after some one of these orgies, he was, by -way of a good practical joke, carried off, by a captain as drunk as -himself, on board a ship to the Mediterranean. It is quite certain that -he disappeared for a considerable period; and when he turned up again, -he not only told the tale of his abduction, but averred that he had been -in a naval battle, and had received a ball in the leg. He was one night -repeating the oft-told tale in the Bath rooms, when a countess boldly -expressed her disbelief of the alleged fact. Nash imprecated upon her -the disease which very fine people who quarrelled used to fling at one -another, and then said, as he put up his leg on her lap, “The ball is -there, Madam; and if you will, you may feel it!” - -Such was the Beau in the Bath rooms; but at that period, the women went -thither in aprons, the squires in top-boots, with pipes in their mouths. -The longer they kept them there the better, for they were no sooner out -than forth flowed a torrent of filthiness. But all Bath, from the days -of the farewell to it of the Romans, down to a later period than this of -which I am speaking, was a mere _cloaca_; and they who resorted thither -were too often as dirty as the place. Its unsavouriness elicited some -very stringent remarks from Queen Elizabeth, and a contribution from the -royal purse for constructing a common sewer. - -It is the custom to look upon Nash as the first of the dynasty of the -Bath Masters of the Ceremonies. The true founder of that highly august -dynasty however was the Duke of Beaufort himself. For the invalids who -resorted to the healing springs, there were but two houses fitted for the -reception of a “respectable,” that is, a _moneyed_ class of visitors; -namely, the Abbey House and Westgate House. It was not till long after -that there was either a ball-room, or any place of public amusement in -the city. Sometimes a convivial party of invalids, or their friends, got -up a dance on the open bowling-green. But such inconveniences attended -this, that the Duke of Beaufort gave up the town-hall for both the -dancers and gamblers. His Grace placed the conduct of the amusements -under the superintendence of Captain Webster; and that gentleman having -respectably inaugurated them, the sceptre of Master was made over to Nash. - -The passion for play was long the ruling passion here, among the sick, as -well as among the sound. The passion is well illustrated in the epigram, -written when subscription books were opened for providing for the -expenses of Church service, and for opening a new card-room:— - - “The books were open’d t’other day, - At all the shops, for Church and Play. - The Church got _six_; Hoyle _sixty-seven_: - How great the chance for Hell ’gainst Heaven!” - -Nash’s great enemy he found in the doctors. They disliked him for helping -to cure invalids too quickly, by the general cheerfulness and gaiety -which he essayed to establish in the city. They moreover bore him little -love for his abolition of the sword, a general and not too deadly use of -which was wont to procure for them endless patients, and continual profit. - -The profession pursued its vocation at Bath at this period with little -delicacy. The carriages of invalids, and the public stage-coach, which -reached the city on the third day after its departure from town, were -assailed at the outskirts by hosts of “touters,” who were engaged by -the physicians to publish their respective merits (they now do that for -themselves, thus saving expense), and to carry off as many patients as -they could respectively secure. For these the doctors paid the touters a -percentage; and as the touters were, in most cases, the husbands of the -nurses, all parties played into each other’s hands. - - “And so, as I grew ev’ry day worse and worse, - The doctor advised me to send for a nurse; - And the nurse was so willing my health to restore, - She begg’d me to send for a few doctors more.” - -As the vivacity which Nash put into the place very much injured the -latter gentlemen, one, more angry than the rest, threatened to “throw a -toad into the spring,” by writing against the waters. “Fling away!” cried -Nash; “we’ll charm him out again by an additional band of music!” And -he dealt another blow at them, by decreeing that, in future, the balls -should commence at six, and terminate at eleven, instead of lasting, as -heretofore, till daybreak. - -His code of laws for these balls was the code of a terrible despot, and -I can hardly account for the ready obedience which was paid to it. His -force of impudence and blaze of dress, with some superiority of mind, -perhaps awed the sensual and stupid peers, peeresses, squires, and dames. -One of the articles of the code was to the effect, that “very young, and -also the ‘elder ladies,’ be content with the second benches at the balls, -the one not yet having arrived at, the other being past, perfection.” The -rule was obeyed! - -Precisely at six the magnificent fellow gave the signal, and the couple -present highest in rank, advanced submissively, and walked a minuet. -After every couple had gone through the same solemnity, the splendid -“Master” gave the word for country-dances. How the ladies and gentlemen -went at it in those days, may be seen from what took place when the dial -showed eleven o’clock. The jewelled finger of Nash was then raised in -the air, the music ceased, and, “Now,” said he, “let the ladies sit down -_to cool_, before they go to their chairs!” On one occasion the Princess -Amelia begged for another dance after eleven had struck. Nash shook all -the powder out of his hair in mute horror at the bare idea of such a -solecism. - -The Duchess of Queensberry was also once daring enough to infringe his -rules by appearing in the rooms in a laced apron. He tore it off, and -threw it among the servants; and to the richest squire of the county, -who presumed to appear, contrary to Nash’s own decree, in boots, he -exclaimed, “Holloa, Hog’s Norton, haven’t you forgot to bring your -horse?” The squire talked of swords. “No, no,” replied Nash, “I have put -an end to duels; and thereby, Squire, I have prevented people from doing -what they have no mind to.” - -This sort of coarseness was refinement in Elizabethan days. I may cite in -proof thereof, that when the valiant Welsh commander, Sir Roger Williams, -knelt to Queen Elizabeth, in his rough untanned leather boots, to present -a petition she was determined not to grant, she only remarked, “Williams, -how your boots stink!” “Tut, Madam!” answered the Welshman, “it is my -suit, and not my boots, that stink!” So did she affect to annoy Cecil, -by wearing his portrait for a day tied to her shoe. On another occasion -she admitted to her presence a whole bevy of country-cousins named Brown. -They were of the kindred of Anne Boleyn; but when Elizabeth saw them in -their queer old-fashioned dresses, she fairly frightened them by her -coarse remarks, from ever coming to court again. Perhaps hence is derived -the popular saying, in which allusion is made to “_astonishing the -Browns_.” It is an Elizabethan phrase! - -In the recess, Nash used to cross the country to Tunbridge. His -equipage was a flaming carriage, drawn by six greys; with outriders all -embroidery, and French horns all brass and bluster. He wore a white hat, -of which he was the introducer; and he did so, he said, that, it being -the only one of the sort, his hat might never be stolen. - -In his dress he combined the fashions of two centuries; and, thanks to -his luck at play, he lived as grandly as half-a-dozen kings. But none -knew better than he the folly of gambling. He once lost a considerable -sum to an Oxford lad who had just come into a large fortune. “Boy,” said -he, “take my advice. You are a young Crœsus; play no more.” Nash himself -would not play with him, but the _millionnaire_ collegian found men less -scrupulous; and the prodigal, ere he had attained his twenty-fifth year, -could, like the gentleman in Shakspeare, “Thank Heaven that he was not -worth a ducat.” - -Nash was the same sort of Mentor to the gambling Duke of Bedford; and -the Duke entered with the Beau into a gambling compact, whereby he bound -himself to put restraint upon his spirit of gambling. Nash gave him £100, -to receive £1000 whenever the Duke lost the latter sum at one sitting. -Nash came upon his Grace a month after, just as he had lost £8000, and -was about to throw for £3000 more. Nash reminded him of the compact. -The Duke paid the forfeit, threw his main, and lost. Perhaps the Beau -expected some such profitable result of his little investment. - -He may not however have deserved this remark; for Nash could be most -romantically generous. Thus, Lord Townsend lost to him a sum which he -could not conveniently pay; the Beau forgave the debt, some £20,000, on -condition that the Peer should give him £5000 whenever asked to do so. -Nash never troubled Lord Townsend further; but, after the Lord’s decease, -when the Beau had fallen into adversity, he applied to the Peer’s -representatives, exhibited his vouchers, and was paid his claim. This is -honourable to both parties. - -The Peers and the Parliament generally were a singularly inconsistent -set of people at this time. They passed a law which suppressed gambling -everywhere, _except in the royal palace_, under a penalty of £50; and -they no sooner passed this law than they hurried to many places, and -to Bath especially, to break it. Nash said _he_ was King of Bath, and -that playing in his palace was _not_ infringing the ordinances; but -the Parliament was too much even for him in the long run, and, by the -ultimate suppression of all “tables,” in whatsoever locality, they -deprived the Beau of much of his power to put gold lace on his coat, and -guineas in his pocket. - -Still he was the despot of the rooms; and again I say, that the secret of -his power almost defies conjecture. He was indeed a splendid decker of -his person; but that person was clumsy, large, and awkward. His features -were harsh. It is to be remembered however, that he not only had fine -clothes, but a stupendous gift of “flattering;” and he had, besides, more -wit than most of the ladies he cajoled. “Richard,” said a modest young -creature to him one day (and it is painful to think that she might have -been our grandmother;—that is, yours, reader, or mine): “Richard, you -have a tongue that would debauch a nunnery!” - -He assumed an airy sort of “indifference” in his method of gallantry, -and the ladies found this deliciously provoking. It set the fashion; and -it became the characteristic of the Georgian beaux. It was a contrast, -much welcomed, after the smartness and pertness of the beaux of the -reign of Queen Anne; and it was preferable to the slimy solemnity of the -beaux of the age of King Charles. And Dick, be it said for him, always -kept hold of a rag of dignity, whereby to help himself; and when he -found that he could not be a seducer, he became a champion. He loved to -rescue damsels from the suit of adventurers, and he _did_ save many. He -chastised scandal; would not tolerate it even in the elder ladies who -sat on his sacred benches. The King of Bath made a royal monopoly of the -article, as the King of France did of tobacco. He had capital opportunity -of indulging in his favourite dish, when he used to consult with the old -Duchess of Marlborough upon the fashion of her liveries. - -Like Florian, who used to hunt out distressed subjects for his patron, -the Duc de Penthièvre, to relieve, he took a praiseworthy delight in -discovering worth in adversity, and then compelling the wealthy to do -something to lighten that adversity. It is perfectly true that, having -gained £200 at picquet, and hearing a bystander remark, “How happy that -sum would make me!” Nash threw him the money, saying, “There, then, go -and be happy!” - -Among the poor patients at the springs, the Beau once discovered a poor -curate, named Cullender. He had a wife, of course six children, and -naturally only thirty pounds a year. Nash donned his best suit, polished -up the persuasive end of his irresistible tongue, went to a “patron” who -had a living to give, and did not leave him till he had given it to Dr. -Cullender. It was worth £160 per annum. “There, Doctor,” said Nash, “I’ve -brought you half Potosi.” “By G—d!” said the divine, “so you have!” Such -was patronage, pity, and piety, in the days of Beau Nash. - -It is not to be supposed that so general a wooer escaped altogether -heart-free. He had a heart; as good a one (as was said in Fontenelle’s -case) as could be made out of brains; and he once proposed marriage to -the lady of his transitory affections. The lady pleaded her devotion to -another lover, and even asked for Nash’s mediation with her father to -consent to the marriage. The honest fellow consented, and went through -infinite trouble before he succeeded. He himself joined the hands of the -affianced pair, and gave them his blessing. Six months afterwards, the -lady eloped with her footman! - -Nash ought not to have been disgusted with human nature, for ladies -occasionally were given, in his time, to the observance of this little -fashion; but it did disgust Nash. He turned misogynist, and gave himself -more to philanthropy in its restricted sense. He hated women, he said, -but still had charity for men; and accordingly he was foremost in -founding the Bath Hospital, and alone in raising obelisks to rheumatic -princes,—obelisks for which Pope furnished very inferior superscriptions. - -Chesterfield exhibited a “statuary wit” which Pope despised, when the -statue of Nash was placed, a full length, between the busts of Newton -and Pope himself. The epigram is well known, but it is worth repeating:— - - “This statue placed the busts between, - Adds to the satire strength; - Wisdom and Wit are little seen, - But Folly at full length.” - -This is neat, and also original. The idea was applied by the Paris wits -in an epigram on the group in Paris which represented the equestrian -figure of Louis XV. on a pedestal, the angles of the upper slab of which -were supported by bronze caryatides, representing Faith, Temperance, -Prudence, and Justice. The cardinal virtues thus placed gave good point -to the epigram, which said:— - - “Oh, la belle statue! le beau piédestal! - Les Vertus sont à pied, le Vice est à cheval!” - -As long as Nash exhibited splendour in his outward man, the public homage -never failed him. Literary musicians, literary cooks, and biographical -highwaymen dedicated their works to him. Was he sick? the entire army -of poetasters invoked the Muse to give him ease. For all of which they -looked for their respective guineas. - -He had too another set of worshipers, who used to congregate about him -at his favourite tavern, to listen to his favourite stories,—few and not -well told,—to which they had listened till they could themselves have -narrated them backwards. He recounted them ever _à propos des bottes_, -and he was the hero of every one of them. Therein he shows as outdoing -Fortunatus and all his servants. He was the swiftest runner, the most -expert swimmer, the best swordsman, and—“Upon my soul, it’s true! D—n me! -hem! egad!” - -He really had more wit than his stories would authorize us to suppose. -Witness his suggestion at a county-town ball. The county ladies refused -to dance in the same set with the town ladies. The rich tradesmen were -indignant at the slight put upon their spouses, but the suggestive wit -of Nash saved them. They made it known that if the county ladies and -squires would not dance with the town wives and traders, the latter would -refuse all further credit, and would call in their debts. The proud party -immediately yielded, and a grand country-dance of reconciliation followed -to the tune of ‘Money Musk.’ - -Still, despite his wit and his dazzling dress, Nash was naturally -coarse. Fancy a modern master of the ceremonies saying aloud to a lady -somewhat misshapen, and who, in reply to a question from him, had stated -that she had come to Bath straight from London,—fancy such a dignitary -exclaiming, “You may have come ‘straight’ from London, Madam, but you -have got d—nably warped by the way!” The squires were bigger brutes than -he, and so did not kick him; nay, they only laughed when this glittering -potentate used to ask the ladies who declined to dance, “If by chance -they had bandy legs, and were afraid of showing them?” - -The truth is, he feared nobody. He had refused knighthood at the hands -of King William; and he did the same at the hands of Queen Anne. “I will -have none of it, most gracious Madam,” said Nash, as if he were refusing -to grant a favour; “but there is Sir William Read, the mountebank, whom -your Majesty has knighted,—I shall be very happy to call him ‘brother.’” -The Queen smiled, and passed on. - -This species of rudeness, which came over him in his later days, helped -to empty the rooms. He no longer could boast of seventeen duchesses and -countesses standing up in his first country-dance. He sometimes too got -vexatiously repulsed, as in the case of a young lady whom he met in the -Grove, leading a spaniel, and whom he asked if she knew the name of -Tobit’s dog. “I know it well enough,” said the lady; “his name is Nash, -and a very impudent dog he is.” - -And at length came the “end of an auld sang;” old-age, and with -it infirmity and distress. He could still talk of not following -prescriptions, because he had thrown them out of window; but the clergy -at length took possession of the Beau, and so belaboured him with -pamphlets, visits, exhortations to repentance, and menaces of the devil, -that Nash, who, like Gallio, had cared for none of these things, became -fairly bewildered, and feared death more than ever he had done. He was an -awful coward in presence of that especial antagonist of beaux; but his -cowardice of course was not respected, and he died in abject terror of -dying. - -The year was that of 1761, and his age was then hard upon the patriarchal -one of ninety years. He had few of the patriarchal virtues; but Bath, -to whose corporation he bequeathed a “fifty pounds,” which I very much -wish they may have got, honoured him with a public funeral, with more -circumstantial pomp about it than if he had been an incarnation of all -virtue, patriarchal, princely, and of every other degree. The multitude -gazed weepingly, as though another dead Tasso were passing by to cold -obstruction, and had left them a legacy of intellectual worth. The poor -wretch had little to leave, save some _gaillard_ books, and some women’s -toys and trinkets,—the relics of his beauhood, and the testimonies of -his past power. As for the poets, they spoke of the defunct dandy as the -“constellation of a heavenly sphere;” and he had epitaphs enough to make -the very earth lie heavy upon the breast of Beau Nash. - -And now, good reader, having sojourned with two exclusively English -beaux, like Fielding and Nash, we will, if you please, to Vienna, and -tarry awhile with a sparkling beau of European reputation. “Place pour le -Prince de Ligne!” - - - - -THE PRINCE DE LIGNE. - - “This chub-faced fop - Shines sleek with full cramm’d fat of happiness.” - - JOHN MARSTON: _Antonio’s Revenge_. - - -The Prince de Ligne has, at least, the merit of being not only a “beau,” -but a “brave.” The two professions are seldom united, but they were -certainly to be found in this gallant coxcomb. - -The Prince, although ever faithful to the fortunes of the House of -Hapsburg, was not himself of Austrian lineage. His patrimonial house, -the Castle of Belveil, still stands in quaint supremacy over the modest -village of Ligne, about six miles from Alt, in Belgium. It has endured -seven centuries of change; and its gothic peculiarities, with its -old-world garden, and its ancient hornbeam hedges, yet answer to the -prolix description thereof given in the Prince’s published letters, as -well as to the concise, if little majestic, line of Delille, who says of -it in his ‘Jardins,’ - - “Belveil, tout à la fois magnifique et champêtre.” - -Here, in 1734, the Prince first saw the light; and the soldiers of his -father’s regiment ‘de Ligne,’ loved to carry the infant son of their -prince-colonel in their arms. The lengthened life of this once celebrated -dandy, author, diplomatist, and soldier, made him the contemporary of -men of many generations. The man who once fraternally embraced our own -Wellington, Prince of Waterloo, had sat on the knee of the famous Prince -Eugene, and had looked upon the matured greatness of Marlborough. Thus -he was contemporary with men who had been born under the son of James I., -and with others now living under Queen Victoria, whom God preserve! - -After, as a boy, carrying the colours of his father’s regiment with -honour, he entered the dragoons of Ligne, and won distinction at -the point of his sword. He was practically a noble soldier, and he -slaughtered as courteously as Bayard. His day was not the day of -carpet-knights, for Europe was then given to settle all her quarrels in -the field; and when cabinets cooled, warriors looked to their corslets. -Theoretically, the Prince does not shine. Nobody reads his ‘Commentaries -on the Art of War;’ and I have no doubt that the martial portion of -his departed spirit is sorely vexed, at seeing his own highly-prized -instructions for infantry manœuvres less cared for by posterity than the -old Greek’s dissertation upon the forming of the phalanx. - -For more than half a century he lived in camps, and was daily familiar -with every dread circumstance of war. He bore himself bravely at the -bloody siege of fatal Ismael, and was among the most active at that -taking of Belgrade, which Storace put so pleasantly to music for the -delight of our fathers. In the fields of death, whereon, with varied -fortune, the Great Frederick and the crafty Maria Theresa fought out -their envenomed quarrels, there he was ever present, the finest, the -foremost, and the fiercest in the fray. And most of all, on that famous -day at Maxen, when the Austrian Daun caught Frederick’s general, Finck, -in the defiles, and took bloody advantage of the opportunity,—on that day -of untold horrors, courage and murder reigned supreme. Ere night came on, -the Black Eagle of Brandenburg had yielded to his double-necked cousin -from the Danube. Every Prussian who survived the fight, surrendered. -The _matériel_ for a hundred such fields passed into the hands of the -Austrians, and the museums of Vienna still hold the countless trophies of -that day. - -It was a day on which compensation was taken for the adverse fields of -Stringau, Reichemberg, and Johr; for the defeats at Pirna, Rosbach, and -Lissa. The women of Berlin were rendered widows and childless, while -the flaunting dames of Vienna shouted “_Hoch!_” and declared that their -victorious lovers at Maxen had surpassed all the glories connected with -old triumphs at Kolin, Gabel, and Zittau; at Liegnitz, Schweidnitz, and -Hochkirchen. - -Maria Theresa dubbed the young Prince knight of that order of chivalry -which bore her name,—an Order into which no aspirant could find -admittance unless he had achieved some conquest which he had no positive -order to undertake. She further honoured him by despatching him to France -with the news of the great victory; and there he became the intimate -friend of Jean Jacques Rousseau, the cavalier of the basely brilliant Du -Barry, and the cynosure of all the hooped ladies and red-heeled gallants -who killed Time on the verdant lawns of the Trianon or in the gilded -saloons of Versailles. He became at once the King of Fashion, as he _was_ -the favourite of a dozen kings. Two Louises named him “friend;” and he -sat, a gallant servitor, at the feet of Marie Antoinette. The great -Frederick showed his affection for him by bestowing on him that very -bad pen with which the King wrote very bad poetry, and the Prince still -worse. The great Catherine he served in many acceptable offices. She -loved the man and his humour. Once, when accompanying the imperial mother -of All the Russias in a progress through her southern dominions, they -skirted, in a yacht, the coast of Old Tauris. On passing the promontory -of Iphigenia, the Empress made present of it to the Prince, who thereon, -accoutred as he was, leaped overboard, and, with sword drawn, swam -ashore, to take formal possession of the territorial gift. He was indeed -a sort of cousin to the living heads of kingly houses; and, at one time, -was looked upon as the probable occupant of the uneasy throne of Poland. -Like many a kingly contemporary, he might for a long time have thanked -Heaven that he was without a crown. But he was equal to the difficulties -consequent upon a light purse. On one occasion he wished to proceed from -Paris to Brussels; but, prince as he was, he lacked the means. Hearing -that the Duke d’Aremberg was about to travel that way, he presented -himself at the post-house as his courier, rode the journey through in -that character, and so got to his destination—_gratis_. - -Such, in his early days, was the gay gentleman who, at the last Congress -of Vienna, bore still gaily the weight of eighty summers. His lean horses -used to gallop through that city with his ancient carriage behind them, -on which was inscribed the punning device—“Quo res cumque cadunt, stat -_linea_ recta.” This vehicle was almost as large as his house. The latter -was of the smallest dimensions; and in that small dwelling, he gave small -dinners to small parties. The dishes served were in strict keeping with -the size of the table, and he generally ate four-fifths of what they -contained. This superbly-dressed Amphitryon actually expected that his -guests would let their hunger be appeased on the supply he liberally -poured forth of brilliant but unsubstantial wit. - -According to Johnson, who says that quotation is the watchword of -literary men, he was a literary man, for he had ever ready a magazine of -citations adapted to all purposes. The variety was some warrant of wide -reading; and the Prince was, at all events, not like Pozzo di Borgo, -who made the same triad of quotations endure a three-months’ duty. At -the side of the Prince’s little bed, in the very least of libraries, -his little commonplace book, on an almost invisible desk, received the -brief record of ideas that visited his gossamer brain. All around this -room were strewn, in most admired disorder, a mountain of manuscripts, -and a wilderness of works on love, philosophy, poetry, and war. Amidst -this mass, the old Prince would leap about with the agility of a monkey. -Fatigue he never acknowledged, and sleep he little cared for. He would -sit up whole nights, half a week through, to read dry works on strategy; -and then fall asleep over erotic songs, of which he commenced many, and -finished few. Those that he did terminate have as little of the echo of -nature as Watteau’s shepherdesses have of its aspect. One of the most -innocent of his pursuits was to attend at the Opera, and applaud Frederic -Venua’s pretty music to the pretty ballet of ‘Flore et Zéphyre.’ - -The once young leader of fashion would not lay down his sceptre when he -grew old; and as an octogenarian he played, in the eyes of Vienna, an -airier “ci-devant jeune homme” than was ever conceived or executed by the -inimitable Potier. He could be a boy with the boys; and the old gentleman -played heartily at soldiers with the little King of Rome, before that -shadow of a monarch grew up to welcome those other favourites, one of -whom especially was as fatal to him as the Fornarina to the gifted -Raphael. - -But the Prince loved to be with young men, and to be thought of by -them; and did not love to be reminded either of old-age or of death. -His little summer residence at the Kalemberg was the locality whence -Sobieski departed to save Austria from the infidel, and to earn for it, -what Austria has ever paid to her benefactors, eternal ingratitude. The -spirit of the heroic no longer resided there at the period of which I -am treating. The walls of the house were covered with the portraits -of ladies whose hearts, or what they called such, had yielded to the -assaults of De Ligne; and above the portal was inscribed this motto of -mingled impiety, mendacity, and impudence:— - - “Sans remords, sans regret, sans crainte, sans envie.” - -The slippered soldier who, in his decrepitude, flung out his banner with -this device upon it, belied at least a portion thereof. He caught cold, -by keeping an assignation near the bastion, on one of the coldest nights -of the Congress-winter, and while waiting vainly for the _innamorata_ -who had fooled him. The consequent symptoms soon assumed a fatal aspect; -and straightway “this god did shake,” and made his motto pointless, save -against himself. His remorse might have been small, and doubtless no -one envied a dying dandy; but the latter was himself no longer without -fear or regret. He feared the slow approach of death; and his regret -was not that life had been misspent, but that it had come to its limit. -He aggravated his malady by defying it, and appearing at a ball. It was -the last occasion on which he was seen in public, and it killed him. -He took to his couch, and, in ignoble prostration, he bewailed that he -could not die like Petronius Arbiter, that accomplished _roué_, base as -man and great as consul, who played with death; now pricked a vein, and -now bandaged it; now whipped a slave, and now freed one; now listened -to gay music, now trilled a gay song; anon, cursed the whole world, and -forthwith fell dead, like a dog in his uncleanness. - -“After all,” said the Prince, “I shall be better off than Petronius; and -friends and dear ones will receive my last sigh. Not,” said poor fearful -nature, speaking through the Prince,—“not that I am going to die just -yet. There is no cause for fear. Let us banish sadness. I am living, -and I _will_ live!” And then the moribund beau made puns, as if death -could be delayed by playing upon words. Or he called up old souvenirs, -and gossiped about the famous “fine eyes” of the Countess de Witt. “You -should have seen her,” said the dying Prince; “her eyes were so bepraised -that she at length never spoke of them but as her ‘fine eyes.’” Once -the admirable Marie Antoinette expressed regret at her looking unwell, -and asked from what she suffered. “May it please your Majesty,” answered -the simple Countess, “I am suffering from cold _in my fine eyes!_”—and -then the dying prater laughed, and they who stood around him smiled in -melancholy accord. - -At length, the arrow of the Inevitable Angel was poised, but the sinking -Prince still formed projects for the future. He would see the Czar -Alexander upon affairs of state; and many a gay day, he averred, should -yet make glad the gardens of Belveil. His medical attendant, Malfati, -came in for a share of observation; and the whole profession of which -Malfati was a member was made subject for satire. “When he was with -the great Catherine,” he remarked, “he could do more for himself than -the doctors were then doing for him.” Malfati inquired, “In what way?” -“Whenever I was well,” said the son of fashion, “I used to invite Ségur -and Cobentzel to my quarters. I gave medicine to one, and bled the other; -and thereupon I got well!” And as the sinking octogenarian laughed, Death -steadied his javelin for the throw. - -Malfati delicately hinted that age opposed greater difficulties now than -before; and in gentle spirit, he essayed to prepare the Prince for the -coming and irresistible change. But no! the Prince had work yet to do, -and must live to do it. “I have no intention yet,” he said, “nor shall -have for a long time to come, to make use of the epitaph written for me -by my old friend, the Marquis de Bonney:— - - “‘Ci gît le Prince de Ligne, - Il est tout de son long couché. - Jadis il a beaucoup _péché_,— - Mais ce n’etait pas à la ligne!’” - -We may excuse Malfati for smiling at the refined wit of the once famous -_jeu d’esprit_; but it did not restrain him from making the Prince aware -of the danger of his position. The latter received the intelligence with -disgust, ill-concealed under a few light words; and with the assurance -that, like Adrian, he had verses to write to his soul, but that he had -not time just then! - -It was true; for Death, at that moment, laid upon him that hand which -mortal may not resist. The Prince not only felt, but he beheld, the -terrible and unconquerable aggressor. The hour was dull midnight when -the old warrior and “macaroni” frantically fought his last battle, -and succumbed ingloriously. He sprang from a recumbent into a sitting -position, shrieked aloud, ordered the door to be closed; and as Death -pressed upon him, he struggled and wrestled with the calm, strong -phantom, as though a substantial foe was before him, who might be -strangled by bodily effort. But it was fruitless, for the decree had -gone forth, and doom had come. In the midst of cries for help, and -writhing efforts to get free, the stroke was given, and the Prince fell -dead. The day was the 13th of December, 1814. What was mortal of him was -magnificently entombed, and the terms of his epitaph were more poetical -than veracious. But, beneath it all,—brass, marble, and mendacity,—the -dandy of two centuries was left to sleep as undisturbedly as the curses -of unpaid tailors would allow him to do. - -On the day of the Prince’s decease, a very fine gentleman indeed was -sunning himself on the Steyne at Brighton. He was the cynosure of all -observers, and his magnificent shadow glides this way. Do not mistake him -for Romeo Coates. It is the famous Mr. Brummell. _Chapeau bas_ at that -illustrious name! - - - - -BEAU BRUMMELL. - - “I scorn’d to crowd among the muddy throng - Of the rank multitude, whose thicken’d breath - (Like to condensed fogs) do choke that beauty - Which else would dwell in every kingdom’s cheek. - No: I still boldly stepp’d into kings’ courts, - For there to live is rare.” - - DECKER’S _Fortunatus_. - - -The distinction of Nash was his impertinence; the characteristic of -Orlando the Fair, his affectation. To make a third, Jove joined the other -two; and George Bryan Brummell was, as the elder Mr. Weller says, “the -consikence of the manœuvre.” Had he only possessed intellect rightly -directed, and even an infinitesimal degree of principle, he might have -achieved a better reputation. The Greek sage who declared that man needed -but three things whereby to prosper,—first, impudence; second, impudence; -third, impudence,—rather overrated his ἀυαδεια. It is true that a modest -man runs great risk of being overwhelmed in this mortal “passage of the -Beresina,” but he usually has principle to float him; whereas the knave -who swims or struggles near him, be he never so impudent, ultimately -exhibits an alacrity in sinking. It is in the immortal fitness of things -that it should be so ordained. - -I think Brummell must have been a descendant of the little tailor who -is said by another tailor, Stow, to have whined himself to death for -the love of Queen Elizabeth. I mean him of whom Lord Charles Cavendish -wrote:— - - “I would not willingly - Be pointed at in every company, - As was the little tailor that to death - Was hot in love with Queen Elizabeth.” - -Brummell, like that audacious _schneider_, had a soul that was at once -given to the “confectioning of costume,” and consorting with the great. - -Brummell, like many a steward’s son, was partly the victim of his -father’s ambition. His sire was smitten with more desire to see him -a gentleman than an honest man. The lad was brought up with as much -reference to his future condition of gentility, as Miss Killmansegge -was with respect to her present and future prospects of Pactolian hue. -Brummell was not a baby to suck a coral of less aristocratic value than -that old mouthpiece of the unfortunate Monmouth which for years has given -solace to the gums of the babies of Buccleuch. He was a lad who had an -aversion for steel forks long before silver implements were familiar -furniture at the tables of the middle classes, of which his father was a -member; and scarcely was he a youth _ex ephebis_, and felt himself free -from home restraints in gentle Henry’s shades at Eton, when he not only -modernized the white cravat or stock which marks the Eton boy, but he put -a gold buckle to it; and all the school “confessed the present god.” - -The _condiscipuli_ of that time and place have as much realized Hood’s as -Gray’s ‘Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College.’ The most rollicking -tumbled into discretion, and became bishops; the most gentle were drafted -into the army, and became blackguards. Some took to the stage, and some -took portraits. A few achieved greatness; the majority have died away -and are forgotten. “Blithe Carew was hung,” and Brummell “went up like a -rocket and came down like the stick.” - -Brummell was like Goldsmith. Do not smile: I do not mean that he had -the great writer’s simplicity, industry, or goodness of heart. He was, -nevertheless, like him in one respect. Poor Oliver, at Trinity College, -Dublin, went in for honours, and failed. So Brummell, who, in 1793, was -an undergraduate at Oxford, was a competitor for the Newdegate Prize, -and lost it. From that hour he abhorred books and bookish men. He had -condescended to exert himself so far as to faintly run for the laurel. -When he saw it awarded to a better man, he declared that he would never -run again, but walk over the course of the world and win his prizes -without effort. He had already indicated the paths by which he meant to -gain the honours dimly alluded to. His example at college had already -abolished cotton stockings, and made dingy cravats vulgar. Even D.D.’s -looked at the audacious innovator, and ceased to be, what the initials -designated, “deucedly dirty.” - -The unsuccessful student was soon in possession of what he considered -far better than “book learning,” a third of £65,000. It was no great -inheritance for a cornet in the 10th Hussars. That illustrious regiment -had not yet achieved that renown of folly and of shame for which Croly -pilloried it nightly, to the delight of assembled thousands, in his -‘Pride shall have a Fall.’ It was however the aspiration and the terror -of all young heroes who longed to be enrolled in the sacred cohort, -and who dreaded the fabulous cost of the luxury. The officers, like -their ancestors at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, wore their estates -upon their backs,—some of them before they had inherited the paternal -acres. If the gorgeous costume and its never-ending variations did not -effect this consummation, the expenses of the mess, where the mild -warriors banqueted like barbaric sovereigns, and the cost of the delicate -amusements of those perfumed knights, rarely failed to accomplish it. -At the head of all, glittering example of the “gentleman,” careful of -carriage, courteous of speech, not ungenerous by impulse, but icy-cold -of heart, was the Prince-Colonel, George, afterwards Fourth of the name. -The Prince’s chief intimate was Lord James Murray, subsequently Lord -Glenlyon; at whose house at Datchet, old Queen Charlotte “did _never_ -counsel take, _but_ sometimes tea.” - -The new cornet superseded the old friend. The latter was a mild, -gentleman-like man, popular with everybody but his creditors, _quorum -pars fui_; and I may add, that he is pleasantly and gratefully remembered -by _one_ at least of them. Brummell however took the Regent by storm. -There was no resisting him. The Prince was fascinated. Brummell might -be absent from parade, neglect duties even more important, and laugh at -all suggestion and reproach,—“our general’s friend was now the general.” -He did precisely what he pleased, nothing that he ought; and in three -years he was full captain, to the as full disgust of older officers, who -enviously admired while they deeply cursed him. - -Never probably was the Beau in such full-blown glory as at this period of -his gold-lace, best jokes, and increasing sway. He was in the very height -of his ecstatic enjoyment, luxuriating in the gentility of a “gentil -Hussard,” and mastering his profession, not exactly after the fashion -of Marlborough;—he was in the very paradisiacal state of aristocratic -soldiership, when the regiment was ordered to Manchester. Brummell -nearly fainted at the idea of such vulgarity, and he left the regiment -in infinite disgust. The step gained for him an immense increase of -reputation—among fools! - -The world had not been to him hitherto as to our old friend, Pistol,—an -oyster, which he with sword could open. He may be said to have failed, -both by book and blade. He was now to really soar by other means. Now -came the period when he evinced his disgust of vegetables by confessing -that he had once eaten—a pea. Then was the funny time when his slavish -hearers laughed at the joke wherein he wrapped an excuse for being -hoarse, on the ground, that he had slept in a house with a damp stranger. -It was not half so excellent a joke as that enunciated, unwittingly, by -the poor old Irishwoman suffering from catarrh, and who accounted for -the same by stating that she “slept last night in a field and forgot to -shut the gate.” However, it was good enough for a man who really fancied -that he manifested humour when he expressed unconsciousness of there -being such a place as Bloomsbury-square; and we may add, that it was good -enough for his hearers also. - -It was at this period that he patronized the late George Lane Fox, of -Bramham Park, Yorkshire; and the patronage cost the latter a superb gold -box, set with diamonds,—a present, if I remember rightly,—for I have -heard Mr. Fox tell the story as often as Diggory heard Mr. Hardcastle -tell his one story, from the Czar Alexander. Mr. Fox and Brummell had -been seriously engaged, for some hours, on matters of dress, after which -they discussed the not less serious question of dinner. At the banquet, -the first-named gentleman showed his golden and glittering gift to the -select company, who were loud in their praise, and unbounded in their -admiration. As the party were to adjourn to the Opera, to hear Ambrogetti -and Camporese, Mr. Fox announced his intention of depositing his box, -by the way, at his house in Albemarle-street. “The whole court,” said -he, “will be at the Opera, and I may get robbed of my _souvenir_!” The -company laughed at the _saillie_, and the wine span round. - -After a _sederunt_ of some continuance, the select society departed for -“the old house in the Haymarket.” Mr. Fox and Brummell rode together. -The carriage stopped in Albemarle-street, according to directions given -to the coachman; but what with the wine, and a new dispute touching the -depth of cravats and the height of collars, the gentlemen had forgotten -why they had ordered the driver to pull up; and after striving for some -time, in vain, to remember, they grew tired of conjecturing, and sped -away to hear “Fin ch’ han del Vino!” - -They had been perhaps an hour in the house, when Brummell, in the -very middle of “Il mio tesoro,” came to the end of a dissertation on -pantaloons. The gentlemen with thin legs, and no calves to them, were -great patrons of what had not hitherto been admitted into the category of -“dress,”—namely, trousers. Conservatives and Irish gentlemen advocated -pantaloons. Brummell had given his judgement with the sententious -elaboration of Dr. Chalmers on a question of Erastianism; and to refresh -himself after the fatigue of the process, he begged of Fox to furnish him -with a “_prise de tabac!_” - -The request for a pinch of snuff reminded the then heir of Bramham Park -of the fact, that it was his much-prized box which he had designed to -leave in Albemarle-street. He proceeded however to perform the required -act of hospitality; but on putting his hand to his pocket he found the -latter empty, and the box gone. In two minutes he was in the passage -below, recounting his loss to Leadbitter and Townsend, and asking from -them what hope existed of his recovering the abstracted property. -When they learned that an hour had elapsed since it had been stolen, -Leadbitter gave the opinion of himself and brother that the loss was -irreparable. - -“By this time,” said Townsend, “it’s in the melting-pot of Slack Sam, the -Jew _Gonoff_.” - -“What’s a _Gonoff_?” asked Mr. Fox. - -“Oh!” said Townsend, with an air of learning and superiority, “_Gonoff_ -is Hebrew for a ‘thief.’ Did you pass any suspicious character on going -upstairs?” - -“I passed nobody but Lady Cork,” said Mr. Fox. - -“And Lady Cork, George,” said that vivacious lady, who was coming out, -“does not pick gentlemen’s pockets of snuff-boxes.” - -“No,” replied the young Yorkshire squire, “Lady Cork is only a _voleuse -de cœurs_. In the meantime, I have the satisfaction of knowing that my -gold box is gone to a _Gonoff_.” - -“And that _Gonoff_,” said Townsend, with his familiar laugh, “is Hebrew -for ‘thief.’” - - * * * * * - -Captain Jesse has limned Brummell at elaborate full length, and the -gallant artist has done his spiriting very impartially, considering the -Cruikshank sort of portraiture with which the beau once affected to -represent the captain. “My dear Jesse,” said the dandy once to him,—“My -dear Jesse, excuse me, but you look very much like a magpie!” - -This impertinence was not met in a vindictive spirit. The biographer of -Brummell describes him as a _beau_, but not a beau of the Sir Fopling -Flutter or Fieldingschool, That is, he was not so nastily nice as the -first, nor so irretrievably nasty as the second. The captain thinks -that _his_ beau would not have been guilty, like Charles James Fox, of -wearing red-heeled shoes. I am not so sure of this. Fox was, like all -democrats, proud of spirit, and he wore red heels, because these were the -distinctive marks of nobility in the galleries of Versailles. Brummell -was more original, and he would not have adopted the _talons rouges_, -simply because they were the productions of the inventive genius of -another. He had at first a taste that was not unimpeachable. There was -too much _variety_ about him. He dealt in contrasts, and he was given to -jewellery. His example in the latter way was seized, not by the young -aristocracy of England, so unlike their Elizabethan ancestors, who not -only covered themselves with gold and jewellery, but took gold-dust, -liquid pearls, and coral draughts for their medicine; Brummel’s example -was not adopted by these, but it was by their men-cooks. These latter -blazed in the pit of the Opera like the caballeros at a Chilian theatre -when the chief magistrate retires to the back of his box; and flint, -steel, _allumettes_, and cigars are all in a glow, or helping to produce -it. I have heard abundant wonder expressed at the amount of jewellery and -precious stones which were then worn by culinary artists who loved music -and patronized the Opera. It was, however, all borrowed finery. The pins -and brooches, the chains, the breloques, the virgin gold and the diamonds -pure, were the property of Ude, who realized a good share of the thirty -thousand pounds he bequeathed to his disconsolate widow, by letting the -finery out nightly, at sums varying from two to five shillings! - -Brummell, with his usually acute perception,—that is, acute in one -direction,—saw that fame was to be achieved by simplicity; and, as -Captain Jesse remarks, “scorning to share his fame with his tailor, he -soon shunned all external peculiarity, and trusted alone to that ease -and grace of manner which he possessed in a remarkable degree. His chief -aim,” adds the biographer, “was to avoid anything marked: one of his -aphorisms being, that the severest mortification a gentleman could incur, -was to attract observation in the street by his outward appearance. -He exercised the most correct taste in the selection of each article -of apparel of a form and colour harmonious with all the rest, for the -purpose of producing a perfectly elegant general effect; and no doubt he -spent much time and pains in the attainment of his object.” This is no -doubt true. Brummell put in practice, he hardly knew why, the principles -of harmony and contrast of colours, long before Monsieur Chevreul wrote -his theory and explanation of those principles. - -He had quite as correct an eye with regard to harmony of shape as to that -of colour. The highest in the land were not ashamed to seek a sort of -professional opinion from this man as to the propriety of their costume. -The Duke of Bedford once did this touching a coat. Brummell examined his -Grace with the cool impertinence which was his Grace’s due. He turned him -about, scanned him with scrutinizing, contemptuous eye, and then taking -the lappel between his dainty finger and thumb, he exclaimed in a tone of -pitying wonder, “Bedford! do you call this thing a coat?” - -But he did not spare his own relations. He was one day standing in the -bow-window at White’s, amid a knot of well-dressed admirers, when one -of them remarked, “Brummell, your brother William is in town. Is he -not coming here?” “Yes,” said Brummell, “in a day or two; but I have -recommended him to walk the back streets till his new clothes come home.” - -Brummell however may be excused if he became vain of his power. For a -season he was undoubtedly the very King of Fashion, and a terrible despot -he was; but he was flattered by kings, or by their representatives. The -Prince of Wales passed long matutinal hours in Brummell’s dressing-room -in Chesterfield-street, watching the progress of his friend’s toilet. The -progress was occasionally so extended that the Prince would dismiss his -equipage, invite himself to dinner, and the master and pupil, _Arcades -ambo_, set to; and “fore gad, they made a night of it!” - -Never had tailor two such patrons as these two. The young lord, who -numbered among what the “Clerical Tap-Tub”—as the clergy call a certain -“religious” print, famous for its nasty advertisements—styles “perverts,” -was nothing to these illustrious two. When the young lord of whom I -speak was at Oxford, and got, as young lords sometimes _will_, into -difficulties,—on the overhauling of his wardrobe, it was found that -he had ordered, in seven months, upwards of three hundred and seventy -waistcoats! The youthful aristocrat however was a follower of the two -Georges, only “longo intervallo.” George Brummell’s wardrobe, indeed, -dwindled down to the suit in which he died; but the wardrobe of the other -George sold, after his death, for upwards of fifteen thousand pounds. How -many a poor man might have been warmed beneath the cloth the Sovereign -never used! The original cost of the wardrobe would not have surprised -Alexander, but we do not live in the days of the Macedonian; and in the -era of high-priced bread, England was half-appalled at the thought that a -hundred thousand pounds had scarcely purchased what was sold for fifteen. -Among it all was a celebrated cloak, the sable lining of which alone -had originally cost eight hundred pounds. Lord Chesterfield, as little -nice about wearing a cheap cast-off garment as one of his own lacqueys, -procured this mantle for little more than a fourth of the original price -of the lining. - -Brummell never recovered the effects of the wager which he won by telling -“Wales” to “ring the bell,” and which order, although obeyed, was -followed by another for “Mr. Brummell’s carriage.” He struggled indeed -long, and not unsuccessfully, to retain his place among dandies and wits; -but his _prestige_ gradually failed, play went against him, liabilities -increased, and creditors were clamorous. He put a bold face on his ugly -position, and was never more brilliant or at his ease than the last night -he appeared at the Opera,—one Saturday night, when, with the Sunday -before him, he had determined to fly leisurely to the Continent, and -leave his creditors to regret their confidence in him. - -He was eloquent that night with an anecdote having reference to Weston, -the famous tailor of Bond-street. “That fellow Weston,” said Brummell, -“is an inimitable fellow,—a little defective perhaps in his ‘linings,’ -but irreproachable for principle and button-holes. He came to London, -Sir, without a shilling; and he counts more realized thousands than -our fat friend does ‘frogs’ on his Brandenburg. He is not only rich, -but brave; not only brave, but courteous; and not alone courteous, but -candid. The other day he was coming up from some d—d place on the coast, -by that thing, the—the—stage-coach.” (It was Brummell’s boast,—not a -true one, as it was with the last Marquis of Bath, who died full of -years,—that he had never ridden by a “public” conveyance of any kind, -whether by sea or land.) But to resume: “There were two women in the -coach,” said Brummell, “two deucedly pretty women, and an over-dressed -fellow, who was of course an ass; and who was so over-civil to the -prettier of the two, that the persecuted creature appealed to quiet -little Weston for protection. Weston, Sir, talked to the fellow with -an _aplomb_ that would have done honour to either of my friends the -Lord Primate or the Lord Chancellor. The brute,—not the tailor, but the -‘gentleman,’—was deaf to remonstrance, and ruder than ever. Thereupon, -Weston, without losing his self-possession, stopped the coach, dragged -the astonished fellow out, explained to the outside passengers the state -of the case, and found his challenge to fight received with acclamations -by everybody but his designated opponent. He compelled his unwilling -adversary, however, to stand upon the defensive, and a most terrible -thrashing he gave him. But his _coup de grâce_, Sir,” said Brummell, “was -the most finished thing I ever heard of. Weston, Sir, picked him up from -the ground, held him at arm’s length, and in a cruel loud voice exclaimed -to him, ‘Now, Sir, it may be a pleasure to you and to your friends, to -know that you have not only been well licked, but you have been licked by -a tailor! ’ - -“From this time forth,” continued Brummell, after the generally excited -laugh had subsided, “I shall religiously pay my tailors’ bills. The act -of Weston has heroified the profession.” - -Alas! poor fallen potentate! he could not have paid his share of the -_table d’hôte_, had he sat down at that at which Candide encountered -half-a-dozen dethroned kings in Venice. A few hours after he was an -Adullamite in Calais, warming the poor palette afterwards to be occupied -by Romeo Coates. - -Some half-century to come, the grandson of Mr. Millais perhaps may limn -the scene when George IV., on his Hanover trip, suddenly observing at -Calais his ex-friend making his way, pale and serious, through the crowd, -sank back in his carriage with a “Good God,—Brummell!” and almost fainted -at the recognition. - -During fourteen years did the fallen dandy impatiently support his -exile, and very patiently endure the disgrace of living on the charity -of his friends and on that of compassionate and, too often, insulted -acquaintances. He abused the fare set before him with delicate courtesy, -and ridiculed the hosts who had gone to some expense to make his misery -tolerable. He never learned modesty; never had a heart; not even one -made out of brains, as in the case of Fontenelle. In his fallen state -he annoyed his hearers with repetitions of abuse, levied against those -he had known in the period of his spangled vanity. He was particularly -bitter against the Duke of Clarence, whom he described as “a man who did -very well to wear a cocked hat and walk about the quarter-deck crying -‘luff!’” and who was so rough and uncivilized, according to the narrator, -that the latter was compelled to “cut” him! - -Destitute, idle, and in debt, his position at Calais was one that would -have appalled any honest and industrious man. It simply annoyed our hero, -because he was no longer imperious master. His impudence however did -not forsake him, but his independence _did_; and when he accepted the -consulship at Caen, with its poor £80 per annum set apart to provide for -his necessities, the remainder to be devoted to the liquidation of his -Calais debts, he was as much a pensioned slave as the veriest lacquey -_could_ be. - -His pride was wounded, but his arrogance flourished. This too was shaken -when the consulship was suppressed; and pride and arrogance were crushed -when his friends had died off, contributions ceased, debts increased, -and the solid door of the gloomiest of prisons stood barred and locked -between him and the world. - -Retributive justice fell upon this splendidly-useless human being. He -had been proud of two things, his extreme refinement and his mental -qualifications. He was terribly smitten in both directions. After his -release from prison he fell into the tender keeping of the Sisters of -Charity of the “Bon Sauveur” at Caen. He was an abject pauper, and worse. -His infirmities were of that sort at which a nice and healthy nature -is repelled; and he who had detected vulgarity in the odour of a rose -became, in his degraded hours, ere death relieved him, offensive to a -degree that turned sick and disgusted the charity of all but of the -Sisters who nursed him. - -There was something again awful in the direction in which his mind -“drove,” while his soul itself was fast drifting over the turbulent -cataracts of time into the boundless lake of calm eternity. He was for -ever imagining himself among the scenes and companions of his days -of noisy but empty triumph. It was his custom of an afternoon, when -convalescent and clean, to arrange the furniture of his little room as -for expected company. There all alone sat the spectral fop waiting for -spectres; and as to his mind’s diseased eye these glided in, and to his -deceived ear were duly announced, that ghastly shattered beau arose and -went into mock raptures: he received his “dear duchess” with delight; -and favoured shadowy countesses were led by him to the visionary sofa; -and intangible lords were touched familiarly upon their non-existent -shoulders; and the whole phantom _soirée_ was gone through with a solemn -trifling, till the shadows which came had as shadows departed, leaving -with the solitary host just sufficient reason to enable him to appreciate -the utter nothingness of all the scene, and to burst into childish tears -at the recollection of the stupendous folly. - -The flattered guest of princes died in a workhouse. He who had sat at -palace-banquets would have died of starvation and uncleanness but for the -alms and the hearts of the charitable Sisters, to whom, rare occurrence! -he was not ungrateful. At the period of his decease, in the month of -March, 1840, he was in his sixty-second year; and the “old man” had -not died within him ere he breathed his last. After his death, we are -told that several packets of letters,—tied up with different-coloured -ribbons, and carefully numbered,—a miniature, a silver shaving-dish, a -gold ring, and a few silver spoons, were found in a trunk at the hôtel. -The miniature and letters were taken possession of by the vice-consul, -and the remaining effects by the landlord, in liquidation of an account -which had only been partially cancelled. This person said, that in the -same parcel with the letters was another containing a great many locks -of hair. Oh, poor human nature! what demoniacal vanity was here! But let -us be just to this once-glittering simpleton. If he kept letters, he at -least kept them sacred. He never published one to injure even a living -enemy. Vain as he was, he was not revengeful; and no provocation could -have worked upon him as a fancied provocation did upon “the Right Hon. -John Wilson Croker,” who red-taped the open-hearted notes of Moore, and -produced them as _petards_ to blow to pieces the poet’s reputation when -that once gayest of bards lay mute and defenceless in his grave. - -Hugh Miller, in his excellent Autobiography, remarks that the _Loligo -vulgaris_, or cuttle-fish, swims with its feet foremost,—in other words, -_follows its tail_, and often gets “gravelled,” by darting blindly -ashore, whence it cannot regain its home within the waters. Something -like this has ever been the fate of the “beau;” for he who follows rather -the animal than the intellectual propensities, is sure to rush, sooner or -later, upon his own destruction. - -Besides, how great is the outlay required to make a “beau,”—well-scented -and useless, though perhaps temporarily agreeable! The sacrifices are -greater than I have space to enumerate; the result in proportion is -infinitesimally small. It reminds me of the six hundred pounds’ weight of -rose-leaves required to produce a single ounce of the _attar_. Sad waste -of many values in order to achieve a fashionable smell! - -Not that a man should be indifferent to dress or to personal appearance. -Dr. Chalmers himself illustrates the fact that some care about costume -is consistent with the occupations of the mightiest intellect. In his -‘Journal’ (July, 1824), he says:—“Dressed for dinner. Have got a new way -of folding up my coat, which I shall teach you when I get home, as it is -of great use to a traveller. I am about as fond of it as I was of the new -method of washing my hands.” From Chalmers to Chifney is perhaps going -a long way for another illustration. They however who remember the late -celebrated jockey in the days of his retirement will admit its propriety. -How glossily patriarchal the old rider used to look, when, turned -pedestrian, he was wont to pace Regent-street, in broad-brimmed hat and a -clerical-looking surtout! Had he only been less grave of aspect, and more -frolicsome of action, one might have taken him for Wilberforce. - -It is really pleasant to trace how celebrated men in other climes -than that of England make of costume a means to an end. I am reminded -of this by a passage in one of the late Lord Metcalfe’s letters, in -which he records his visit to the camp of Holkar, and notices one of -that chief’s dandy captains, Ameer Khan. “Ameer Khan,” he says, “is -blackguard in his looks, and affected on the occasion of my reception -to be particularly fierce, by rubbing his coat over with gunpowder, -and assuming in every way the air of a common soldier.” This was only -Brummell “with a difference;” the Beau used to anoint himself with the -oil of impudence in order to impose on the world, as Ameer Khan rubbed -his coat with gunpowder that he might excite admiration in the breast of -the civilian-soldier of Deeg. - -For the reason that induced Miss Agnes Strickland to close her record -of the Queens with the reign of Queen Anne, so do I close that of the -beaux with the biography of Brummell. D’Orsay was indeed a greater -than he; but he has too recently shuffled off this mortal coil to be -strictly dealt with, and the truth concerning him might hurt the feelings -of those of his followers who continue to wear deep stocks with long -ends. His career only furnished a further proof that the profession of -a “beau” is not a paying one. He was _great_ in a Fielding-ian sense, -and according to the poet’s maxim which says, “Base is the slave that -pays.” Mere generosity does not make a gentleman; and even generosity -that is oblivious of justice is of no value. There was really nothing -to admire in him. A recent “friend and acquaintance” indeed has been so -hard put to it to find out a virtue in D’Orsay, that he has fixed upon -his neglect of paying his creditors as one; and the “friend” thinks that -it was sufficient honour for tradesmen to have him for their debtor! He -resided at Gore House; gave dinners to Louis Napoleon, which cost the -giver nothing in money, and the hungry recipient as little in gratitude; -he drew caricature portraits of his “familiars;” proposed a public -subscription for the polluting Paul de Kock; and was the author of a -portrait or figure of our Saviour, the idea of which seemed to be taken -from that of Decker in the old comedy, who dared to say of Him that He -was— - - “The first true gentleman that ever breathed.” - -Finally, the worst thing that could happen for the reputation of the -deceased Count is, that he should have so mistaken an advocate as the -author of ‘Friends and Acquaintances.’ Better would it have been for the -irreproachably-dressed D’Orsay, if he could have said as the Psalmist -did:—“My lovers and friends hast thou put away from me, and hid mine -acquaintance out of my sight.” - -In the annals of dress however, the doctors of the olden time claim as -much notice as the beaux. If my readers be sick of the latter, here are a -few medical gentlemen, in full costume, ready to be consulted. - - - - -DOCTORS READY DRESSED. - - “These, Sir, - Are Death’s Masters of the Ceremonies; - More strangely-clad officials never yet - Usher’d the way to Death’s cold festival.” - - OLD PLAY. - - -Of all the doctors on the learned _rota_, there may have been more -famous, but none more deserving, than Freake. He was regardless of -nothing but dress; and he had a capital appreciation of fun, and a strong -predilection for matters of fantasy. - -Dr. Freake of St. Bartholomew’s, and his cousin the Justice, were not -only given to dreaming, but to publish their dreams. They deemed their -visions not only important to themselves and the public generally, -but to the sovereigns of Europe especially. The dreams were wildly -unintelligible, and the interpretations unintelligibly wild. But the -Justice had active common-sense about him when he was awake. He was a -careful dresser, which is more than can be said for the Doctor, and he -presented the Bodleian Library with a collection of medals. Their tricksy -spirits added the word _freak_ to the vocabulary of the English language. - -The Doctor’s cousin, like the Doctor, was not a fop; and as much could -scarcely be said of the profession generally. Granger says indeed of Dr. -Col that he was _not_ a coxcomb. This was at a time when the physicians -_were_ coxcombs; and the apothecaries, who followed and copied the more -dignified brethren, were coxcombs and _meta_-physicians. The medical -coxcomb of the day has thus been dressed up by a popular poet:— - - “Each son of Sol, to make him look more big, - Had on a large, grave, decent, three-tail’d wig; - His clothes full-trimm’d, with button-holes behind; - Stiff were the skirts with buckram stoutly lined; - The cloth, cut velvet, or more reverend black, - Full made, and powder’d, half-way down his back; - Large decent cuffs, which near the ground did reach, - With half-a-dozen buttons fix’d on each. - Grave were their faces, fix’d in solemn state! - These men struck awe, their presence carried weight; - In reverend wigs, old heads young shoulders bore, - And twenty-five or thirty seem’d threescore.” - -Such was the learned and able individual by whose help we became the -heirs of our forefathers,—helping the one into life, the other out -of it. I will add a sketch of a German doctor, and then of a French -doctor of some celebrity, both for his costume and his professional and -personal qualities. And first, of the professional dress of the _Medicus -Germanicus_. - -Madame Schopenhauer says of the German doctors of the last century that -they were all aged—not so much by weight of years as of preconceived -opinions. She could not imagine that any of them had ever been young, or -had ever condescended to the sports of the young. For many years of her -life she never either saw or heard of a young physician. These vice-lords -of human life, incomparably clever at guessing, were addressed by the -style and title of “Excellency;” and even as Falstaff was “Jack Falstaff” -only with his familiars, so he must have been a very intimate friend -indeed who ventured to call a German physician “Herr Doctor.” - -He who has seen Bundle in the ‘Waterman’ may have a very good idea of a -German medico’s wig:—snow white, thickly powdered, and excruciatingly -curled. It had further the distinction of resting, one portion on the -back and two descending in front of the shoulders. A scarlet cloth coat -adorned with gold lace, ruffles deeper plaited than Lord Ogilvie’s, -a shirt-frill as wide as a mainsail, silk stockings, knee-breeches, -and an acre of buckles on the shoes enriched with gold and gems, a -low-crowned cocked hat under the arm, too small for the head, and a stout -walking-stick or fancy cane, with clouded or carved head-pieces,—and ever -applied to prop the chin in cases where it was necessary to let it be -thought that the physician was thinking,—it was thus attired that these -patented murderers went forth to slay. What should we think _now_ of Dr. -Locock in a gold-laced scarlet coat, like Lablache in ‘Dulcamara’? - -The ‘Connoisseur,’ speaking of the medical dress in England, says:—“When -we see a snuff-coloured suit of ditto, with bolus-buttons, a metal-headed -cane, and an enormous bushy grizzle, we as readily know the wearer to be -a dispenser of life and death, as if we had seen him pounding a mortar -or⸺, etc.” - -In France, the medical costume of the last century and of the preceding -one was quite as singular. At an earlier period the dress of the -“mire,” that primitive healer of the people, was a familiar sight to -the Parisians, especially in the neighbourhood of the Rue de la Harpe. -A long black robe covered the dirt, and stood for dignity in this once -remarkable personage, who traversed the streets, vending dreadful -unctions. He was always escorted by a boy bearing a monkey, and this -monkey was bled a dozen times a day by the learned gentleman, to satisfy -the passers-by that he, the professor, and not the monkey, was a skilful -hand at phlebotomy. - -In a street adjacent to the Rue de la Harpe resided, during a portion of -the troubled reign of Louis XVI., the celebrated Dr. Audry. He had lived -there for twenty years without being able to achieve any of the renown -which he subsequently acquired. He had fallen in love, but _that_ did -not help him. He lacked one indispensable thing, wanting which nobody -trusted him. He wore no wig. He had a magnificent head of hair of his -own; but to retain that was only wearing a testimonial of incapacity. -The fair lady, who was his heart’s familiar friend, resided in a house -opposite his own; and when she heard that her Samson was about to be -shorn, she burst into tears, and reproached him with infidelity. “Such -splendid curls!” sobbed the damsel. - -“My colleagues do not wear them!” said Audry. - -“You in a peruke!” exclaimed the lady, hardly knowing whether to laugh or -to cry at the idea of her lover in a wig. - -“It is the symbol and livery of science. Without it, it appears, I cannot -be a doctor.” - -The lady insisted, by way of compromise, that she should be permitted to -select the wig; and she expressly made choice of one of such colossal -dimensions and of so easy a fit, that poor Audry looked more like a -fool than a physician in it. But it helped to bring him into fashion. -He was considered as an old gentleman; and young ladies admitted him to -their circles and _causeries_, from which they affected to banish youth -of aspect less mature. His popularity was on the increase, just as an -adventure happened to him, which might have shaken a reputation more -firmly established. - -He was one evening summoned to attend a wealthy English Peer, whose -mansion was in the Rue Tournon. His way thither led him beneath the -window of his fair friend, who had been rather piqued by his success -among the ladies, and who had previously resolved to overthrow both cause -and effect connected therewith. She was a pretty, sparkling, and joyously -mischievous girl of some three-and-twenty years; and her father loved her -nearly as much as he did fishing, which, for an enthusiastic angler as he -was, was no small proof of paternal affection. The damsel contrived so -well that, as the doctor passed, she flung her line, with the paternal -fish-hook at the end of it, and caught up the wig therewith as lightly -as her father would have picked up a trout. - -Dr. Audry looked up in astonishment, and prayed for his professional -peruke in vain. Being hurried, moreover, he passed on his way, and -repaired to his patient with a head like Mr. Buckstone’s in Scrub. - -When Lord A⸺ beheld him he exclaimed, “What! waited upon by the -assistant, when I sent for the principal?—by a student, when I needed a -practitioner?—but perhaps you are Doctor Audry’s nephew:—well, my groom -has the same sort of rheumatism that I have; be kind enough to go and -look after him.” - -Audry, in his memoirs, in telling the tale, does not forget the sequel. -Thus insulted, he rushed, in a rage, to the offending lady, who met him -with open arms and laughing eyes. “My dear doctor,” said she, “do not -storm; Papa was just on the point of securing to you something better -than a peruke,—a fortune!” - -“You are a light—” - -“Thing to be loved, as you love me: I know it,” said the lady archly, -“but St. Severin is our parish nevertheless.” - -“St. Severin our parish? I do not comprehend; unless I am authorized to -go there and arrange for our marriage.” - -“Take all that papa prescribes upon that head; and, talking of heads, you -shall have your peruke again after the honeymoon.” Audry was content; -and the wedding went off as merrily as though it had been the last act -in an old comedy; though the newly-espoused couple did not lead quite so -angelical a life afterwards, as either St. Severin of Cologne, or his -namesake of Bordeaux. But it was neither to be expected nor required of -them. They would not have been half as profitable to the state if they -had followed, throughout, the example set them by the saint whose name -graced the church wherein they were united. - -A Dacota doctor is perhaps, neither in costume nor practice, more absurd -than his European brethren of the early part of the last century. His fee -is a blanket, a buffalo robe, or a pipe; his dress is chiefly composed of -the first two articles; and his cunning lies in his sacred rattle, which -he shakes as Christian doctors do their heads, and there is no doubt as -much in one as in the other. Wherever he goes he carries with him his -medicine-bag; and to ask him what that mysterious article contains, and -upon what grounds he applies its contents, would be an insult as profound -as if you asked your own medical man for the reasons of his practice, and -expected that he would (or could) give you an answer. The Winnebagoes are -attired like their learned brethren among the Dacotas; but dress is not -thought so much of by them as possession of the medicine-bag: to lose -this is to lose reputation. But, savages as these are, they have some -very wise observances. The chief of these is the medicine-dance. This -is a grand solemnity, given by the doctors, for two reasons: one, for -the increase of practice, just as we find the fashion to be at home; the -other reason is, in order to appease the dead who have died under medical -treatment. And perhaps _that_ is also the reason why our own medicine-men -give such neat dinners, such splendid balls, or such enjoyable quadrilles -on the carpet and _soirées dansantes_. These entertainments are born -of remorse; and when next you join the saltatory throng at the house -of your medical friend, ponder gravely, good reader, on the solemnity -of the occasion, and impress upon that fair girl, with her hair _à -l’Impératrice_, that the object for which you mutually point the light -fantastic toe, is to rescue the medical master of the house from the -revengeful visits of the unskilfully slain at his hands. That understood, -plunge with frantic velocity into the _valse à deux temps_. The sacred -rattles of the Dacotas and Winnebagoes are always shaken with maddening -rapidity on these occasions, and you are the rattles by which doctors -live. The more you are shaken, the better they live; and should you have -the honour of perishing by their prescription, find comfort in knowing -that other waltzers will perform, not in your memory, but that you may be -peacefully forgotten, the “medicine-dance” of the medically murdered. - -It will be found only another division of this subject to treat of odd -dressers and dresses, after touching upon doctors and costume,—doctors -who so often looked like the Laird of Cockpen, of whom we are told that - - “His wig was well powther’d and as good as new, - His jacket was red, and his hose they were blue; - He put on a ring, a sword, and cock’d hat; - Ah, who could refuse the Laird wi’ a’ that?” - -If the doctors were sometimes queerly costumed, their matches might be -occasionally found among the laity. For these I open the last scene, and -“Enter mob variously attired.” - - - - -ODD FASHIONS. - - “Avec ceci finit la comédie; allez-vous-en, gens de la noce, et - dites du bien de l’auteur.”—_Crispin à la Foire._ - - -The fashion of tattooing has a singular origin. We are indebted for our -knowledge thereof to Clearchus, who tells us that the women of Scythia, -having seized upon some Thracian women who dwelt in their vicinity, -traced on their bodies, by means of needles, certain marks, which the -latter could not contemplate without being made very angry. The lady who -went down Regent-street the other day with the shop-ticket affixed to -her new shawl, and which contained the announcement, “Very chaste, £1. -5_s._,” was not half so ridiculous as these poor Thracian ladies, with -the etchings about them drawn by their dear Scythian cousins. It does not -seem ever to have entered the heads of the victims that they might have -concealed their annoyance beneath a garment. They did not wear garments -at that time. They however hit upon a device not unworthy of that page of -the Duke de Vendôme who, losing his shoulder-knot of ribbons, on being -pursued as he was leaving the boudoir of a maid of honour, hurried to -the room where his fellow-pages were sleeping and cut the knots off from -every laced coat in the apartment, and so escaped detection. - -The Thracian women fixed upon as happy an expedient. They so mixed up -the tattooed marks with other designs, that the original drawings were -entirely lost in the embellishments, like Handel’s airs in a certain -lady’s cadences. By this means the characteristic sign of their shame and -ignominy was no longer discernible, and the mode of tattooing became a -mode indeed in Thrace. A young lady there could not have had a greater -compliment paid to her at a ball than to be told that, front and back, -her tattooing was in the true style of the Thracian improvement on the -Scythian design. The dear creature might blush, but she would feel -happily sure that she had made a conquest, and would make all her young -friends savage by telling them the secret. - -Among the odd dressers of the last century was the celebrated French -philosopher and poet, Monsieur de la Condamine. Like George Selwyn, he -was an indefatigable attendant at executions. He of course did not forget -that of Damiens, the most horrible butchery ever enacted on the Grève, -and at which French ladies were present with opera glasses, the better to -enjoy the spectacle. Even so wits, philosophers, and “females” honoured -the Mannings with their presence, in front of Horsemonger-lane gaol. - -Condamine went for ever in search of truth, like Diogenes looking for a -man. At the execution of Damiens, he pushed his way close to the dread -officers of the law, and there, with his trumpet fastened to his ear (for -he was “as deaf as a post”), and his pencil and tablets in his hands, -he watched and recorded progress. At each tearing of the flesh by the -pincers, or at each blow dealt by the bar which crushed the limbs on -which it fell, Condamine exclaimed, “What does he say now? what does he -say now?” The satellites of Charlot, the hangman, wished to drive him -away as a troublesome fellow, but the executioner civilly remarked that -“the gentleman was an amateur, and might stay if he liked.” With all -this, De la Condamine was a simple-minded and humane man. In our London -streets he produced a great effect; there he walked, dressed as laxly as -Sir Simon Slack, and carrying with him a huge umbrella, almost as huge -an ear-trumpet, a telescope, a compass, and a map of London permanently -unfolded. He questioned everybody he met, but as he did this in English, -as he thought, of which he did not comprehend a word, he was exceedingly -like a metaphysician, who necessarily does not understand either what -he says or what is said to him. His singular appearance in the streets -speedily brought a counterfeit presentment of him on the stage, and, from -King downwards, all the English actors who played Frenchmen dressed them -after the pattern of M. De la Condamine. - -As I have above noticed the Paris executioner,—“Monsieur de Paris,” -as he used to be called,—I may further remark that the personage who -filled that office some twenty years ago was one of the best-dressed -and best-informed men I ever met with. He might have been taken for a -reverend abbé, who did not deem that the dignity of priest was hurt by -uniting with it the joviality of man. He was a man indeed of bloody -hands, but he had gentle affections too; and he loved his children, ay, -reader, as well as thou lovest thine own. - -The Earl of Ferrers, who murdered his steward in 1760, was condemned to -be executed for his crime. He had been originally married in a suit of -white kerseymere and silver; and he chose to be hung in the same suit, -it being as appropriate to one occasion, he said, as the other. Walpole, -discerning the effect this might have on fashion, remarks, “I suppose -every highwayman will preserve the blue handkerchief he has about his -neck when he is married, that he may die like a lord.” - -The Earl dated his misfortunes from the day on which he married the -sister of Sir William Meredith. He accused the lady of having _met_ him -drunk at an assembly, and having kept him so till the ceremony was over. -Had he charged her with making him drunk, the lady, who was a faithful -wife, might have been more to blame; and as for keeping him drunk -afterwards, he was seldom subsequently sober, and had only himself to -blame. - -This coroneted brute, who was remarkable for his taste in dress, was at -once fond and faithless. He kept his Countess in continual fear of her -life, beating her by day and threatening to shoot her at night. They -were separated; and it was because Johnson, his steward, advanced her -some portion of her allowance without the knowledge of the Earl, that -the latter shot him at three o’clock in the afternoon, and continued -tormenting him till one in the morning, rejoicing to kill him slowly! - -After being sentenced by a unanimous vote of the House of Lords, he -passed his time in the Tower in playing picquet with the warders; and, -like Jerome Cardan, he would not play for pastime, but for money. He -drank as much wine as he could get, and then took to beer, for want of -something better. - -In the procession, which moved from the Tower to Tyburn, this doomed -man, in his wedding clothes, was the only person who did not appear -affected. His coachman blubbered and the officials looked grave, but the -indifferent Lord made comments on the crowd, alluded now and then to the -purpose in hand, and had the condescension to acknowledge that he _did_ -believe in a God. - -As connected with fashion, it may be noticed that the Earl was the first -man who suffered by the “new drop.” To travel to the other world by the -“Ferrers’ Stage,” of course had its popular and peculiar signification. -Let me add, that while he was hanging in white, the sheriffs, in mourning -and robes of office, were coolly standing on the scaffold, eating -and drinking, and helping up their friends to drink with them. The -executioners fought for the rope, and he who lost it cried; “but,” says -Walpole, who was not there to see, “the universal crowd behaved with -great decency and admiration.” - -There is another act to this tragedy. Lady Ferrers subsequently married -Lord Frederick Campbell, brother of the Duke of Argyle, at whose seat, -Combe Bank, Kent, she was unfortunately burnt to death. - -There was about this time another celebrated personage remarkable for -her style of dress. We have all heard of “Sappho’s diamonds on her dirty -smock,” and Pope’s line does not seem overcharged. “I have seen Lady Mary -Wortley Montague,” writes Walpole in 1762; “I think her avarice, her -dirt, and her vivacity are all increased. Her dress, like her languages, -is a _galimatias_ of several countries; the ground-work rags, and the -embroidery nastiness. She needs no cap, no handkerchief, no gown, no -petticoat, no shoes. An old black-lace hood represents the first; the fur -of a horseman’s coat, which replaces the third, serves for the second; a -dimity petticoat is deputy, and officiates for the fourth; and slippers -act the part of the last. When I was at Florence, and she was expected -there, we drew _Sortes Virgilianas_ for her; we literally drew - - ‘Insanam vatem aspicies.’ - -It would have been a stronger prophecy now even than it was then.” - -I think it was said of Lady Mary, that, on being once at the French -Opera, some one remarked to her, “Mon dieu, Miladi, que vous avez les -mains sales!” “Ah!” exclaimed the dirty lady with a conscious pride, “si -vous voyiez mes pieds!” This story however is something apocryphal. - -The worst feature in Lady Mary was that she was not only dirty as an -elderly woman, but had been so as a young one. Two-and-twenty years -before Walpole wrote the above account of her, he thus photographed the -nymph whom Pope had transiently adored. Walpole met her at Florence in -1740, and there, he says, she was “laughed at by the whole town. Her -dress, her avarice, and her impudence must amaze any one that never -heard her name. She wears a foul mob that does not cover her greasy -black locks, that hang loose, never combed or curled; an old mazarine -blue wrapper, that gapes open and discovers a canvas petticoat. Her face -swelled violently on one side, with the remains of a ⸺ partly covered -with a plaister, and partly with white paint, which, for cheapness, she -has bought so coarse, that you would not use it to wash a chimney.” - -Spence, who saw this clever and eccentric lady during the following -year at Rome, describes her as brilliant, irregular, and erratic as a -comet; at once wise and imprudent, “the loveliest, most disagreeable, -best-natured, cruellest woman in the world; all things by turns, and -nothing long.” - -Three foreign travellers in England have pleasantly remarked upon an old -custom which would now be considered more honoured in the breach than -the observance. The custom alluded to is that of kissing. Chalcondyles, -the Greek, who visited our respected ancestors between four and five -centuries ago, was highly surprised, delighted, and edified with this -novel mode. He says of it:—“As for English females and children, their -customs are liberal in the extreme. For instance, when a visitor calls -at a friend’s house, his first act is to kiss his friend’s wife; he is -then a duly installed guest. Persons meeting in the street follow the -same custom, and no one sees anything improper in the action.” Nicander -Nucius, another Greek traveller, of a century later, also adverts to this -oscillatory fashion. “The English,” he says, “manifest much simplicity -and lack of jealousy in their habits and customs as regards females; for -not only do members of the same family and household kiss them on the -lips with complimentary salutations and enfolding of the arms round the -waist, but even strangers when introduced follow the same mode; and it is -one which does not appear to them in any degree unbecoming.” - -The third commentator is Erasmus, and it is astonishing how lively the -Dutchman becomes when expatiating on this ticklish subject. Writing from -England to Andrelinus in 1499, he says unctuously:—“They have a custom -too which can never be sufficiently commended. On your arrival, you are -welcomed with kisses. On your departure, you are sent off with kisses. If -you return, the embraces are repeated. Do you receive a visit, your first -entertainment is of kisses. Do your guests depart, you distribute kisses -amongst them. Wherever you meet them they greet you with a kiss. In -short, whichever way you turn, there is nothing but kissing. Ah! Faustus, -if you had once tasted the tenderness, the fragrance of these kisses, you -would wish to stay in England, not for a ten years’ voyage, like Solon’s, -but as long as you lived.” - -I leave to the bachelors to pronounce upon the merits of this -custom—which must have had its disadvantages too;—a qualified remark -which I the more feel bound to make, as, were I to join in the ecstatic -laudation of the grave Dutchman,—why, to use Hood’s words, - - “I have my fears about my ears, I’m not a single man!” - -Let us now turn from English fashions to French incidents. Some years -ago, the summer evening _habitués_ of the Champs Elysées used to find -amusement in listening to an open-air entertainment of some singularity. -A pale, thin, fragile, but bright-eyed and intellectual-looking girl of -perhaps ten or twelve years of age used to appear in the most crowded -part of the walk, an hour or so before sunset, attended by an old woman -who carried a violin, a tin cup, and a carpet. While the girl stood apart -for a moment, with something of a rapt look, the old woman spread the -carpet, put down the cup at one corner, and scraped a preliminary air -upon the violin. The air was not always appropriate to the drama that was -to follow, for the favourite overture of the performer was “Ma’m’selle -Pinson est une blonde!”—and that was like making “Yankee Doodle” or -“Nancy Dawson” pass as introductory symphonies to ‘Hamlet’ or ‘Macbeth.’ - -However, the orchestra having terminated the prelude, the girl stepped -on to the carpet, with the air of a little tragedy queen, and recited -long tirades from Racine and Corneille. But then she recited them -superbly; and despite her air of suffering and her exceedingly poor -attire, she produced such an effect upon her hearers that while she -rested, the audience were never weary of filling the cup carried round -by the old woman, with sous and half-franc pieces, in order to encourage -her to new efforts. The collection was always a large one; and when the -delicate-looking child retired, all palpitating and with a flush upon -her cheek, of which it were difficult to say whether it were the flush -of her own triumph or that of death destined to triumph over her, the -acclamations and cordial compliments of her hearers greeted her as she -passed. - -Well, a winter had gone, and a summer had come, but with it did not come -to the loiterers in the Elysian fields the Tragic Muse whom they were -disposed and eager to welcome. But during the year a marvellous child -appeared on the stage of the Gymnase Dramatique. She came like a meteor -and so departed. The truth was, that her friends saw at once that she -was too good for that stage, and she was withdrawn, in order to appear -on one more classical. Well do I remember that we loiterers in the shady -avenues that lead to Neuilly used to dispute, and we youths the loudest -of all, as to whether the _débutante_ of the Gymnase was or was not the -inspired nymph that used in the public highway to create as much delight -as Duchesnois herself before the critical pit of the “Français.” - -The dispute was not to be determined by us, and in the meantime we spoke -of our absent delight as of a lost Pleiad, and so the year wore away. -And then came the eventful night on which a girl, of whom no one had -previously heard by the name which she now wore, glided on to the stage -of the Théâtre Français, and in a moment awoke French Tragedy out of -the shroud in which she had been decently enveloped since Duchesnois -had laid her down to die. The name of the girl was RACHEL; and so pale -and unearthly was she, yet so inspired in her look, so commanding, so -irresistible, that every one was not only ready to acknowledge the new -sovereign of the tragic throne, but all Paris declared that the Rachel -who was now famous for ever was no other than the poor girl who used to -stand on a carpet in the Champs Elysées and recite Racine for sous and -half-franc pieces. - -The lady most concerned maintained a discreet silence, and various were -opinions as to the identity. In course of time, however, she seems -herself to have cleared up the mystery by one of the prettiest possible -and most practical of confessions. As this is a question of evidence, I -think it better to let my witness speak rather than myself condense the -testimony, and here is the deposition—_ce dont il s’agit_. I have only -first to premise that it is given by Madame Colmache in one of those -pleasant Paris letters which used to appear in the ‘Atlas,’ to the great -amusement and edification of the readers. The following is a portion of a -letter which appeared in February, 1851. - -“Rachel’s hôtel in the Rue Trudon is gradually growing into the most -exquisite little palace in the world. The long-talked of _fête_, which -was to have been given by the Tragedian upon the occasion of the Mardi -Gras, and to which all Paris was intriguing and disputing to get invited, -has been postponed _sine die_, and a literary and poetical festival was -offered to her friends instead, on Sunday last. The inauguration of the -hôtel took place under the most brilliant auspices. The vast number of -rooms contained in the hôtel excited some surprise; the more so as it is -formally announced that the fair owner intends for the future to reside -entirely alone. ‘By whom will all these apartments be occupied?’ said -Alexandre Dumas to Viennet, as they strolled through the long suite of -saloons and boudoirs. ‘By the owner’s _souvenirs_, of course,’ replied -the latter. ‘Oh! then I fear they will be terribly crowded,’ replied -Alexandre laughing. To those who complain of the sadness of the times -and of the sad neglect of art manifested by the public of our own day, a -walk through that exquisitely adorned temple, which certainly may rival, -both in elegance and richness, the dwelling of Aspasia and the villa of -Lais, would be productive of an immediate change of opinion. No expense -has been spared upon the decoration of the hôtel; some of the artists -who stand highest have not disdained to furnish some of the designs for -the moulding; the ceilings are all painted by the greatest masters; and -the rich draperies which conceal the walls have all been taught to hang, -according to the strictest rules of symmetry, by the great master hand.” - -The _fête_, says the writer, was concluded by an epilogue of great -interest; and it is this epilogue which connects the Tragédienne of the -“Français,” with the little Thespian of the Champs Elysées. The epilogue -is truly described as one displaying a strange and singular aspect of the -human heart. - -“The _soirée_ had been accepted as one of a purely literary character, -and every celebrity appertaining to every branch of literature came, -of course. The fair hostess recited in costume every one of her -principal _tirades_, from all the great tragedies wherein she has -acquired undying fame, and then withdrew amid the hearty applause -and unfeigned expressions of delight of the whole company. Presently -she returned before them in a new character to them, but of an old -one to herself,—that of a street-singer, her head bound by a Madras -handkerchief, her shoulders enveloped in an old Tartan shawl, a cotton -petticoat descending just below the knee, and an old guitar slung across -her bosom. Her appearance caused an almost painful interest. There -was poetry in the whole scene—in the very clatter of her sabots as she -passed up the splendid gallery, all hung with looking-glass, and adorned -with gilt tripods—in the wooden bowl with the sou at the bottom, which -she rattled as she stepped forward with a melancholy smile. She walked -straight to the head of the gallery, and standing motionless for a -moment, began the ballad which she had sung the last of all before she -was summoned from the street to the stage, from rags and poverty, to -glory, influence, and riches. By a singular coincidence, this ballad -happened to be the same formerly sung in ‘Fanchon la Veilleuse,’—‘Elle -a quitté,’—relating how Fanchon had left her humble home for wealth -and grandeur, and how she was gradually pining amidst the splendour of -her lot for the love and liberty she had once enjoyed. The voice of -the singer, perhaps from fatigue, perhaps from emotion, was low and -faltering, and produced an effect such as not the most powerful of her -_tirades_ from Racine or Corneille has ever been able to produce,—_tears_ -from her audience. This incident will long be remembered by those who -witnessed it.” - -No doubt; and the writer might have added a closing incident which is -said to have followed the song, namely, that the singer, or reciter, -for even her songs were recited, as every one will remember who has -witnessed her ‘Lycisca’ in the high-coloured tragedy of ‘Valeria,’—having -terminated her song, carried round the little cup or bowl, as of yore, -only this time intimating to those to whom her trembling hand extended -it—“It is for the poor!” But to revert to older, as well as odder -fashions. - -The consequences of the treaty which the Colophonians made with -the Lydians, will serve to show that alliances are not necessarily -advantageous to the weaker party. The Colophonians were an austere -people. They were the Quakers of antiquity, and Mr. Bright himself -might admire them. But no sooner were they united with the Lydians than -Colophon became full of Lydian milliners, tailors, jewellers, and -hairdressers, and the reign of simplicity was over for ever. Prior to -this a Colophonian woman no more thought about her dress than did Maria -Theresa, who, on being told that she was a grandmother, rushed into the -neighbouring Opera-house, in her flannel nightdress and huge nightcap, in -which she looked like Mrs. Gamp, and announced to the ecstatic audience -that an heir was born to the greatness of Hapsburg Lorraine. - -The Colophonians were once as careless of appearances, but now, men and -women, they all adopted Lydian fashions. In one day, a thousand of the -former, who had never known what a mantle was before, were seen on the -public place, as proud of their jaunty purple cloaks as Rubini of his -‘Almaviva.’ Men and women alike had a gold ornament at the end of every -lock of hair; and as for perfume, it was used to such an extent that for -miles round the air was full of it, and the Lydian Atkinsons toiled in -vain to meet the demand by supply. - -Extravagance in dress has brought many a family to two-and-sixpence in -the pound, but it ruined Miletus outright. The rich people there not -only impoverished themselves by their incredible extravagance in finery, -worse than our ancestors at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, who wore -whole estates upon their backs, but they despised the poor, who were -offensive to them for their homely fashions and rough tongues. Well, -these extravagant persons became insolent and helpless, or what we should -now call so; and the poor then sued them after the fashion of men who -knew not of Bankruptcy Courts. They expelled the old oppressors, but -they seized their children; and confining them in different granges, -caused them to be trodden to death by the oxen used for treading out -the corn. The rich however returned in strength, and seizing the poor -men, women, and children, they covered them with pitch and put light to -them,—so leaving them to perish. The sacred olive-tree in the Temple -was so disgusted at both parties that it set fire to itself, and died -of spontaneous combustion. The colour of its crackling leaves became a -favourite one with religious persons; and a “robe feuille-morte” was as -much in vogue in the district as it more recently was in Paris and the -provinces. - -There are some very odd “habits” about some of the swarthy potentates -of torrid Africa. Of these I can however mention but the following:—The -territory of Damagram, in Central Africa, is inhabited by the wildest -of the African races. The method of supplying the slave-market there is -truly nefarious. If the Sultan of Zinder wants goar nuts for his dessert, -or calico to make what the good King Dagobert had so much difficulty in -adjusting to his royal person, and if he has no money to purchase them, -he sends his officials to a neighbouring village, in open day, to steal -two or three families and bring them to the Sultan. These families are -immediately exchanged for the goar nuts or the calico, and the swarthy -tailor who makes up the royal suit perhaps reflects, as he sews, that -the stuff has cost two or three living cousins, whose fate it is to be -sent beyond the Atlantic to raise more cotton, that shall find its way -again to the African tailors’ hands, after it has been paid for with -more human flesh. It is not _all_ the African chiefs that care to be -dressed in calico. The Marghi, for instance, give little employment for -tailors: their dress consists of a simple band of leather passed between -their loins and fixed round their girdle. When this and a profusion of -neatly-made rings of iron and ivory are fixed on the arms and legs, the -Marghi gentlemen are dressed for the day. - -The oddest of fashions or dresses was one which was once adopted by the -rich but parsimonious Fountayn Wilson, the wealthy but thrifty landowner -of Yorkshire. When loyal gentlemen were raising militia companies -during the late war, Mr. Wilson not only followed the fashion, but he -bought, at a low rate, a quantity of grey cloth, in the expectation that -Government would purchase it at an advanced price, and so put a profit -into Fountayn’s pocket. He was disappointed, but he consoled himself by -wearing nothing for years but dresses made out of this coarse militia -grey. But London once saw him in a stranger dress than this. - -Mr. Wilson, having accepted an invitation to dinner on a day whereon he -had to attend as member of a committee of the House of Commons, ordered -his servant to bring down to the house at six o’clock, a change of dress, -and a hackney coach, in which he said he would effect the change as he -rode in it. Ablution he did not think about; but if his old black coat -would do to dine in, he felt bound to change his nether garment. He had -just reached the Horse Guards, and he had just taken off his trousers, -and was about to put his legs into the other pair, when _crack!_ went -the axle-tree, and down came the coach! An officious mob assembled to -lend help; but when they beheld an embarrassed gentleman with two pairs -of trousers, and neither of them on, great was their astonishment, -and loudly did they publish the fact. Poor Fountayn sat helpless and -victimized, till a good-natured officer who was passing, and knew the -eccentric M.P., released him, by claiming him as a relative; and as he -led him covered with a cloak through the shrieking crowd, he calmed the -laughers into silence by significantly pointing with his finger to his -forehead,—which seemed to imply that they ought to have compassion on the -infirmity of an imbecile gentleman, so well provided with garments and so -apparently indifferent as to their use. - -If Oliver Goldsmith went up in red plush breeches to be ordained by a -bishop, the celebrated Daniel Webster once appeared in as singular a -costume, considering the occasion on which he wore it. The time had -come when he was required to leave his old home at Elms Farm, to visit -Dartmouth College, for the purpose of being matriculated. A neighbour, -in honest zeal for his credit, made for him a complete new suit of -clothes,—all of homespun cloth,—the colour “deeply, darkly, beautifully -blue.” Thus attired, he set off on horseback; and he had not got far on -his way when a storm suddenly overtook him, to which he was exposed for -many hours. The river in his way became swollen, the bridge was destroyed -by the freshet, and he was obliged to ride many miles round ere he could -again strike into a direct path. The rain descended in ceaseless torrents -during the whole time. The homespun suit was not made of fast colour. The -rain sank into the cloth, and the indigo-blue, politely making way for -it, soaked off into the shirt and skin of the young student. His features -too partook of the general hue, and when the scholar reached Hanover, he -was dyed blue from head to foot. Like Essex, when he came travel-soiled -from Ireland, and proceeded to an interview with Queen Elizabeth, he -went straight before the college authorities; without wiping—indeed he -could _not_ wipe the now fixed cerulean from his face, neck, and hands. -Every shade of blue, and all moist, could be seen upon his clothes, the -darker deposit upon his flesh. “Who is he?” asked one. “At home,” said -he, laughing, “they call me _black_ Dan; here I appear as _blue_ Dan!—and -trouble enough have I had to arrive among you; but you see me as I am, in -a condition which, if it does not entitle me to your approbation, should -at least secure for me your sympathy.” Daniel suffered no disparagement -by appearing before his grave seniors like a man who had been dyeing all -his life. He passed the dreaded ordeal with honour, and the wits said -that he had no reason to be discontented with the storm which _blew_ him -into a port where honour and welcome attended him; at the same time they -advised him not to stick to the colour, and proposed to him a thesis, -which should have for its device, “Nimium ne fide colori.” “Ne fide -colori!” I hear re-echoed by my readers; “‘Ne fide nimium patientiæ,’ -Sirrah; do not super-abuse our patience.” Be it so, ever-courteous -Public. _Pauca verba_, as Pistol has it, is a good maxim, particularly -when one has nothing more to say. I will conclude, not only with the -sentiment I promised, but also with something more valuable,—a recipe to -keep you from ever getting wet through. A barrister was once bewailing to -Mr. Cresswell, when the latter was also at the Bar, that on going down -to Salisbury, outside the mail, he had got his clothes completely wet -through. “That calamity need never befall a man, however exposed,” said -Mr. Cresswell. “Why,” said the other, “what is he to do?” “Do!” exclaimed -the elder practitioner, “why, he has nothing in the world to do but to -take off his clothes and sit upon them!” - -And now for the sentiment, in which my readers will find a value greater -than that which attaches to the recipe for keeping a suit dry. Hear what -Cowper says:— - - “We sacrifice to dress, till household joys - And comforts cease. Dress drains our cellars dry, - And keeps our larder bare; puts out our fires, - And introduces hunger, frost, and woe, - Where peace and hospitality might reign.” - -Well, I will not moralize upon this truth. I should become more unwelcome -than Joseph Surface himself; but I will say this, that Cowper’s lines -are as applicable now as they were of old, and in that they are so do I -distinguish the cause why on many careers joyously begun, there descends -so dismal and so dreary a - - -FINIS. - - - JOHN EDWARD TAYLOR, PRINTER, - LITTLE QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS. - - - - -NEW AND CHEAP PUBLICATIONS. - - -_The Volumes now Ready are_: - - I. - - SAM SLICK, THE CLOCKMAKER. 1 Vol. Price 5_s._ - - II. - - SAM SLICK, THE ATTACHÉ. 1 Vol. Price 5_s._ - - III. - - SAM SLICK’S LETTER-BAG OF THE GREAT WESTERN. 1 Vol. Price 2_s._ 6_d._ - - IV. - - CAPTAIN MARRYAT’S MONSIEUR VIOLET. 1 Vol. Price 3_s._ 6_d._ - - V. - - CAPTAIN MARRYAT’S OLLA PODRIDA. 1 Vol. Price 3_s._ 6_d._ - - VI. - - MRS. TROLLOPE’S DOMESTIC MANNERS OF AMERICA. 1 Vol. Price 3_s._ 6_d._ - - VII. - - PADDIANA; OR, IRISH LIFE. 1 Vol. Price 3_s._ 6_d._ - - VIII. - - SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY. 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