CHAPTER VIII.
Jusqu'au revoir le ciel vous tienne tous en joie.
--Moliere.
I was now pretty well tried of Garrett Park. Lady Roseville was going to
H--t--d, where I also had an invitation. Lord Vincent meditated an
excursion to Paris. Mr. Davison had already departed. Miss Trafford had
been gone, God knows how long, and I was not at all disposed to be left,
like "the last rose of summer," in single blessedness at Garrett Park.
Vincent, Wormwood, and myself, all agreed to leave on the same day.
The morning of our departure arrived. We sat down to breakfast as usual.
Lord Vincent's carriage was at the door; his groom was walking about his
favourite saddle horse.
"A beautiful mare that is of your's," said I, carelessly looking at it,
and reaching across the table to help myself to the pate de foie gras.
"Mare!" exclaimed the incorrigible punster, delighted with my mistake: "I
thought that you would have been better acquainted with your propria quoe
maribus."
"Humph!" said Wormwood, "when I look at you I am always at least reminded
of the as in praoesenti!"
Lord Vincent drew up and looked unutterable anger. Wormwood went on with
his dry toast, and Lady Roseville, who that morning had, for a wonder,
come down to breakfast, good naturedly took off the bear. Whether or not
his ascetic nature was somewhat mollified by the soft smiles and softer
voice of the beautiful countess, I cannot pretend to say; but he
certainly entered into a conversation with her, not much rougher than
that of a less gifted individual might have been. They talked of
literature, Lord Byron, converzaziones, and Lydia White. [Note: Written
before the death of that lady.]
"Miss White," said Lady Roseville, "has not only the best command of
language herself, but she gives language to other people. Dinner parties,
usually so stupid, are, at her house, quite delightful. I have actually
seen English people look happy, and one or two even almost natural."
"Ah!" said Wormwood, "that is indeed rare. With us every thing is
assumption. We are still exactly like the English suitor to Portia, in
the Merchant of Venice. We take our doublet from one country, our hose
from another, and our behaviour every where. Fashion with us is like the
man in one of Le Sage's novels, who was constantly changing his servants,
and yet had but one suit of livery, which every new comer, whether he was
tall or short, fat or thin, was obliged to wear. We adopt manners,
however incongruous and ill suited to our nature, and thus we always seem
awkward and constrained. But Lydia White's soirees are indeed agreeable.
I remember the last time I dined there we were six in number, and though
we were not blessed with the company of Lord Vincent, the conversation
was without 'let or flaw.' Every one, even S----, said good things."
"Indeed!" cried Lord Vincent; "and pray, Mr. Wormwood, what did you say!"
"Why," answered the poet, glancing with a significant sneer over
Vincent's somewhat inelegant person, "I thought of your lordship's
figure, and said--grace!"
"Hem--hem!--'Gratia malorum tam infida est quam ipsi,' as Pliny says,"
muttered Lord Vincent, getting up hastily, and buttoning his coat.
I took the opportunity of the ensuing pause to approach Lady Roseville,
and whisper my adieus. She was kind and even warm to me in returning
them; and pressed me, with something marvellously like sincerity, to be
sure to come and see her directly she returned to London. I soon
discharged the duties of my remaining farewells, and in less than half an
hour, was more than a mile distant from Garrett Park and its inhabitants.
I can't say that for one, who, like me, is fond of being made a great
deal of, that there is any thing very delightful in those visits into the
country. It may be all well enough for married people, who, from the mere
fact of being married, are always entitled to certain consideration, put-
-par exemple--into a bed-room, a little larger than a dog kennel, and
accommodated with a looking-glass, that does not distort one's features
like a paralytic stroke. But we single men suffer a plurality of evils
and hard-ships, in entrusting ourselves to the casualties of rural
hospitality. We are thrust up into any attic repository--exposed to the
mercy of rats, and the incursions of swallows. Our lavations are
performed in a cracked basin, and we are so far removed from human
assistance, that our very bells sink into silence before they reach half
way down the stairs. But two days before I left Garrett Park, I myself
saw an enormous mouse run away with my almond paste, without any possible
means of resisting the aggression. Oh! the hardships of a single man are
beyond conception; and what is worse, the very misfortune of being single
deprives one of all sympathy. "A single man can do this, and a single man
ought to do that, and a single man may be put here, and a single man may
be sent there," are maxims that I have been in the habit of hearing
constantly inculcated and never disputed during my whole life; and so,
from our fare and treatment being coarse in all matters, they have at
last grown to be all matters in course.
