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[-374-] HOUR THE TWENTY-FOURTH AND LAST-THREE A.M.- A BAL MASQUE, AND THE NIGHT CHARGES AT BOW STREET.
When the bad Lord Lyttelton lay on his last
bed - thorn-strewn by conscience - and haunted by the awful prediction of the phantom
which appeared to him in the semblance of a white dove, telling
him that at a certain hour on a certain night he should die, some
friends who had a modicum of human feeling, and wished that
wicked lord well, thinking that his agony was caused by mere terror
of an impending event - half nervous, half superstitious - advanced
the hands of the clock One Hour, and when the fatal one, as it
seemed, struck, his Lordship started up in bed, apparently much relieved,
and cried out joyfully that he had "jockeyed the ghost." But when
the real time arrived, and the real hour was stricken on the bell, the
prediction of the white dove was verified, and the bad Lord Lyttelton,
shrieking, gave up the ghost.
Moral : there is not the slightest use in playing tricks with the
clock. Were it otherwise, and were I not deterred by this awful
warning in the case of Lord Lyttelton, I would entreat some kindly
friend to stand on tiptoe, and just push the hour-hand of this clock of
mine back, were it but for one poor stunde of sixty minutes. But in
vain. As well ask Mr. Calcraft to postpone his quarter-to-eight visit
with a new rope, when the law has consigned you to the tender mercies
of that eminent functionary. As well may Crown Prince Frederick
entreat the Governor of Custrin to defer the execution of wretched
Lieutenant Katte, "till he can write to the king." As well may the
unfortunate little Pants, hopelessly embroiled for the fifth time this
morning with his Greek Delectus, implore the terrible Doctor Budd to
spare him the rod this once. As well might I write to the Postmaster-General to say that it will not be convenient for me to deposit the last
batch of newspapers in the window till half-past six p.m.; or beg the
London and North-Western Railway Company to delay the departure
of the Manchester night express till I have finished my wine and
walnuts at the Victoria Hotel, Euston Square. The fiat has gone [-375-] forth. Missa est. Judgment is over, and execution is come; and
I may say, with Lord Grizzle in "Tom Thumb: "
"My bodye is a bankrupt's shop,
My grim creditor is death,"
who, like a stern sergeant, lays his hand on my collar, and bids me
follow him to jail in the king's name. I wish I were Punch, for he
not only "jockeyed the ghost, but the hangman, and the beadle, and
Mr. Shallabalah, and his wife, and the very deuce himself. I wish
I were in a land where time is indeed made for slaves, or where there
are no clocks to cast honest men off their hobbies.
"I wish I were a geese,
For they lives and dies in peace,
And accumulates much grease,
Over there."
But I am not a Punch nor a "geese," to endorse the touching transatlantic locution, however much I may merit the singular application
of the name. I am only your humble servant to command, and this
is the last hour of "Twice Round the Clock," so I must e'en essay
to make a good end of it.
We have not been so badly off for public amusements during our
journeyings. We have been to the opera, to the theatre, a dancing-academy, and to hear an oratorio. We have supped at Evans's, and
"assisted" at a late debate in the House of Commons; yet I acknowledge, mournfully, that scores of places of recreation exist in London
to which I could have taken you, and where we might have enjoyed
ourselves very rationally and harmlessly. I should have liked to induct
you to the mysteries of Canterbury Hall, the Polytechnic, Christy's
Minstrels, and Madame Tussaud's waxwork show. For I hold to this
creed, sternly and strongly, that public amusements - indoor and outdoor
amusements - are eminently conducive to public morals, and to
the liberty and happiness of the people. Music, dancing, and dramatic
representations, free from grossness and turbulence, are as healthful
and innocent recreations as Temperance Halls, lectures on the comet's
tail, or monster meetings dedicated to the deification of the odium
theologicum. From my little parlour window at Brighton, I can see a
huge yellow placard disfiguring a dead wall with this inscription:-
"Protestants attend the Great Meeting to-night !" Bother the
Protestants, (on platforms) I say, and the Pope of Rome too. What [-376-] have we done that we are to be perpetually set together by the ears by
belligerent Protestants and rampant Romanists? Is the whole frame-work of society to be shaken by controversies about the cardinal's red
stockings or the rector's shovel hat? They had best both be swept
into the dust-hole, I think, as having no more to do with religion than
my poodle, Buffo, has with the Gunpowder Plot. Will all these roaring
meetings - Protestants and Romanist, or Mumbo-Jumboical -where
blatant stump-orators, paid for their theology by the night, rant, and
stamp, and cook up those eternal Smithfield fires, help the sacred cause
of Christianity one iota? It is long since Sheridan expressed a hope
that there might be no more "scandal about Queen Elizabeth," and
now, I see, they can't let that poor old woman rest in her grave.
Some zealous people want to get up a sort of rider to "Guy Fawkes's
Day," to commemorate the tri-centenary of her accession. You stupid
firebrands! Of course "the Reformation was a blessing;" but do
you know what will be the result of this raking up of the Elizabethan
scandal? Do you know that there are such books as "Cobbett's Legacy
to Parsons," and "Lingard's History," besides "Foxe's Martyrs," and
a "Thunderbolt for Rome ?" Do you know that it may be proved
just six of one and half-a-dozen of the other about Queen Bess? that
while to some she is the Great Protestant Sovereign, the Egeria of the
Reformation, the Heroine of Tilbury Fort, to others she is a vain, cruel,
arrogant old beldame, no better than she should be? who butchered
Mary Stuart, and had Leicester poisoned ; and who for every Protestant
her gloomy sister burned, had at least two Papists hanged, drawn, and
quartered, with the pleasant addition of their entrails being torn out
and consumed before their eyes! Eh! laissons la these horrible reminiscences, and thank heaven that we live under the sway of good
Victoria, not that of ruthless Elizabeth or bloody Mary. Did the wise,
and merciful, and bounteous Creator, who made this smiling earth, who
has gladdened us with an infinity of good things for our solace and
enjoyment, and for all quit-rent has laid this law upon us that we
should love one another, in testimony of our greatest love for Him,
who is all love and tenderness; did He send us here to squabble and
fight and predict eternal perdition to one another, because there fall
into our hearts a differently-coloured ray of the divine Effulgence?
There is a flaming Protestant here with a broad-brimmed hat, and
who is a vessel of much consequence among his fellow-bigots, who told
an honest butcher some days since that if the Maynooth grant were [-377-] renewed we should have "the thumbscrews in three months;" whereupon the
affrighted butcher plastered all his joints over with handbills
of the great Protestant Meeting, thus, of course, losing all his customers
of the other persuasion. I wish those bells which are eternally jangling
invitations for us to come and thank Heaven that we are not "as that
publican," would ring a little tolerance and charity into men's hearts;
would ring out a little more oblivion of phylacteries and pew-rents in
high places, and of the sepulchral whitewash brushes. If the people
who make all this noise and clamour, and who howl out against rational
amusements, led pure and virtuous lives, and set good examples to their
neighbours, this voice should not be raised; but, alas! here is brother
Dolorous at the bar of the court of Queen's Bench for peculation; here
is Sister Saintly scourging her apprentice; here are Messrs. Over-
righteous in trouble for adulteration of their wares.
It is by no means incompatible, I hope, with the broad line
of argument I have striven to adopt in these papers, if I honestly
declare that the tableau I am about to describe has not in any way my
approval, nay is, in many respects, much to be reprobated and deplored.
I describe it - in its least repulsive details - simply because it is a very
noticeable feature in modern London life. To have passed it over would
have been dishonest and hypocritical, and I set it down in my catalogue
of subjects at the outset of my task, actuated then, as I am now, by
a determination to allow no squeamishness to interfere with the delineation of the truth-so long as that truth could be told without offence
to good manners and in household language. A modern masquerade
in London is, to tell the honest truth, anything but an edifying spectacle.
There is certainly no perceptible harm in some hundreds of persons,
of both sexes, accoutred in more or less fantastic dresses, meeting
together in a handsome theatre, and, to the music of a magnificent
band, dancing till three or four o'clock in the morning. But the place
is not harmless: people go there to dissipate, and do dissipate. The salle
de danse of a grand masquerade is a re-union of epicurean passions - an
epitome of vice painted and spangled. And I take a masquerade triumphantly as an argument against the precisians and sour-faces, who would
curtail the amusements of the people, and viciously thwart them in their
every effort to amuse themselves. Look you here, gentlemen of the
vestry-arch moralists of the parish! look you here, good Mr. Chaplain
of Pentonville, who have got your pet garotter safe in hold for his sins
This is no penny-gaff, no twopenny theatre, no cheap concert or dancing [-378-] academy
- not so much as a "free-and-easy or a "sixpenny hop."
Shopboys don't rob the till to come to a bal masqué at her Majesty's
Theatre. Your pet garotter didn't throttle the gentleman in the Old
Kent Road in order to procure funds to dance with Mademoiselle
Euphrosine de la Galette, of the Rue Nôtre Dame de Lorette, Paris,
and attired in a ravishing débardeur costume. There is, to be sure,
a floating population of Bohemians - citizens of the world of London,
belonging to the theatres, enfants perdus of the newspaper press, and
so on, who are admitted gratis to a masquerade: these last Zouaves
of social life, have free admission to coroners' inquests, public dinners,
ship launches, private views of picture exhibitions, night rehearsals
of pantomimes, and royal marriages. The modern newspaper man
is, in print, the embodiment of Mr. Everybody ; in private he is
Mr. Nobody, and doesn't count at all. Lord Derby is afraid of the
journalist in print, but in the flesh his Lordship's footman would look
down upon him. "Honly a littery man, let him knock agin," Jeames
would say. So we go everywhere, even as though we were in the
"receipt of fern seed." Even the House of Commons has invented
a pleasant fiction for the benefit of the gentlemen of the press, and
humorously ignores their presence during the debates. The Empress
Julia bathed before her male slave. "Call that a man," she cried,
contemptuously. In the like manner, no account is taken of the
journalist's extra card of admission or extra knife and fork. He goes
under the head of "sundries," though he makes sometimes a rather
formidable figure in the aggregate.
But to the general public-the social Zouaves are but a drop of
water in the sea - a bal masqué is a very expensive affair, and a luxury
not to be indulged in without a liberal disbursement of cash. First,
ticket, half a guinea. Mademoiselle de Ia Galette's ticket, if you be
galant homme, five shillings more, if she be in costume; half a guinea
if in domino. Next, costume for yourself, variable according to its extravagance
- a guinea at least. At any rate, if you are content to
appear in plain evening dress, there are clean white kid gloves and
patent leather boots to be purchased. And the supper; and the wine,
for champagne is de rigueur, at twelve and fifteen shillings a bottle!
(You will observe that whenever I grow fashionably dissipated, I begin
to chatter French.) And Mademoiselle de la Galette's bouquet, and the
intermediate refreshments, ices, coffee, lemonade, and what-not; and the
cabs and the wild revelry in the wicked Haymarket purlieus afterwards. [-379-] You see I have led you to the very end of the chapter, and that a night
at a bal masqué will make an irremediable hole in a ten-pound note.
For this reason the persons (of the male sex) who visit such a
gathering must be divided into three classes : theatrical and literary
nobodies, coming there for nothing and not caring much about the
place now they are come; young bucks about the town with more
money than wit, who will exist, I am afraid, in every civilised age; and
lastly and chiefly, the "Swells." I use the term advisedly, for none
other can so minutely characterise them. Long, stern, solemn, languid,
with drooping tawny moustaches, with faultlessly made habiliments,
with irreproachable white neckcloths, with eyes half-closed, with pendant
arms, with feet enclosed in mirror-like patent boots, the "swells"
saunter listlessly through the ball-room with a quiet consciousness that
all these dazzling frivolities are provided for their special gratification -
which indeed they are. As it is l'oeil du maitre qui engraisse le cheval, so it is the
"swell" who makes the bal masqué pay. Never so
many orders may Mr.. Nugent give away; but if the "swell" be not
in town or muster not in force on the eventful night, there will be
wailing in her Majesty's Theatre, and woe in M. Jullien's cash-box.
It must be somewhat of a strong till that can stand this tiraillement.
As regards the ladies who are the partners in the mazy dance of these
splendid cavaliers, I may say, once for all, that they are Daughters
of Folly; Mademoiselle de la Galette and her condisciples, English and
French, are there, multipled five-hundred fold. I don't think your pet
garotter, good Mr. Chaplain, would be very successful as a Hercules at
the feet of these Omphales.
I wonder how many sons and scions, or cousins or nephews, or multitudinous misty offshoots of the titled men who govern us, who own
our lands, our waters, and the birds of the air, the beasts of the field,
and the fish of the sea, are here. I wonder how many threads of connection there are in this ball-room theatre between these butterflies and
the ermine and the lawn of the House of Peers. How many, how
much? Bah! There is young Reginald Pitzmitre, the Bishop of Bosfursus's son, talking to that charming titi in the striped silk skirt and
crimson satin trousers. Reginald is in the Guards. Bishops' sons are
fond of going into the Guards. Yonder is little Pulex, whose brother,
Tapely Pulex, is Under-Secretary for the Egregious Department. There
Lord Claude Muffin has just stalked in with Sir Charles Shakeypegs
(who is old enough to know better); and upon my word, here comes [-380-]
THREE O'CLOCK A.M. : A BAL MASQUE
[-381-] that venerable sinner Lord Holloway, with little Fanny Claypainter on
his arm. It won't do, my Lord; you may disguise yourself as closely as you will in a domino and a mask with a long lace beard, but I know
you by that side-wise waggle of your Lordship's head. The Earl of
Holloway has been a very gay nobleman in his time. He married
Miss Redpoll, the famous English contraltro, drew her theatrical salary
with very great punctuality every Saturday afternoon at three o'clock,
and heat her, people said, lie was the honourable Jack Pilluler then.
Years elapsed before he came into the title and Unguenton Park. She
died. Advance, then - advance then, my noble swells - to adopt the
style of the gentlemen with the thimble and pea. Advance, this is all
for your delectation. Meanwhile, let your most noble and right reverend
fathers, brothers, uncles, and cousins meet in either House of Parliament, meet at Quarter Sessions, or on borough bench, and make or
expound laws against the wicked, thriftless, hardened, incorrigibly
dissipated Poor. No beer for them, the rogues! No fairs, no wakes,
no village feasts, no harvest-homes, no theatres, concerts, dances, no
tobacco, no rabbits, no bowls, no cricket - but plenty of law, and plenty
a
of nice hard labour, and wholesome gruel, and strengthening stone-breaking, and plenty of your sweet aristocratic wives and daughters
to force their way into poor men's cottages, ask them questions for
which I wonder they don't get their ears boxed, pry into their domestic concerns, peep into their cupboards, and wonder at their improvidence
in not having more to eat and drink therein.
Stand we in the orchestral hemicycle, and watch the garish, motley
scene. Questions of morality apart, one must have jaundiced eyes to
deny that, as a mere spectacle, it is brilliant and picturesque enough.
All that M. Jullien's bizarre taste and fancy could suggest, or the cunning skill of experienced scenic decorators carry out, has been done here
to make the place gay, dazzling, and effective. Wreaths of artificial
flowers, reflecting the highest credit upon the paper-stainer and the
paper-cutter's art, mask the somewhat fanées ornaments of the tiers of
boxes; homely corridors and staircases are pleasantly disguised under
a plentitude of scarlet baize and drugget ; the chandelier is of abnormous size, for any number of glittering festoons have been added to its
crystal abacot; devices in glass and devices in gas twinkle and radiate
on every side : nor is music's voluptuous swell wanting to incite us to
"chase the glowing hours with flying feet," and make all things go
"merry as a marriage bell."
[-382-] Truly, that well-packed orchestra deserves a more dignified arena
for its exertions than this vulgar dancing-place. A jangling harp, a
wheezy flute, and a cracked-voice violin, with perhaps a dingy old
drum, with two perpetual black eyes in its parchment cheeks where the
stick hits them, like the wife of an incorrigibly drunken cobbler-instruments such as you may hear tortured any night outside the Moguls
in Drury Dane: these would be quite good enough for the ruffiani (by
which I do not at all mean "ruffians") and bona robas of a masquerade
to dance to. But this orchestra, numerous as it is, is composed of picked
men : it is an imperial guard of veterans in fiddling, bassooning, and cornet-à-pistoning. Even the gentleman who officiates at the triangle,
is a solo player; and the fierce-looking foreigner who attends to the
side-drums, is the most famous tambour in Europe. At beating the chamade he stands alone, and his roll is unrivalled. With shame I
speak it: you shall find among these artists in wind and artists in string
instruments, horns, and clarionettes. tenors and second violins, who,
during the opertic season, are deemed not unworthy to be ruled by the
Prospero wand of the kid-gloved Costa or swayed by the magic fiddlestick of the accomplished Alfred Mellon. A pretty vocation for them
to have to fiddle and blow for the amusement of ne'er-do-weels in torn-
fools' costumes, and bold-faced jigs in velvet trousers! Why, they
could take their parts in the symphonies of Beethoven and the masses
of Mozart. And thou, too, Jullien the Superb, maestro of the ambrosial ringlets, the softly-luxuriant whiskers and moustaches, gracilis
puer of the embroidered body-linen, the frogged pantaloons, the coat
with moire antique facings, the diamond studs and sleeve buttons?
couldst thou not find a worthier tilt-yard for thy chivalrous gambadoes?
Alas! to some men, howsoever talented, charlatanism seems to adhere
like a burr, and will not depart. Jullien must have caught this stain
at the battle of Navarino or at the Jardin Turc, and it has abided by
him ever since. There is not the slightest necessity for this clever,
kindly, and really accomplished musician - to whom the cause of good
and even classical music in England owes much - to be a quack; but I
suppose he can't help it. He was born under a revolving firework star,
and would introduce blue fire in the Dead March in "Saul." So it is
with many. They could be Abernethies, but they prefer being Dulcamaras; they could be Galileos or Copernici, they prefer the fame of
Cagliostro or Katterfelto. There was poor dear Alexis Soyer, as kind a
hearted Christian as you might find, an admirable cook, an inventive [-383-] genius, a brave, devoted, self-denying man, who served his adopted
country better in the Crimea than many a starred and titled CB. He
had no call to be a quack; there was no earthly reason why he should
inundate the newspapers with puffs, and wear impossible trousers, or
cloth-of-gold waistcoats, cut diagonally. The man had a vast natural
capacity, could think, ay, and do things; yet he quacked so continually,
that many people set him down as a mere shallow pretender, and some
even doubted whether he could cook at all. He was, nevertheless, a
master of his difficult art, though in his latter days he did not exercise
it much. Grisier grew tired of fencing. Wordsworth did not write
much after he was laureate. Sir Edwin's brush is passing idle now.
But I have partaken of succulent dainties cooked in their daintiest
manner by the cunning hands of the illustrious chef: and I tell you
that he could cook, when he chose, like St. Zita, the patroness of the
Genoese cuisinieres. And I think I know, and that I can tell, a
compote from a cow-heel, having dined as well and as ill, in my time,
as any man of my age and standing.
What shall I say of the moving, living, kaleidoscope, twinkling
and coruscating in the vast enceinte? Indeed, it is very difficult to
say anything about the outward similitude of a bal masqué that has
not been said a hundred times before. You have taken for granted
the very considerable admixture of plain evening costume, worn by
the swells et autres, which speckles the galaxy of gay costumes with
multitudinous black dots. After this, we all know what to expect,
and whom to find. Paint, patches, spangles, and pearl-powder, tawdry
gold and silver (more brassy and pewtery, rather, I opine), and sham
point lace. Sham fox-hunters, mostly of a Hebrew cast of countenance,
in tarnished scarlet coats, creased buckskins, and boots with tops guiltless of oxalic acid, brandishing whips that have oftener been laid
across their own shoulders than on the flanks of the "screws" they
have bestridden; and screening their mouths with palms covered by dubious white kid gloves, or with bare dirt-inlaid knuckles protuberant
with big rings of mosaic jewellery, shouting "Yoicks," and "Hark-
away," in nasal accents. Undergraduates, in trencher caps and trailing
gowns, worn by jobbernols, who know far more about Oxford Street
than the University of Oxford. Barristers, more likely to be pleaded
for than to plead. Bartlemy-Fair Field Marshals, in costumes equally
akin to his who rides on the lamentable white horse before the Lord
Mayor's gingerbread coach, and Bombastes Furioso in the farce. Charles [-384-] the Seconds, with all the dissolute effrontery of that monarch, but of
his wit or merriment none. Red Rovers and Conrad Corsairs, whose
nautical adventures have been confined to a fracas on board a penny
steamboat; Albanian, and Sciote, and Suliote Chiefs, with due fez, kilt,
yataghan, and lambrochines, in orthodox "snowy camise and shaggy
capote," and who act their characters in a likelier manner than their
comrades, for they are, the majority, arrant "Greeks." A few Bedouin
Arabs - a costume picturesque yet inexpensive: a pen'north of Spanish
liquorice to dye the face withal; a couple of calico sheets, for caftan
and burnous, with the tassel of a red worsted bell-pull or so to finish
off with, and you have your Abd-el-Kader complete. Half-a-dozen
Marquises, of Louis the Fifteenth's time. Plenty of Monks : robes
and cagoules of gray linen, a rope for a girdle, a pennyworth of wooden
beads for a rosary, and slippers cut down into sandals-these are as
cheap as effective. A Knight, in complete armour (pasteboard with
tin-foil glued thereupon) ; a Robinson Crusoe, always getting into
piteous dilemmas, with his goatskin (worsted) umbrella; a Bear, a
Demon, and a Chinese Mandarin. When I have enumerated these,
I find that I have noticed the travestisements most prevalent among
the English male portion of the costumed mob. But there is another
very appreciable element in these exhibitions: the foreign one. A
century has passed since Johnson told us, in his mordant satire of
"London," that England's metropolis was-
"The needy villain's general home,
The common sew'r of Paris and of Rome.
It is astonishing to find how much foreign riff-raff and alien scoundrelry will turn up at a masquerade. Leicester Square and Panton
Street, the cloaques of the Haymarket and Soho, disgorge the bearded
and pomatumed scum of their stale pot-au-feu-smelling purlieus on this
dancing floor. They come with orders, and don't sup; rather hover
about the Daughters of Folly and Sons of Silliness, to wheedle and
extort odd silver sums, with which to gamble at atrocious "nicks,"
and tobacco-enveloped gambling dens in Leicesterian slums, yet unrooted out by lynx-eyed policemen. Homer not unfrequently nods in
Scotland Yard. "None are so blind as those that won't see," whisper
the wicked. These foreigners - shameless, abandoned rogues, mostly
throwing undeserved discredit upon honest, harmless forestieri; fellows
who are "known to the police" in Paris, and have a second home at
the Depot de la Prefecture - affect the cheap, but thoroughly
masquer-[-385-]ade costume of the Pierrot. Very easy of accomplishment, this disguise.
About one and ninepence outlay would suffice, it seemeth to me. Jerkin
of white calico, with immoderately long sleeves, like those of a camisole
de force unfastened; galligaskins of the same snowy cheapness, and
scarlet slippers; any number of tawdry calico bows of any colour down
the sides, a frill round the neck, where the "jougs" of the pillory or
the collar of the garotte should be; the face, that should be seared with
the hangman's brand, thickly plastered with flour, so that there would
be no room for the knave to blush, even if the light hand of a transient
conscience smote him on the cheek and bade him remember that he
once had a mother, and was not always aide-de-camp in waiting to
Beelzebub; a conical cap of pasteboard, like an extinguisher snowed
upon; here you have the Pierrot. The Englishman sometimes attempts
him, but generally fails in the assumption. In order to "keep-up"
the character well, it is necessary to play an infinity of monkey-tricks,
to bear kicking with cheerful equanimity, to dance furiously, and to
utter a succession of shrill screams at the end of every dance. Else
you are no true Pierrot; and these elegancies are foreign to our
phlegmatic manners.
Another favourite costume with the bal masqué is that of the
"Postillon de Longjumeau." He is as well-nigh extinct in France,
by this chiming, as our own old English post-boys. Railways shunted
him off on to oblivion's sidings with terrible rapidity. Only, his
Imperial Highness Prince Jerome Napoleon - whom the Parisians persist in calling "l'Oncle Tom," because, say they, Napoleon I., his
brother, was "le grand homme," Napoleon III., his nephew, "le petit
homme," so this must be necessarily "l'oncle-t-homme"
- or Tom -
this mediocre old gentleman, who throughout his long life has always
been fortunate enough to be lodged, and boarded, and pensioned at
other peoples' expense (they positively carved out a kingdom for him
once), still keeps up a staff of postillons de Lonqjumeau, who, with
much bell-ringing, whip-cracking, and "ha! heu hooping!" guide his
fat, white, hollow-backed Norman post-horses, when his Imperial Highness goes down to St. Cloud or Chantilly in his travelling carriage. It
is a quaint, not unbecoming costume: glazed bat, the brim built at an
angle, broad gold band, cockade as big as a pancake, and multicoloured
streamers of attenuated ribbon; short wig, with club well powdered;
jacket with red facings and turn-up two-inch tails; saucepan-lid buttons,
and metal badge on the left arm ; scarlet vest, double breasted;
buck-[-386-]skins, saffron-dyed; high boots with bucket tops, and greased, mind,
not blacked; long spurs, and whip insignificant as to stock and
tremendous as to lash. This is his Imperial Highness's postilion, and
this, minus the spurs, is the postilion of the bal masque.
And the ladies? I am reticent. I am nervous. I draw back.
"I don't like," as the children say. Hie you to the National Gallery,
and look at Turner's picture of "Phryne going to the bath as Venus."
Among the wild crew of bacchantes and psoropaphae who surround that
young person, you will find costumes as extravagant of hues, as variegated, as strike the senses here. Only, among the masqueraders you
must not look for harmony of colour or symmetry of line. All is
jarring, discordant, tawdry, and harlequinadish. You are in error if
you suppose I am about to descant at length on the glittering seminudities gyrating here. Go to, you naughty queans! you must find
some other inventory-maker. Go and mend your ways, buy horsehair
corsets, "disciplines" and skulls if you will, and repair to the desert,
there to mortify yourselves. Alas! the hussies laugh at me, and tell
me that the only manner in which they choose to tolerate horsehair is
en crinoline. Go to, and remember the fate of a certain Janet Somebody -
I forget her surname - condemned by some Scotch elders, in the
early days of the Reformation, to stripes and the stocks, for assuming
a "pair of breeks." Alack! the débardeurs only mock me, and tell
me that I am a fogey.
Three quasi-feminine costumes there are, however, that shall be
pilloried here. There is the young lady in a riding-habit , who is so
palpably unaccustomed to wearing such a garment, who is so piteously
ill-at-ease in it, not knowing how to raise its folds with Amazonian
grace, and tripping herself up at every fourth step or so, that she is
more ridiculous than offensive. There is the "Middy" a pair of white
trousers, a turn-down collar, a round jacket, and a cap with a gold-lace
band, being understood to fulfil all the requirements of that costume.
The "middy" sneaks about in a most woeful state of sheep-leggedness,
or, at most, essays to burst into delirious gymnastics, which end in
confusion and contumely. And last, and most abhorrent to me, there
is the "Romp." Romps in their natural state - in a parlour, on a
lawn, in a swing, at a game of blind-man's-buff, or hunt-the-slipper -
no honest man need cavil at. I like romps myself, when they don't
pull your hair too hard, have some mercy on your toes, and refrain
from calling you a "cross, grumpy, old thing," when you mildly suggest
[-387-] that it is very near bed-time. But a romp of some twenty-five years of
age, with a cadaverous face, rouged, with a coral necklace, flaxen tails,
a pinafore, a blue sash, Vandyked trousers, bare arms, and a skipping-
rope: take away that romp, I say, quickly, somebody, and bring me
a Gorgon or a Fury, the Hottentot Venus or the Pig-faced Lady! Anything for a change. Away with that romp, and cart her speedily to
the nearest boarding-school where a lineal descendant of Mother Brownrigge yet wields her birchen sceptre.
It is on record that Thomas Carlyle, chiefest among British prose
writing men, once in his life was present, in this very theatre, at a performance of the Italian Opera. He stayed the ballet, even, and went
away full of strange cogitations. I would give one of my two ears (for
be it known to you I am stone-deaf on the left side, like most men who
have led evil lives in their youth, and could, wearing my hair long,
well spare the superfluous flap of flesh and gristle) if I could persuade
Thomas to visit a masquerade. There would be a new chapter in the
next edition of "Sartor Resartus" to a certainty. For all these varied
fopperies and fineries, dominoes, battered masks with ragged lace, sham
orris, draggle-tailed feathers, tin-bladed rapiers, rabbit-skin and rat's-tail
ermine, cotton velvet, pinked stockings, frayed epaulettes, mended skirts - all suggest pregnant thoughts of the Bag.
Tout cela sent son marchand d'habits. Not to be driven away is the pervading notion of Old
Clothes of Vinegar Yard and the ladies' wardrobe shop, of the ultimate
relegation of these sallow fripperies to Petticoat Lane and Rag Fair. Nor
without histories - some grave, some gay, some absurd, some terrible -
must be these mended shreds of gaudy finery. They have been worn by
aristocratic striplings at Eton Montem - defunct saturnalia of patrician
"cadging." Those dim brocades and Swiss shepherdess corsages, have
graced the forms of the fair-haired daughters of nobles at fancy balls.
Great actresses, or cantatrici, have declaimed or sung in those satins,
before they were disdainfully cast by, abandoned to the dresser, sold to
the Jew costumier, cut down into tunics or pages' shoulder cloaks, furbished up with new tags and trimmings. Real barristers and gay young
college lads have worn those wigs and gowns and trencher caps; real
captains have flaunted at reviews in those embroidered tunics and
epaulettes; swift horses have borne those scarlet coats and buckskins
across country, but with real fox-hunters inside. Where are the original
possessors? Drowned, or shot to death, or peacefully mouldering, insolvent, or abroad, gone up to the Lords, or hanged. Who knows?
[-388-] Perhaps they are lounging here as Swells, not recognising their old
uniforms and academics, now worn by sham Abraham men and francmitous. Who can tell? Where
is the pinafore of our youth, and the
first shooting jacket of adolescence? "Ou sont les neiges d'antan?"
Where are the last winter's snows?
But Thomas Carlyle wouldn't come to this place, at his age and at
this time in the morning; and, between you and me, I think it high
time that we too should depart. In truth, the place is growing anything but orderly. Champagne and incessant exercise on the "light
fantastic toe" have done their work. Dances of a wild and incoherent
character, reminding one of the "Chaloupe, the " Tulipe
Orageuse,"
and the much-by-municipal-authorities-abhorred "Cancan," are
attempted. The masters of the ceremonies seem laudably desirous of
clearing the salle. Let us procure our great-coats, and flee from
Babylon before the masquers grew unroarious.
A stream of masquerading humanity, male and female, begins to
pour through the corridors and so out beneath the portico. It is
time. Cabs and broughams - the "swells" came in the broughams - sly, wicked little inventions; policemen hoarsely shout and linkmen
dart about.
I thought so. I knew how it would end. A row, of course. That
big Postillon de Longjumeau has borne it with admirable temper for
hours; but the conduct of the Charles the Second Cavalier has been beyond human forbearance.
She - the cavalier is a she - has incited the Pierrot (an Englishman, for a wonder, and hopelessly gone in
champagne) to knock the postilion down. He wept piteously at first, but,
gathering courage, and not liking, perhaps, to be humiliated in the
eyes of a débardeur in claret-coloured velvet, he kicked up wildly at
the aggressor with his boots. Then the cavalier scratched his face;
then the claret-coloured débardeur fainted; then Mr. Edward Clyfaker,
of Charles Street, Drury Lane, thief, cut in cleverly from between the
wheels of a carriage, and picked Lord Holloway's pocket of Miss Claypainter's cambric handkerchief; then A 22 drew his truncheon and hit
an inoffensive fox-hunter a violent blow on the head; then four medical
students called out "Fire!" and an inebriated costermonger, who had
not been to the masquerade at all, but was quietly reeling home, challenged Lord Claude Muffin to single combat; then Ned Raggabones
and Robin Barelegs, street Arabs, threw "cart-wheels" into the midst
[-389-]
THREE O'CLOCK A.M. : THE NIGHT CHARGES AT BOW STREET
[-390-] of the throng; then the police came down in great force, and, after
knocking a great many people about who were not in the slightest
degree implicated in the disturbance, at last pitched upon the right
parties, and bore the pugnacious Pierrot and the disorderly Cavalier off
to the station-house. It is but due to the managers of the masquerade
to state, that no such scandalous melées take place within the precincts
of the theatre itself. The masters of the ceremonies and the police on
duty take care of that : but such little accidents will happen, outside,
after the best-regulated masquerades.
To the station-house, then, to the abode of captivity and the hall
of justice. The complaining postilion and his friends, accompanied by
a motley procession of tag-rag and bob-tail, press triumphantly forward.
Shall we follow also?
In a commodious gas-lit box, surrounded by books and papers, and
with a mighty folio of loose leaves open before him - a book of Fate, in truth -
sits a Rhadamanthine man, buttoned up in a great-coat often;
for be it blazing July or frigid December, it is always cold at three
o'clock in the morning. Not a very pleasant duty his : sitting through
the long night before that folio, smoking prohibited, warm alcoholic
liquids only, I should suppose, to be surreptitiously indulged in: sitting
only diversified by an occasional sally into the night air, to visit the
policemen on their various beats, and learn what wicked deeds are
doing this night and morning - a deputy taking charge of the folio
meanwhile. Duty perhaps as onerous as that of the Speaker of the
House of Commons: but, ah! not half so wearisome. For the Rhadamanthine man in the great-coat has betimes to listen to tales of awful
murder, of desperate burglaries, of harrowing suicides, of poverty and
misery that make your soul to shudder and your heart to grow sick;
and sometimes to more jocund narratives - harum.scarum escapades,
drunken freaks, impudent tricks, ingenious swindles, absurd jealousy,
quarrels, and the like. But they all - be the case murder, or be it
mouse-trap stealing - are entered on that vast loose folio, which is the
charge-sheet, in fact; Rhadamanthine man in great-coat being but the
inspector of police on night duty, sitting here at his grim task for some
fifty or sixty shillings a week. Harder task than sub-editing a newspaper even, I am of opinion.
He has had a busy time since nine, last evening.. One by one the
"charges" were brought in, and hour after hour, and set before him in
that little iron-railed dock. Some were felonious charges: scowling, [-391-] beetle-browed, under-hung charges, who had been there many times
before, and were likely to come there many times again. A multiplicity
of Irish charges, too : beggars, brawlers, pavement-obstructors - all
terribly voluble and abusive of tongue; many with squalid babies
in their arms. One or two such charges are lying now, contentedly
drunken heaps of rags, in the women's cells. Plenty of juvenile
charges, mere children, God help them! swept in and swept out;
sometimes shot into cells - their boxes of fusees, or jagged broom-stumps, taken from them. A wife-beating charge; rufflanly carver,
who has been beating his wife with the leg of a pianoforte. The
wretched woman, all blood and tears, is very reluctant, even now, to
give evidence, and entreats the inspector to "let Bill go; he didn't
mean no harm." But he is locked up, departing to durance with the
comforting assurance to his wife that he will, "do for her," at the
first convenient opportunity. I daresay he will, when his six months'
hard labour are over. There was a swell-mob charge, too, a dandy
de premiere force, who swaggered, and twisted his eye-glass, and sucked
his diamond ring while in the dock, and declared he knew nothing of
the gentleman's watch, he was "shaw." He broke down, however,
while being searched, and on the discovery of the watch - for he had
missed the confederate who usually "covered him" - subsided into bad
language, and the expression of a hope that he might not be tried by
"old Bramwell," meaning the learned judge of that name. Short work has been made with some of these charges, while the disposal of others has occupied a considerable time. As the night grew
older, the drunk and disorderly and drunk and incapable charges
began to drop in; but one by one they have been disposed of in a
calm, business-like manner, and the "charges" are either released, or,
if sufficient cause were apparent for their detention, are sleeping off
their liquor, or chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies, in the
adjacent cells.
"I thought the
ball masky would bring us some work," the inspector remarks to the sergeant, as the Pierrot is carried, and the
cavalier is dragged, and the postilion and his friend stalk indignantly - the whole accompanied by a posse of police, into the station : "Now,
then, F29, what is it?"
F, or X, or Z, or whatever may be his distinguishing letter or numeral, gives a succint narrative of the row, so far as he is acquainted with
its phases, very much in the style of the Act á'Accusation of a French
[-392-] procureur imperial, which is always as damaging as it conveniently can
be made against the person in custody. The postilion follows with his
statement, the cavalier breaks in with an indignant denial of all he has
said, violently insists upon charging the postilion with murder and
assaults and ultimately expresses a desire to know what he, the inspector, thinks of himself, a wish to tear F 29's eyes out, and ardent
ambition to "polish off the whole lot." "Don't all speak at once,"
remonstrates the inspector, but they will all speak at once, and the
Pierrot, waking up from an intoxicated trance, asseverates, in broken
accents, that he is a "p~p-p-p-pro-f-f-fessional man, and highly
res-pe-pep-pectable," and then sinks quiescent over the front of the dock, in an
attitude very much resembling that sometimes assumed by the celebrated Mr. Punch.
"There, take him away," says the municipal functionary, pointing
with sternly contemptuous finger to the Pierrot. "And take her
away," he adds, designating the cavalier. "And you, sir," he continues, to the postilion, "sign your name and address there, and take
care to be at the court at ten in the morning. And I should advise
you to go straight home, or you'll be here again shortly, with somebody
to take care of you. I wonder whether we shall have any more," he
says wearily, to his sergeant, as the captives are removed, and the room
is cleared.
It does not so much matter, for the third hour is gone and past,
and as we emerge into the street, the clock of St. Paul's strikes FOUR. There! the twenty-four hours are accomplished, and we have progressed, however lamely and imperfectly, " Twice Round the Clock."
Good-bye, dear readers-pleasant companions of my labours. Goodbye, troops of shadowy friends and shadowy enemies, whose handwriting-in praise, in reproach, in condolence, in sympathy, in jest,
and in earnest-is visible enough to me on many pages laying open
before me at this moment, but whose faces I shall never see on this
side the grave. Your smiles and frowns henceforward belong to the
past, for my humble task is achieved, and the Clock is Stopped.
THE END.
[nb. grey numbers in brackets indicate page number, (ie. where new page begins), ed.] |