Abbildungen der Seite
PDF
EPUB

narrow streets of Paris, and not caring a straw whom they run over. One almost wishes, when such things as these are witnessed, that this family were compelled to return to the obscurity in which they were supported by British hospitality, and which they could never have emerged from without the generous assistance of the British nation.

MODE OF LIVING IN PARIS.

There is hardly any such thing as a domestic fire-side in this capital. The French have no comforts at home, and pass their leisure in coffee-houses and eating-houses. During the winter there is no place so wretched as one's own dwelling; a good fire cannot be had without opening the doors and windows, the chimnies being so badly constructed as to cause the greatest inconvenience from smoke, unless a great deal of wind is allowed to enter the apartment. Wood is the fuel used by the Parisians; and it is so dear, that, in order to keep up one fire from morning till night, one must pay at least 14 or 15 francs a week. Such a fire, as a very poor person in England can afford to have, will here cost a franc a day: the poor, therefore, are destitute of this comfort. They get a little charcoal and an earthen pot, with which they make their coffee and soup. Those who are able breakfast at a coffee-house, and dine at a restaurateur's. A Frenchman of small income, who has no housekeeping, breakfasts upon dry bread, and dines at a restaurateur's, for 22 sous to 2 francs, according to his means, where he has soup, 3 dishes, , bread, half a bottle of wine, and dessert. Very few persons make more than two meals a day, breakfast and dinner; the former, where the means are equal to it, is generally à la fourchette at the latter the quantity eaten is enormous; indeed the French are the greatest caters in the world. A labouring man, who has only bread for his dinner, will, if he can get so much, eat from four to six pounds at this meal; and the Frenchman who dines at a restaurateur's, gene rally eats two pounds, besides his soup and three dishes. At the lead ing restaurateurs', a good dinner will cost seven or eight francs, exelusive of wine; but it is only doing

justice to the French to say, that at their cheapest eating-houses the dishes are good, and the customers have silver forks with clean napkins. A Frenchman may well be disgusted at the mode of conducting business in the very best eating-houses in London, when he contrasts them with the establishments of the same nature in Paris. The poor people who can get any thing to eat (many are without food for two days together) live upon soup made of vegetables and bread. The middle classes are also very economical in their mode of living; a very respectable tradesman and his family of seven or eight persons will dine for about 1s. 6d. One of the dishes is an excellent dish made from beans called harieots; the beans are boiled for some time, and, when perfectly soft, they make a good dish, with a little butter, parsley, pepper, and salt. To the water in which they were boiled herbs, one of which is sorrel, are added, and one or two eggs are also beaten up and put in. When these have boiled for a short time, the soup is really excellent, and at the same time nutritious. Louis XVIII. has this dish three or four times a week, and many persons of rank also have it from choice. As there is so little comfort in the private houses, the French men and women are as little at home as possible. They go to the coffee-houses, and take a cup of coffee, a bottle of beer, or a glass of sugar and water. At some of these coffee-houses there are plays acted, which the customers see gratis; but the performances are of the lowest description, as may well be imagined. The French are also very economical in their parties, and I think properly so. In England, if a tradesman has a few friends, nothing is thought of but eating and drinking, and the guests talk of the party the next day, not of the society which they met, but of the good things which they devoured. Here society, and not stuffing one's belly, is considered; a little punch and cake is all that is offered: even sometimes in the best families there is no refreshment. The visitors dine late before they go to the party, and return home to take refreshment at their own expense before they go to bed. (To be continued.)

LIFE IN LONDON; OR, RAISING THE WIND.

[blocks in formation]

TOM CHAMPERTON was certainly one of the best companions in the world. His good nature and good temper, his wit, his humour, his gay and flexible manners rendered him a delightful companion; nay, it was impossible to be in his company without wishing to see him again, or even without wishing to become an intimate friend. Tom's heart was the very fountain of generosity; and, had his inheritance been the mine of Golconda, in less than ten years Tom would have dug to his antipodes, and converted the mine to an abyss. But, after all, there was no depending on the fel low; a woman, a bottle of wine, a water-party, or any frolic whatever would make him give up, or rather forget, the most serious and solemn engagement. Tom's patrimony was by no means contemptible; but it is no great difficulty to conceive, that, if it did not solve the problem of perpetual motion, it was likely very soon to establish, beyond all controversy, the powerful effects of rapid circulation. In short, before the age of thirty, the fellow had been an inmate of at least thrice thirty sponging houses and prisons; and it was wonderful to see the easy gentility, with which he would return the bows of the different bailiffs that passed him in the street-all old acquaintances. I had missed him from London for several months, when, unexpectedly meeting him in Portman-square, I joyfully accosted him, and, cordially shaking his hands, I began with, my dear Tom, where have you been for the last six months? I thought you had been in the Bench," -"Pshaw." said he, with a goodnatured but laconic contempt, "who, my dear fellow, would take the trouble to put me in the Bench ?"

[ocr errors]

But, very soon, his condition be came exceedingly serious, and the generous fellow began to experience what all generous fellows do expe

rience when they get into difficulties, that the feeders on his bounty were exceedingly libera! in telling him what line of conduct would have prevented all his distresses; but he found, that these sage advisers seldom or ever accompanied their advice, or rather their reproaches, with the weighty concomitants of pounds, shillings, and pence. It was wretched to see the poor fellow struggling between pride and poverty; for with all his levity he had considerable pride, and nothing on earth could induce him to beg a favour; it was true he would borrow ad infinitum, and without the means or even a thought of repaying the loan; but in the days of his prosperity, and they were bril liant days, he had never dreamt of asking any man to repay any of the numerous sums that they had borrowed of him. It was not that he thought it ungentlemanly or ungenerous to ask a friend for money. The fact was, he had never given it a thought at all; and when once he lent his cash, it as thoroughly vanished from his mind, as it often eventually vanished from his pocket. He had certainly not exhausted the benevolence of my disposition, but he had thoroughly exhausted my ability to support him. From a ten-pound note, the fellow had at last come down to the frequent

66

you haven't got a half-crown in your pocket, have you?"-and so many times had I answered,-"yes, I have," that 1, at last, found it necessary to alter my tone. It was impossible to say that I had not a half-crown in my pocket: that was out of the question; credulity itself would not have believed it, even had she come to the good Catholic doctrine of the credo quia impossibile est. I was, therefore, obliged to act the part of the man in the farce, and, putting on a gruff voice and manner foreign to my nature, I at length always answered

this unpleasant question, with a "Yes, I have, and I intend to keep it there."-Tom was never importunate: he was never steady to any point, and, whatever were his distresses, this answer always drove him off his scent.

Thus had my friend been going on for several years, when I alto gether missed him from the town. I at length discovered his abode, and called on him at his lodgings, three pair of stairs, Crow-alley. How different from his once lively and hospitable mansion in Baker-, street! Well have I reason to remember my visit to him in these infernal lodgings; and yet, how can I call lodgings infernal, which were some of the highest in London, Suffice it to say, that I have reason to remember my visit, for in going up his narrow, dark, winding stair case, thrice did I knock my new hat against the ceiling, until it was ruined; and in coming down these unnatural stairs, putting my heel on some orange- peel, I should have fallen on all-fours, had it not been that my nose came in contact with the edge of a stair, some seconds before either of my all-fours had found a resting-place. My hat was ruined, and so was my nose-as to its beauty, I mean.

But to recover my anachronism, and to travel back again to my arrival at the top of the stairs-the old hag of the house had told me to knock at the door on my left, or in other terms, at the back garret door. -At this door I knocked both loud and impatiently, for to speak the truth, I was by no means pleased with the landing place on which I rested." Come in," cried a dull, low voice; and, breaking my nail by lifting the broken latch of the door, I entered a dull, miserable apartment. My friend was sitting sadly in disbabille: neither his stockings nor his breeches showed any marks of good housewifery; his legs were stretched at their utmost length, his elbow was leaning on a broken table, and his head on his hand: he was whistling a doleful lilliballero. "Ah, my dear Champerton," said I," how are you?" A mournful gleam of vivacity shot across his eye as he shook me by the hand, and I immediately Eur. Mag, Jan, 1823.

recalled the picture of the once elegant and vivacious Tom Champerton; but he soon relaxed into a deeper melancholy than I conceived his nature was capable of. I tried to rally him into good spirits."Come, come, my dear Tom," said I, carelessly, "it used not always to be thus with you-you were the gayest fellow on the town; nothing could damp your spirits; you were once the merriest, jollyest dog". "Yes, it was so once," answered he, casting a look around his room, which both reproached me for my levity, and pierced me to the heart: I shall never forget the look-I have it before me now. It told me how hollow is friendship-what an unfeeling creature is man. Oh, it spoke volumes, and told me, more of human frailty and of human woe than, for the honour of human na ture, I would disclose.-I was unable for a long time to recover my composure. In short, I did not recover it, but with a voice of tre mulous feeling, I began to philo sophise with my fallen friend. "Let us," said I, "put the best face on every thing; it is no use to give way to sorrow, or to yield to misfortune. Nature is elastic, and will recover her tone."-"Will she," cried he, with a voice and look of bitter satire; and then grasping my hand with sudden emotion, and the big tear glistening in his eye ready to o'erflow its bank, “I tell you,' said he, dropping his voice,

I have not tasted food for these three days; no, except three glasses of brandy and water which I have drank with Sir Thomas Wilton, and a pint of ale which my landlady has scored against me, I have not touched food for these three days." His countenance, poor fellow, corroborated his assertions. The fact was, that his old friends were always happy to ask him to drink, on account of his convivial talents, but they asked him not to eat, not conceiving he was in want of food; and his pride would not let him divulge a necessity so mortifying. Presently, he resumed his former tone, and began in his old strain, with, "My good fellow, you haven't a half-crown in your pocket, have you ?" "No, my dear friend," said I, "I have not, but I have a

F

five pound note in my pocket-book, which is at your service." "Thank you, my dear fellow," said he, taking the note; "I will repay you punctually." This was in no spirit of fraud, it was merely the result of his utter carelessness of disposition. I am convinced, that, had an object of distress applied to him in five minutes after, he would have freely given the half of what I had just bestowed on him,

[ocr errors]

seven shillings; such, thought I, is the tax for my giving good advice."

Five days after this proceeding, loud knock of a bony knuckle upon I was one morning awakened by the it did not literally split my door, it the pannel of my chamber door. If metaphorically split my head. Starting up, and putting on my dressinggown, I vociferated in a terrified tone, "Who's there?"" known voice. Frank, let me in," cried Tom's wellMy dear "You have roused lightful dream, and by a knock which me, 1 cried, out of the most dewould have startled Nourjahad or the Seven Sleepers-in the name of goodness what is it you want?” "Want, my dear Frank, why_to tell you that my advertisement has been answered." "By whom, said I ?" " By the Rev. Dr. Loquor; I am to be at his house, No. 24, Cam

As soon as this gift had produced a favourable effect upon his spirits, I began to converse with him upon his future means of support. must do something to support your"You self" said I, in a tone of impressive seriousness. "What can a man like me do," replied he, with a shrug of his shoulders and a look at once so distressed and ridiculous, that it both brought conviction on my mind, and set my assumed gravity at de-bridge-street, precisely at fiance. Upon my word, my dear Tom, that ejaculation is a puzzler, but can't you contrive to use your pen; I remember you were a clever fellow as a boy, and I do believe, at Westminster, you did half the exercises and translations of the lubbers of twice your age, and all for a few shillings worth of oranges and gingerbread; many a flogging have you saved me; besides which you were the Mercury of the school; and, for scaling a wall or robbing an orchard, you were the ne plus ultra of perfection." Tom's ideas were always very rapid. "An excellent thought," cried he, “ inkstand, my dear fellow, let me give me the write an advertisement; the inkstand! the inkstand! be quick, before I lose the idea." The deuce a bit of inkstand could I behold, although my eyes travelled round the room, or rather surveyed the room without travelling, for his chamber was of that size which Diogenes might almost have mistaken for his tub. Thrusting his arm impatiently before me he snatched from his mantle-piece what he called his inkstand, which was no more nor less than the fragment of a tea-cup, containing the brown dried paste which was to serve him for ink. The advertisement was well written, and duly appeared in that noted paper, The Times," and for its insertion into which I had as duly to pay the charge of

66

ten."

[ocr errors]

better be off, for it is now past "Well, my dear Tom, you had nine." "But," answered he with a long stop, and then gave a look at enough even to a person less exhis clothes, which was intelligible perienced in those looks than myself. "Pshaw, Tom, your clothes are shabby, why it is all in character well brushed, and if they are a little Then came out another of his "Buts" with your new profession of letters.' having cast my eyes, I could not in with a look at his shirt, at which my conscience obey my inclination to say it would do very well-it was monstrously dirty, and if sleeves, collar, or frill be necessary to the definibe called a shirt than it had to be tion of a shirt, it had no more title to styled a pelisse or great coat. To end the matter, I lent the fellow a shirt, and no sooner had he put it dear Frank, lend me this false collar; on than he exclaimed, " And my you won't mind paying for the I will give it to you on my return; washing of it." Here I made a virtue of necessity: I should have refused the collar, but, before I had time to say yea or nay, it was buttoned round his long throat. "And this said be, looking wistfully at my neckcloth-do you think it will do?" face, and holding before me a neckcloth, on which no labour of the bour of the needlewoman, had been washerwoman, but prodigious la

bestowed. My consciencious love of candour and veracity would not allow me to say, “Yes, it will do," although I fatally knew, that an opposite answer would cost me the price of a half handkerchief; so that, half vexed at his thoughtless impudence, I gave him no reply at all, but handed him a neckcloth, taking care that it was the worst in my wardrobe; for I well knew, that it was nunquam revertitur, never to

return.

Tom was really a fine looking fellow; one of nature's gentlemen; and now that he had clean linen on, and, I may add, now that he had shaved and washed his face and bands, his appearance was wonderfully improved. In short, it admits of no doubt, that a clean shave, with washing the skin and changing the linen, makes a great difference in any man's appearance. Casting a satisfied look in the glass, he exclaimed, “Well, my dear Frank, this will do, won't it? but a man must not be quite out of the world, so lend me this brooch until I return." This was going too farthe blood of my ancestors rose in my veins-no, not by St. David, or St. Lewis ap Reece ap Shenkin, shall you touch that jewel of my bosom, and I laid a quick but firm hand on my trinket. Lord-a-mercy," said he, with a look of naivette and surprize, "I only intended to borrow it for an hour. Dr. Loquor won't, I suppose, detain me longer." I kept firm to my purpose, for I knew but too well, if 1 once let him wear my brooch, my only chance of ever seeing it again, would be in the shop of some pawnbroker or Jew. But to appease the irritation which my firmness of purpose had created, I rapidly assumed the suaviter in modo, I passed from grave to gay, from severe to lively. "My dear Tom Champerton," said 1, "you seem to forget all your once great knowledge of the town: is it not your old saying, that a man must do every thing in character. What, my dear fellow, is the costume of an author is he rich, he should have good clothes, tumbled, dirty, and badly put on-is he poor, he ought to have threadbare clothes, well brushed and pat on with great stiffness and precision. Come, Tom, you look the

latter class of author to a T." "Yes, threadbare enough," said Tom, holding up to me the skirt of his coat, so thoroughly worn, that I verily believe, had he ever bought more than a quarter of a pound of any commodity at one time, and deposited it in his pocket, the whole skirt ipso facto would have severed from its kindred body.

Well, away he went on his mission and I began to muse on his life, character, and behaviour. Champerton never had much of erudition. His thoughts were of the burning and comet cast; he flew through his classics when a boy, with the power and rapidity of an eagle; but, like many others of the eagle class, it was light come light go with him. He remembered nothing-in short, he was a genius, and his genius was of an order, admirably calculated to get a man into a thousand difficulties and scrapes. I thought, however, he might succeed with Dr. Loquor, for Tom had much of the current learning of the day-every jest and song-book was at his fingers' ends. He poured with delight over the European Magazine; and, to speak the truth, he borrowed from the European more than one half of the good things, which, to the delight of his companions, he uttered, and which he retailed with all the confidence and assurance of originality. The worst of Tom was his infidelity; he was a sad Deist, and his jokes and scoffs upon the subject were so incessant and strong, as to reduce his friends to bring him to the sine qua non of changing the subject, or losing their company.

Tom's interview with Dr. Loquor was singular. After some indifferent conversation, the divine began with a "Sir, I suppose you are intimately acquainted with the classics." Tom's voluble assurance never deserted him.

"Oh yes, sir, intimately acquainted with them, from Hic, hæc, hoc, up to Juvenal, both inclusive." "But, with the Greek classics?" "Know them equally as well, sir;" (and here the poor fellow spoke truth.) "What Greek authors do you most admire, sir?" "Oh, Roger Ascham's Taxophilus-Hobbes's de Corpore Politico-Aulus Gellius, and all the other Greek classics." "I have neglected my Greek sadly,"

« ZurückWeiter »