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SKETCHES OF SOCIETY AND MANNERS IN LONDON

AND PARIS. duts :3525

LETTER 11.

The Marquis de Vermont in London, to

You English are such ramblers that, perhaps, of all places home is the last where your friends have any chance of finding you. Deeply, therefore, as I share the disappointment, my dear Darnley, which you have had the kindness to express at our separation, I confess I am more grieved than surprised at your absence. You are very philosophical in discovering, that we may both derive some advantage from the singular coincidence, which sent you by one road to Paris, while I took the other to London. This kind of moralizing, and drawing good from evil, is quite characteristic of your national disposition. I cannot be so reasonable, nor shall I ever cease to regret the loss of your valuable assistance, in viewing this interesting country. But as Fate has deprived me of so able a conductor, I must grope my way in the dark as well as I can; and, after having done So, I shall avail myself of your permission, and submit my remarks to the examination and correction of your superior judgment. Nor shall I hesitate when I perceive, in your observations on France, any error which my local knowledge can set right, to point out to you the supposed mistake.

In reading your letter, I could not help smiling at some of your critiques. No one is more liberal than yourself; yet so difficult is it

Sir Charles Darnley, Bart., at Paris.

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region, inhabited by human beings, will no similar imperfections be discovered? In general, I believe, it is true, that in your favoured island more pains are taken to preserve a corresponding propriety in all you do or undertake, than elsewhere; but even in England, do you think there are no inconsisten cies?

I have, as yet, only spent one week in this proud Albion, yet I have not done so, without perceiving that, in spite of its freedom, moral rectitude, and diffused knowledge, this country has still its contradictions.

To begin with the Inns, which are generally, and perhaps justly, considered as superior to those on the Continent, and which some travellers have compared to the Palaces of Princes, I confess that, in many respects, they deserve the praises which have been lavished on them. The civility of the landlords, and the almost troublesome attention of the waiters, the well-carpeted and well-aired rooms, into which the fatigued stranger is conducted on his arrival,-the blazing fire,-the close-drawn curtains,—the handsome and easy sopha, -the sideboard covered with glass and plate, and the general cleanliness of all around, are circumstances well calculated to justify such encomiums. Now, notwithstanding these varied

to divest oneself of early prejudices, conveniences, your most celebrated

that even you seem to consider all those incongruities which drew your notice on the road to Paris, as peeuliar to the country which you are visiting; forgetting what a modern writer observes, with equal truth and neatness, "that inconsistency is the grand characteristic of man.' I do not pretend to assert, that no absurdities can be found in our usages and manners; but in what

Inns are deficient in many things essential to the comfort of a person accustomed to the manners and habits of the Continent.

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When after a boisterous though rapid voyage I landed at Dover, (after having been much indisposed on the passage) I took up my quarters in one of the best hotels of that town, I was no less surprised than delighted at the manner in which

* Translated from the original French.

I was welcomed to this house of met me as I

that the dinner was ready, I begged

public entertainment. The master that the soup might be brought in,

left the packet; and, hearing that I intended to be his lodger, insisted on being my guide, and walked before me to his dwelling, promising, at the same time, that he would himself see my luggage conveyed to the Custom-house, and would super intend the examination of its con

tents..

At the door of the inn I was received by his wife, a smiling and well-dressed young woman, who conducted me into a small but com. fortable apartment; and in less than five minutes I found myself quite at home, while half a dozen waiters busied themselves in anticipating my wishes. One stirred the fire, a second drew down the curtains, a third placed on the polished table a pair of wax candles, a fourth lighted them, a fifth brought a newspaper, and a sixth, on my enquiring about dinner, ran for a bill of fare.

"Well," thought I," this Eng land seems, indeed, a most delightful place, and a simple traveller is better treated here than an Ambassador or reigning Prince in other countries. Nor did I forget to contrast all these civilities with the cold and haughty manner in which you and I were so often received at similar houses in America. When the bill of fare, which was as long as la carte at a French restaurateur's, was produced, some of my miseries began. It contained a list of every kind of butcher's meat, every kind of poultry, every kind of fish, and every kind of vegetables; but all these things were to dress, and nothing was ready, though the hour at which I arrived was precisely that at which I know the generality of Englishmen are in the habit of dining. The necessity of waiting, while my meal was preparing, did not very well accord with the ravenous appetite of a man who had not eaten since sun-rise, and who, in the interval, had crossed the Channel: but compelled to do so I requested, without making any selection, that my landlady would have the good ness to order for me whatever could be most expeditiously cooked. No time was lost in executing my orders; but when, on being informed

I found, to my great disappointment, that that usual, and almost from habit necessary article in a Frenchman's meal, had been omitted. "Then," said I, "let me have what you have substituted." A slice of boiled cod, with a very insipid sauce made of oysters (which I happen particularly to dislike) was followed by a plate of mutton chops, which were so hard and so raw, that I could with difficulty persuade myself to taste them; and the potatoes, which filled another dish, were scarcely more inviting. I requested, therefore, to have some other vegetables, when some greens were placed on the table---but they, too, were underboiled. One of the waiters, perceiving that I did not seem to relish the dinner which he had set before me, said, very civilly, "Sir, would you choose something else? Perhaps you would prefer a beefsteak, a veal cutlet, or a slice of cold ham ?"

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“Oh, no:-cannot I have a partridge-some pigeons- a poulet au ris-africandeau-or a vol-au-vent?” (mentioning some of the articles which in France are met with in the commonest inns.) His answer convinced me that nothing of the kind was here to be had without several hours previous notice. In despair I called for pastry; when an ill-made apple-tart and some tasteless jelly were brought in;-and when I asked for a desert, a few oranges, a dry biscuit, and a dish of sour apples, were all which I could obtain. In respect to wine I was equally unfortunate: I first tried the port, but it appeared so very strong to my palate, that I seemed to be swallowing liquid flames of fire and ether: changed it for claret; the beverage thus denominated proved so adulterated, that I could scarcely recognise in its taste the most distant resemblance to my favourite Bordeaux. But to conclude the tale of mes petits malheurs, my next demand was for coffee:---after I had waited half an hour, a silver salver was placed before me, containing an elegant vase of the same metal; and by its side a china dish, with a well-buttered muffin, and a cut-glass jug full of the richest cream. All these pre

parations promised weil; but when I began to pour out the coffee from the ornamental pot which held it, I found it so ill-made, and so diluted with water, that it was not without disgust that I swallowed a cup-full. Little refreshed by my dinner, and exhausted with the fatigues of the day, I expressed, at an early hour, my intention of retiring to rest: as soon as I told the waiter that such was my wish, a pretty and welldressed young woman, who said she was the chamber-maid, made her appearance; and carrying a wax ta per in a silver candlestick, led me through the intricate mazes of an old staircase, which seemed to run from one end of the house to the other, into a low-roofed room, where a small but neat bedstead, with fur niture of snowy-white linen, acccompanied with every other apparent comfort, seemed to promise that if I had not dined very luxuriously, I should be indemnified by the enjoy ment of a good night's repose: think then of my disappointment, when on lying down that, instead of the pile of mattresses to which we are accustomed in France, there was nothing here but a down feather-bed, the heat of which was intolerable; while the sheets had been so highly mangled, that I could not find a resting place. After tossing about for several hours in a state of feverish irritation, I had at last sunk into an uneasy sleep, when I was suddenly roused by the sound of a horn, which announced, as I was informed the next day, the arrival of the London mail-coach. Again I attempted to tranquillize myself; and, after an interval of some time, fell again into an imperfect slumber, when I was a second time disturbed by a still louder noise than that which had at first awakened me: it was occasioned by some late travellers, who finding the gate of the inn closed, which was directly under my windows, were knocking at it, and demanding post horses.

Such was my first night at an Eng lish inn; and such my experience of the comforts, the much vaunted comforts of a country which, in this res pect, is said to be superior to all the world.

You will acknowledge that, if before you had been a week in France

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you discovered some inconsistencies, before I had passed twenty-four hours in this island, I had sufficient cause to make a similar complaint.: My bill, too, for these wretched accommodations amounted to something more than two guineas; for which sumi at Paris, after eating the most luxurious dinner at Beauvilliers' or Robèrts', you may sleep at any of the most expensive hotels, in such a bed as a Roman emperor would not have disdained. Nor were the circumstances which I have mentioned pe culiar to Dover-wherever I stopped on the road I found similar advan tages, and similar disadvantages. At every inn I enjoyed on my arrival the comforts of a good fire, and a well aired room; and in all of them the charm of extreme cleanliness, and great civility :-but when wishing to satisfy my appetite I called for the bill of fare, I uniformly received a long list of mutton, veal, beef, lamb, poultry, and fish to dress; and I soon learnt that, unless I was disposed to wait three or four hours for the preparation of a dinner, and to treble the already heavy charges of my travelling expenses, that the only real choice was between a tough mutton-chop and a hard beef steak, between an ill-cooked veal cutlet and a raw leg of roast lamb, and between stale pastry and insipid jelly.

Having thus spoken frankly of the inconveniences which I have experienced, it gives me great pleasure to reverse the picture, and to speak to you of the satisfaction which my journey has already afforded me.

In going from Dover to London, I was delighted with the rapidity of the posting, the beauty of the horses, and the civility of the drivers---the excellence of the roads---the rich variety of the landscapes---the ornamented grounds and elegant villas of the gentry-the white cottages and neat gardens of the peasantry-the picturesque villages--the appearance of comfort so generally displayed in the dresses and dwellings of all orders of the people-and with the first sight of your renowned Thames, flowing majestically between the counties of Kent and Essex; and so crowded with vessels, that I seemed to behold a forest of masts. I was also much surprised at the multitude of travellers, whom

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As I approached London, I endeavoured to discover the dome of St. Paul's. It was at last pointed out to me, but it was so enveloped in a cloud of smoke, that with difficulty I perceived its mighty top. In driving over Westminster-bridge, I lamented, that a nearer view of the river was impeded by the lofty parapets; but what I did see excited my admiration. In entering the town, I confess I was disappointed. After traversing a shabby street, formed almost entirely of shops, I perceived, it is true, a handsome opening to the left, the striking feature of which is the Abbey; but its ancient magnificence seems little to accord with the modern garden adjoining it, and still less with the low and jetty buildings which we passed in approaching it. Evening was coming in at the moment of my arrival, and a dense and yellow fog threw a gloom on all around. The convenience, however, of your trottoirs, for which it is curious that

we, who do not generally possess the advantage, have invented the only appropriate name, did not escape my notice. On these trottoirs crowds of well-dressed pedestrians of both sexes were hastening to their respective avocations, in spite of the unfavourable state of the atmosphere, and of the approaching night.--Nor did I fail to remark the numberless elegant carriages and loaded carts, which impeded our way when we came to Charing-Cross, while the richness and variety of the shops, which were just lighted, dazzled my eyes, and distracted my attention,

But more of all this hereafter. I have, for the present, taken up my quarters at Brunet's, in Leicester-square; for though I hope, by and by, so to accustom myself to your usages as to feel perfectly at my ease in an English hotel, I think, for the moment, I shall be more satisfied at the house of a countryman, where I shall be able to command all those conveniences which early habit has rendered indispensable. For my next letter, I flatter myself I shall find a more interesting topic than that of soups and waiters, to which this has been necessarily confined. Adieu,

SONG.

And believe me ever your's,
LE MARQUIS DE VERMONT.

THERE'S not a look of those dear eyes
That I shall e'er forget!

And, more than all my days, I prize

The day when first we met.

There's not a tone of that soft voice
But I shall ever hear,

Until it shall again rejoice

My fond, attentive ear,

There's not a wish you e'er express'd
But I would fain fulfil;

Nor can this anxious bosom rest

Till I've obey'd your will.

There's not a foe you've ever known,
But has my anger fired;

There's not a friend you've joy'd to own,
But, fondly, I've admired.

If signs like these true love reveal,
You mine distinctly see;

But dare I hope that you can feel
A flame like this for me?

AMELIA OPie.

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Contarino. WHY sits that cloud of sadness on your brow? My royal Prince, why shrouds its august front Heart-breaking care, and melancholy gloom? Sure, if there ever was a time for mirth, That time is now, when universal Peace Spreads high her olive-branch, and Janus' gates Now clos'd imprison war and tumult's clang. No more the earth bemoans her slaughter'd sons, As erst in Pyrrha's time, but harmless sports The leopard with the kid, and Ocean's goddess, Imperial Venice, waves her flag to us As a kind welcoming.

Sforza. Venice, sayst thou?

Oh, how I hate that name! To me it sounds
As the enchanter's spell, whose circle's bound
Enchains the mighty; or, as that fell plant,
The Upas-tree, which withers all around,
And poisons vegetation's kindly powers,
Blighting Ambition's buds.

Contarino. But why distract

Your mind with these suggestions? These well suit
The battle's onset, and the busy field,

Where high the faulchion waves, and the red sword

Is glutted with the slain. But now they come,

Like the arch enemy, to our parents' bow'rs,
To taint the joys of Eden.

Sforza. Think not, friend,

My mind is like the giddy multitude's,

Or that the name of peace is as a charm

To sooth its fiery heat: let others choose

Such maiden softness, and to souls like mine

Be the bright lance for sport, and the loud drum
For music, and the cannon's louder roar;

The chargers' back for rest.

Contarino. And such, indeed,

Was ever thy soul's bent, my Prince, but I

Came hither on another errand

Sforza. What is that?

Contarino. Returning from the palace yesternight,

Musing upon the actions of the day,

Thinking on state affairs, my steps I bent

Past that sequester'd olive-grove, which grows

In yon fair garden, by the side of which
A splashing jets its silvery spray;

At whose bank

Flowers gush forth, and the dark green-cloth'd moss
Spreads its soft mantle o'er the moisten'd earth;
There you may note it well. My Lord, there is
A ruin'd turret, o'er whose mouldering sides
The kissing ivy creeps.

Sforza. I know it well:

A calm retreat, but it I've never visited,

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