"Our days are devoted To trial and toil; And scanty their spoil : No respite for feeling has day-light made known, From morning till eve; Till day takes its leave : But now let us gratefully pause on our way, Of History's lore; The beauties explore; And share, o'er the records we love to unroll, 6 "To you, who have often, In life's later years, Its cares and its fears Το you, with true feeling, your Poet and Friend Your smiles shed their light; And with you Winter Evenings enjoyments can bring "The coachman's eye, in a fine phrenzy rolling, The distant vehicle, the coachman's skill Keeps his own side, and gives the passer-by A nod of gratulation or contempt." "All the world's a stage”— Coachmen, he would have added, but stern death Cut short his being and the noun at once." "I knew him, Horatio, a coachman of infinite faculty." THERE is something in the very nature of a stage coachman that smacks (like his own whip) of the dignity of monarchs. He is the elect of the road on which he travels-the illustrious imitated of thousands. Talk of the king, indeed! the king, even on the king's highway, is but "cakes and gingerbread" to the Jehu. For him John Boots whistles welcome, (not so much through the goodness of his disposition, as through his teeth), and the publican waxes honest in his gin; for him, Betsey, the pretty bar-maid, displays the symmetry of a well-turned and the landlady speaks volumes in a squint. Survey him as he bowls along the road, with rubicund snout and bang-up benjamin. Listen to the untutored melody of his voice as he preaches the word of exhortation to his tits, and enforces his doctrine with the whip. Hark! already he is entering the village-the coachhorn sounds-the leaders rattle along the streets" as though they should never be old"—the dust flies-the dogs bark-the pigs squeak, and out rush the neighbourhood to bid him welcome as he passes. Survey his importance. To some of them he gives a cool nod; to others a smile of recognition-but thrice happy is he who is honoured with, "Go it, Jemmy!" Beatified James! thou hast lived eternity in a moment. "Felix heu nimium felix, tua si bona noris." Let none despise his calling; for be it known, that the coachman with his brotherhood of horse-dealers, is of infinite antiquity. Nestor, the sweet-tongued Nestor, is the first horse-dealer on record the statesman, as well as the ippotes Nestor. Is it a degradation to be classed with Nestor? No. Then live, illustrious Tattersal, the pride of coachmen, the envied of horse-dealers. Live-and when thou diest, "for die thou must at last, be it recorded in thy epitaph, that so pent was thy reputation, and so noble thy character, that hadst thou lived in days of yore, thy firm, which now flourishes in Unitarian independence, would have stood-Tattersal, Nestor, and Co.! In the nature of his vocation, the coachman bears no indistinct resem blance to the poet: The one gives the reins to his horses, the other to his imagination; and when either run away, the consequences are equally hazardous. "The poet's eye in a fine phrenzy rolls," so does the coachman's. The poet drives his steed Pegasus along the high road of Parnassus, and waters his horse at the Castalian fount-the coachman drives his tits along the king's highway, and waters them at the horse-trough of the village alehouse. The poet is the child of feeling— ditto the coachman. The one feels what he writes, the other what he drives. The one gets drunk with inspiration, the other with gin; and, finally, the one gives spur to his Pegasus, the other to his off-side leaders. Independently of other advantages, the coachman is illustrious from the association connected with his calling. "All the world's a stage," says Shakspeare, and Time may be considered as the coachman, who trundles it along the high road of life to eternity. And now that I am on the subject of eternity, let me bethink me of thee who hast already finished thy journey, illustrious Hell-fire Dick *, or, as my more dignified Muse would say, Pandæmonium Richard. Thou wast the Shakspeare of coachmen-the Lucifer or Star of Cambridge. I knew thee in thine hour of triumph, when I was but a stripling, and thou tookedst compassion on my ignorance, and turned the light of thy countenance upon me. Inspired by thee, I bowled along the.course to Newmarket, and, arrested by the splendour of thy example, was arrested for an unpaid benjamin. But alas! inexorable Time, " Benjamin is not," and the tailor is not, and "Jehu you have taken from me." Yes, thou art gone, sulphurious Richard, to thy kindred Pandemonium, and the glory of Cambridge is no more. Thou art dead, and, what is still worse, I am afraid, thou are damned. But thy memory still flourishes on the sedgy banks of the Cam; thy sorrowing spouse is still the object of attraction to Nichols, thy rival whip; and though thy coach-horn no longer sounds, Old Nick has presented thee with apuir." Hark! to the hurried accents of despair, Where is Dick Vaughan, and Echo answers-Where? * Dick Vaughan, or, as he was usually called, Hell-fire Dick, was the driver o he Cambridge Telegraph, and the most famous coachman of his time. ON CUTTING. START not, gentle reader-I am not about to read you a surgical lecture; neither am I a member of a certain profession, anxious to enlighten exquisites on a subject, no doubt, of deep importance to them, namely, the cut of their wearables. The signification of the term to which I allude is pretty generally understood, but its practical use is chiefly to be found at the west end of the town. My Lord A cuts the Honourable Mr. B—, in consequence of a report to his prejudice respecting a bet at Newmarket, and the next time they meet at White's or Almack's, my Lord A- gives the aforesaid Honourable Mr. B- a most unconscious stare, and passes on. A fashionable fortune-hunter (no allusion to certain persons or particular countries) gets introduced to the family of a wealthy citizen, for the purpose of forming an alliance with his only daughter, to whom fame had given an immense fortune: he finds, however, after doing violence to his refined notions of things, by the acceptance of sundry invitations to dinner, in the tainted neighbourhood of Cheapside, that the shrewd ex-cheesemonger begins to smoke his intentions, dropping broad hints respecting leases, settlements, and rent-rolls, and passing coarse jokes on gentlemen of fashion in pursuit of honest people's money; and believing the game to be pretty well up, he pleads a trip to Paris, and---cuts the connexion. Lady Fanny Flounce is said to practise the art of cutting to perfection. She affects a most convenient imperfection in her organs of vision, by means of which she can avoid whom she pleases, without giving actual offence, for every body knows that she must be nearsighted, as she wears a glass, and half closes her eyes when she views an object at only a few yards' distance. There are degrees of cutting. There is, first, the cut direct; that is, to stare in the face of a person, with whom you had been on previous habits of intimacy, as if he had just fallen from the moon, or belonged to the Antipodes; to effect this, however, requires, in the first place, a tolerable command of muscle; and if the party to be cut happen to have fallen into misfortune, which circumstance would certainly, in a polite point of view, be a sufficient reason to warrant the act of cutting---it would be as well, perhaps, in case he should, from any exploded notions of friendship, salute you in the usual way, to turn to the person with whom you are in company, and remark, "That gentleman, I perceive, mistakes me for an acquaintance---who is he?" Then, there is the cut equivocal. This requires a certain degree of tact which few are up to; it is an occasional resort to avoid a person whose acquaintance you are by no means anxious to give up, but with whom you feel a most decided objection to be seen on the pavé arm-inarm. For instance, you meet your fashionable friend Lord John-well, you take a turn in Bond-street-chat on various matters-the operathe races-Derby and Oaks-the bets you lost or won (here, of course, you draw the long bow); the Countess of W.'s last route (where you were not), and the mutual penchant between you and at least a dozen ladies of figure, fashion, and fortune. You are now, I will suppose, in full dash for Piccadilly, when, in the name of all that's horrible, C PART VIII.-30. VOL. II. who appears in full puff from the city, but your accommodating friend the fat money-broker from Bucklersbury! What is to be done? You have mutually caught each other's eye, and he is waddling down the pavement to salute you. To give him the cut direct would be directly to lose his friendship, and to address such a mass of vulgarity .in familiar terms, would positively excite the horror of Lord John. Observe now the vast advantage of the cut equivocal. You suddenly direct the attention of his Lordship to some object on the opposite side of the way, and while his eye is thus engaged, you turn to the broker, who by this time has drawn up to address you, and giving him a gracious, but hasty nod, seem to be suddenly attracted by some remark of your fashionable friend, and so move on. If, however, by any unforeseen chance, his Lordship should have observed the recognition, and inquire the rank of your uncouth acquaintance, you must immediately set him down as an Irish Earl, the name of whose title has escaped your memory, and should the broker, in your next call at his counting-house, seem hurt at your random salutation, you must explain it away in the best manner you can, and redouble your expressions of esteem for his great worth, and regard for his amiable family, for each individual of which you must be sure to inquire. A cut, however well intended, may be rendered abortive, owing to the prying disposition, or extreme stupidity, of a vulgar acquaintance. Perhaps the best way of explaining this to my readers, is to relate a most annoying predicament in which a fashionable young friend of mine was placed the other Sunday in Kensington Gardens; he was swelling along in all the conscious pride of a coat, the cut of which is allowed to be inimitable, and with all the et ceteras of a modern fine gentleman to adorn and set off his naturally genteel figure. Already had he (at least as he conceived) made three decided impressions on the hearts of as many fair ladies in the crowd of fashionables that flitted and fluttered by, In satins and in silks, of every hue, That tints the rainbow as it trembles through In fact, as he avowed to me in private, he seldom found himself on such good terms with his outward man; he felt an elastic spring in his soul, that seemed to lift him, as it were, to the station of Mercury himself, New lighted on some heaven-kissing hill. His cravat was of virgin white, and of a due stiffibility, and he wore in his look that settled complacency which is said to distinguish the higher race of exquisites, from their less finished rivals, east of Temple-bar. Thus prepared for conquest, and conscious of the figure that he made, he mingled in the crowd and moved gallantly along. His eye, excepting when it rested, with a sort of fond langour, on the countenance of some fashionable fair one, reposed on the blue heavens, as if all other objects beneath it were absolutely unworthy of its gaze : he felt How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable, this world would be, were it not for the crowns, stars, and coronets, that gave it life and splendour; and he secretly pitied from his heart, those whom fate and trade placed for ever beyond the limits of polite society: and, as he thought thus, he could not but turn with ineffable contempt to the tawdry beaus and belles from the city, who presumed to mingle in the fashionable gala. At this moment-oh, death to his dreams---he discovered in the gay crowd a pair of beings whose acquaintance he could not disown, but whose salutation, in such a place, he would have shunned as pestilence. He felt a cold sweat standing on his brow, for a single glance but too truly told him, that his friends had recognized him. They were a worthy couple, but so utterly devoid of every polite requisite, that in dress and appearance they formed a strange, and somewhat ridiculous contrast, to the surrounding company. Good souls! they fancied themselves as fine as other folks, and to shun a gay acquaintance, when their hearts were all agog for pleasure, was a thing they could never dream of. Their young friend, however, felt quite the reverse, and the cut direct was his immediate intention. Accordingly, he made an abrupt turning, and would have absolutely fled if propriety would have let him. Ah! vain subterfuge! a slap on the back assured him that all was over, and the loud and familiar greeting of his city friends put an end to his dreams. He blustered, bit his lips, and stammered out something like "Glad to see you -how do you do-fair day"-but a suppressed giggle in the crowd assured him that his mortification was seen and enjoyed; the thought was madness, and muttering an abrupt excuse, he rushed from the gay scene, and left the honest couple totally at a loss to know what had so suddenly bewitched him! It were tedious to detail the various stratagems by which a bore is to be avoided. There is the short turn when you see him advancing, and the sudden plea of business, when you find him hanging on your arm; and then there is the not at home cut, and the call again cut, and the out of town cut; but as these more immediately relate to the visits of troublesome trades-people, and as I presume that those whom I have the honour to address, are sufficiently versed in this species of cutting, I shall merely remark, that a gentleman of ton should be particular in ascertaining the capacity of his servant on this point, before he engages him, as I have known many awkward circumstances to have occurred from the want of due discernment and presence of mind in servants. When, with his long and awful bills, And countenance of woe, The Dun---that worst of human ills, A servant, in fact, has no excuse to usher such a personage into the presence of his master. An evasion should always be at hand; for it is a decided annoyance, and as such, I am sure, every gentleman must feel it, to meet the pitiful countenance of your tailor, or shoemaker, just as you are indulging, over your morning's meal of toast and chocolate, In some fond dreams of new delight C2 |