This Gent is not very clever at the deux temps. Before he knew what it was, he used to imagine that certain fools were dancing the polka to a waltz time; but now he has found out his error, albeit he still looks upon it with a sort of contemptuous expression, such as unpleasant people in general adopt when they are called upon to admire something popular that they cannot do themselves. In the intervals of the dances he promenades the room, laughing loudly about nothing particular, and hitting his friends on the back with his stick, to attract their attention. And no true Gent, got up as we have described, ever entered the Casino but he did not firmly believe that he was the man of the assembly. Hence two Gents will always look savage at one another when they meet.
Au reste, the Gent is soon subdued, when too lively, by the proper authorities: and he has great belief in the power of an acquaintance with Mr. Henry Mott, who delights in elegant white cravats, and is the head master of the ceremonies, nearest the band and the sherry-cobblers.
With respect to other public balls, you will not meet many Gents at Weippert’s, or the St. James’s. The men there are too strong for them; not physically, but in social position; and the lorettes of these assemblies have quick eyes at detecting snobbishness of any kind. We have seen one or two Gents at either place; but they always looked especially wretched—as much out of their place as a toadstool in a conservatory. The gentlemen did not insult them; they only tacitly objected to be vis-à-vis to them, and quietly withdrew their partners from the set, until the Gents stood alone.
They are in greater force at bals masqués, in and out of costume. Many Gents conceive that going in a scarlet coat and top-boots, and now and then shouting “Yoicks!” constitutes the fast thing: hence there is always one of this kind. Others adopt large noses, and false mustaches, which they think is “doing it—rather!” But you never see them in characteristic or original costumes; nor, lacking them, do they even adhere to a recognised evening toilet. They prefer their beloved railway trowsers, and flaring stocks and shawls, and centre all their notions of full-dress in a paletot. M. Jullien is gradually changing all this: we trust he will not stop until he places the masked ball—“bal marsk” the Gent calls it—on a level with those of Paris. But then the complimentary admissions must be weeded; and the authorities must learn that it is not at all necessary to engage a few wretched supernumeraries from the theatres, in dingy wardrobe costumes, to support the festivity of the evening. All low people, including Gents, get drunk; and all drunken people are miserable nuisances.
Note.—If ever you see two Gents dancing together at a bal masqué, you are at liberty to kick and insult them, with every opprobrious epithet.
CHAPTER XI.
OF THE GENT AT THE SEA-SIDE.
There is a period in the year of London existence, when that portion of it termed the Season, par excellence, comes to an end with every body, whatever their station; for very few there are who do not, somehow or other, contrive to get out of town, when the great rush from home—that flight of the soul of the departed Season—is at its height. Every body who has not already gone, is going; nobody will own to staying in town, even if compelled to do so. Houses are shut up, blinds newspapered, and furniture tied up in bags: in fact, to make a wretched joke, whilst the family is on the Rhine, its lamps and ottomans are all in Holland. There are no more carriages whirling about the west-end streets: no more thundering knocks echoing all day, and night, too, for the matter of that, in the squares. You write letters, and get no answers: you make calls, and find nobody at home, but a servant on board wages, who runs out into the area to look at you before she answers the door, in great astonishment. You think it almost disreputable to be seen about, so you follow the rest, and go away.
This feeling extends throughout all classes of society: and going down lower and lower, at last reaches the Gent, who copies the gentleman, but sees, as usual, every thing through a wrong medium. In fact, his reflection is that of a spoon, in more senses than one: making the most outrageous images of the original, distorting all the features, but still preserving a strange sort of identity.