CHAPTER XXXIX. A STRANGE INCIDENT TO BE A TRUE ONE
It was on one of the coldest of a cold December days, when a dry north wind, with a blackish sky, portended the approach of a heavy snow-storm, that I was standing at my usual post, with little to occupy me, for the weather for some time previous had been dry and frosty. Habit, and the security that none could recognize me, had at length inured me to my condition; and I was beginning to feel the same indifference about my station that I felt as to my future.
Pride may, in reality, have had much to say to this, for I was proud to think that of the thousands who flowed past me each day I could claim equality with a large share, and perhaps more than equality with many. This pride, too, was somehow fostered by a sense of hope which I could have scarcely credited; for there constantly occurred to me the thought that one day or other I should be able to say: “Yes, my Lord Duke, I have known you these twenty years. I remember having swept the crossing for you in the autumn after the Peace. Ay, ay, Right Honorable Sir, I owe you my gratitude, if only for this that you never passed me without saying, 'Good day, Jack!'”
Was it not strange, too, how fondly I clung to, what importance I attached to, these little passing recognitions; they seemed to me the last remaining ties that bound me to my fellow-men, and that to deny them to me was to declare me an outcast forever. To this hour I feel my thankfulness to those who thus acknowledged me; nor can I even yet conquer an unforgiving memory of some chance, mayhap unintentional, rudeness which, as it were, seemed to stamp my degradation more deeply upon me. Stranger still that I must own how my political bias was decided by these accidental causes; for while the great Tory leaders rarely or never noticed me, the Whigs—a younger and more joyous section in those times—always flung me a passing word, and would even occasionally condescend to listen to my repartee.
I must guard myself from giving way to the memories which are already crowding fast about me. Names, and characters, and events rise up before my mind in myriads, and it is with difficulty I can refrain from embarking on that flood of the past which now sweeps along through my brain. The great, the high-born, the beautiful, the gifted, all dust and ashes now!—they who once filled the whole page of each day's history utterly ignored and forgotten! It is scarcely more than fifty years ago; and yet of all the eloquence that shook the “House,” of all the fascinations that stirred the hearts of princes, of the high ambitions that made men demigods in their time, how much have reached us? Nothing, or less than nothing. A jest or a witticism that must be read with a commentary, or told with an explanation,—the repartee that set the table in a roar, now heard with a cold, half-contemptuous astonishment, or a vacant inquiry “if such were really the wits of those times.”
Amongst those with whose appearance I had become familiar were three young men of very fashionable exterior, who always were seen together. They displayed, by the dress of blue coat and buff waistcoat, the distinctive colors of the Whigs; but their buttons more emphatically declared their party in the letters P. F., by which the friends of the Prince then loved to designate themselves. The “Bucks” of that age had one enormous advantage over the Dandies of ours,—they had no imitators. They stood alone and unapproachable in all the glories of tight leathers and low top-boots. No spurious copies of them got currency; and the man of fashion was unmistakable amongst a thousand. The three of whom I have made mention were good specimens of that school, which dated its birth from the early years of the Prince, and by their habits and tone imparted a distinctive character to the party. They dressed well, they looked well, they comported themselves as though life went ever pleasantly with them; and in their joyous air and easy bearing one might read the traits of a set well adapted to be the friends and companions of a young prince, himself passionately devoted to pleasure, and reckless in regard to its price.
I am now speaking of long ago, and have no hesitation in giving the real names of those to whom I allude. One was a captain in the navy, called Payne; the second was a young colonel in the foot-guards, Conway; and the third was an Irishman named O'Kelly, whom they called the Count or the Chevalier, about town, from what cause or with what pretension I never ascertained.
Even in my own narrow sphere of observation it was clear to me that this last exercised a great influence over his companions. The tone of his voice, his air, his every gesture, bespoke a certain degree of dictation, to which the others seemed to lend a willing obedience. It was just that amount of superiority which a greater buoyancy of character confers,—a higher grade of vitality some would call it,—but which never fails through life to make itself felt and acknowledged. The three kept a bachelor house at Kensington, whose fame ran a close rivalry with that of the more celebrated Carlton House. O'Kelly lived below, Conway occupied the drawing-room story, and Payne the third floor; and with one or other of these all the great characters of the Opposition were constant guests. Here, amidst brilliant sallies of wit and loud bursts of laughter, the tactics of party were planned and conned over. While songs went round and toasts were cheered, the subtle schemes of politics were discussed and determined on; and many a sudden diversion of debate that seemed the accident of the moment took its origin in some suggestion that arose in these wild orgies. The Prince himself was a frequent guest, since the character of these meetings allowed of many persons being admitted to his society whose birth and position might not have warranted their being received at his own table; and here also were many presented to him whose station could not have claimed a more formal introduction.
It was rumored that these same meetings were wild and desperate orgies, in which every outrage on morality was practised, and that the spirit of libertinism raged without control or hindrance. I have not of myself any means of judging how far this statement might be correct, but I rather incline to believe it one of those calumnies which are so constantly levelled at any society which assumes to itself exclusiveness and secrecy. They who were admitted there assuredly were not given to divulge what they saw, and this very reserve must have provoked its interpretation.
A truce to these speculations; and now back to my story. I was standing listlessly on the edge of the flag-way, while a long funeral procession was passing. The dreary day and drearier object seemed to harmonize well together. The wheels of the mourning-coaches grated sorrowfully on the half-frozen ground, and the leaden canopy of sky appeared a suitable covering to the melancholy picture. My thoughts were of the very saddest, when suddenly a merry burst of laughing voices broke in upon my ear; and without turning my head, I recognized the three young men of whom I have just spoken, as standing close behind me.