All of these titled gentlemen whom I have mentioned, are of that class which is denominated "fast young men"—in England. They are all of good families, and are of the salt of the earth, being hereditary legislators for the English people. They gamble, own fast horses, make tremendous bets, keep mistresses, and yachts, and among this set to dishonor a young and unsuspecting married woman, and cover with disgrace an old family name, is indeed an achievement of which they feel very proud, a woman's weakness and folly being a subject for joking in their clubs, and affording much amusement to the young blackguards at covert side and in many a yacht cruise in the Mediteranean and the Baltic Seas.
LADY MORDAUNT.
Lady Mordaunt had fallen among a pack of masculine wolves. Her two sisters, the Duchess of Athole and the Countess of Dudley, vainly endeavored to save their foolish sister, and her mother, Lady Louisa Moncrieffe, and her young sister, who was engaged privately to Viscount Cole—(Miss Frances Moncrieffe), and Miss Blanche Moncrieffe, used all their powers of persuasion, but Lady Mordaunt had met already with the fate of all those who frequent bad company. She was corrupted, and her only desire was now to become deserving of the title of "fast." Lady Mordaunt soon became the leader of the "fast" feminine set in London. No lady could drive such "fast" ponies as she. None could equal her for "fast" or "slangy" talk. Her highly colored attire was voted the "fastest" in London. Her male companions who were in her company and who escorted her, were all "fast," particularly the Prince of Wales, who enjoys the proud distinction of being "fast." Lady Mordaunt never accompanied her husband anywhere—he being very often absent, and besides, he was not "fast."
And Lady Mordaunt is not alone among her aristocratic sisters of London. She has a number of imitators, who talk "fast," ride "fast" horses, frequent the company of "fast" men, and visit with these last, "fast" places of amusement. This "fast" woman has now become typical in England. She dyes her hair, she paints her face, she wears flaunting and unbecoming costumes after the style of the loose living blondes who appear in burlesque; in short, she apes the manners and the attire of that hapless class of women of whom she once spoke, when she spoke of them at all—with a shuddering thrill of mingled horror and pity. A famous female English novelist—whose heroines, by the way, are all of the light-hair-dye and "fast" type—speaking of these "fast" society-women, pertinently asks:—
SLANG WOMEN AND "MRS. JOHNSON."
"Who taught the girls of England this hateful slang? who showed them—nay, obtruded upon and paraded before them these odious women? who, indeed, but the men, who recoil from their own work of their own hands, and cry out upon the consequences of their own conduct? It was not till the young Englishman learned to ridicule everything virtuous as "spoony," and everything domestic as "slow," that the women took pains to master the slang of the race-course, and to model their dress upon the costumes of the women whom they saw from their carriage windows dimly athwart the mists of midnight flitting across the Haymarket, as they were driven away from the Opera-house. Be sure society decayed, like the tree to which poor Swift pointed with sad prophetic certainty, "first at top." It was not till the moral deterioration of the modern young man had become a fact but too obvious, that any fatal change was perceived in the modern young woman; it was not until a contemptuous and disrespectful demeanor to parents, newly denominated governors, relieving-officers, paters, maters, maternals; a scornful avoidance of sisters as muffs and dowdies; an utter irreverence for age, and a disdainful treatment of all woman kind,—had become distinguishing characteristics of young Mr. Bull, that poor, giddy, mistaken Miss Bull, too anxious to please the young cub, whose moral being and real interests had best been served by a judicious course of cat-o'-nine-tails, began to dye her pretty hair and paint her fresh young cheeks; it was not till the British lords flocked to the sale of a bankrupt courtesan's effects, and gave unheard-of sums for the tawdry crockery-ware of a courtesan's bedchamber, that British ladies began to slide downwards upon that fatal incline which their masters had smoothed for them."
"In the early days of the music-halls, before the nameless Captain had begun to cultivate his too famous whiskers, or the insatiable thirst of the convivial Charley had become a fact so painfully notorious,—when the prudent Joseph was yet unknown, and the Strand not yet renowned as the dweling-place of Nancy,—there was sung a song called "Mrs. Johnson," in which the singer, in a tipsy solemnity, bewailed the fact that the tastes and manners of his amiable wife were but too identical with his own. "And so does Mrs. Johnson,"—that was the ever recurring refrain. "I drink, I smoke, I swear, I stop out to unholy hours of the night," sings this Mr. Johnson of the music-halls, "and so, unhappily, does Mrs. Johnson. I am altogether a fast and disreputable individual, and I consider it very delightful to be fast and disreputable; but—and here, I confess, the shoe pinches—so does Mrs. Johnson. This midnight rioting, this hunting up of dancing-gardens and quaffing of perennial champagne, is my very ideal of man's existence; but I recoil aghast with horror before the idea of the same predilections in Mrs. Johnson." It is only a vulgar music-hall ditty; but I think there is a moral hanging to it, which our modern Juvenals would do well to consider."
"It is the story of Adam and Eve over again—"the woman tempted me, and I did eat." The historian of the future, studying the social aspects of this century from a file of Saturday Reviews, would have fair ground for believing it was because of modest women that outraged Englishmen fled to the denizens of St. John's-wood; that it was the slang and fastness of our girls that drove our men to the race-course and the betting-ring; the women tempted them. What cowards and hypocrites men must be, when they can turn upon and assail the helpless woman who has meekly and dutifully copied the model they have set up before her eyes, and at whose shrine she has seen them prostrate and worshipping!"
"The modern young man, with a selfishness as short-sighted as—selfishness, which is always short-sighted, has desired all the delights of life. He likes the society of the venal Cynthia of the minute, as his forefathers have done before him, but it has seemed too him too much trouble to disguise that liking, in deference to the feelings of purer Cynthias, as his forefathers did before him. When Junius wished to brand the Duke of Grafton with ineffable shame, he charged him with having flaunted Miss Parsons before the offended eyes of royalty; now-a-days such a reproach would seem the emptiest oratorical truism. The royalty of virtuous womanhood is offended every day by a procession of Miss Parsonses. Everywhere Miss Parsons is followed and worshipped. At covert-side, on parade of Brighton, or in lamplit gardens of Scarborough, in opera-house and on race-course, abroad or at home—the Parsonian worship is still going on. Miss Parsons has her matins and her vespers, her choral services at five o'clock, her gatherings at all hours and all places. The bells are always pealing that call the faithful of the Parsonian creed. And woman's poor little stock of logic only enables her to frame one fatal syllogism:
Miss Parsons is admired;
Miss Parsons is beloved;
Therefore to be like Miss Parsons is to be admirable and loveable."
When the season ended it was customary for Sir Charles Mordaunt to rejoin his wife at Walton Hall, and it might have been believed that after the gaieties of the winter revels, the mistress of the mansion would seek a little rest and the quiet of the country. But no. The country seat was always full of "fast" ladies and "fast" gentlemen. Sporting men and people of loose characters, whom no sensible man would admit to the presence of his wife, became the intimates of Lady Mordaunt. In fine, the Coles, Farquhars, Johnstones, Waterfords, Hamiltons, and the like, were "doing Lady Mordaunt's business for her," as I heard a London barrister express it. People began to talk about her, and she lost the respect of her friends, who dropped off one by one. Her poor old father, Sir Thomas Moncrieffe, while sitting in White's Club (the only club of which the Prince of Wales is an active member), hears his daughter's name mentioned in a very odious manner, and that of the Prince of Wales occurs in the connection. The "Pwince," says one of these small wits, "is very devoted—ah—Lady Mowdaant—I heah," and so the scandal flies. Sir Thomas is enraged, threatens the puppy, and tells Sir Charles of the thunder in the air. Poor old man! It is openly stated in the club that Viscount Cole and Sir Frederick Johnstone,—the former twenty-two, and the latter thirty-two years of age, are constant visitors to her boudoir,—as often as three times in a day—so says Madame Scandal. Sir Frederick Johnstone is known to be the greatest libertine in England. He is rich, of a good family, and yet no woman will marry him, for it is whispered in society,—even among ladies—that he has become so enervated and palsied from his long course of debauchery, as to be unfit for the marriage bed—and Lord Cole is a fit rival to Lord Carington for wildness and blackguardism. I saw this same Sir Frederick Johnstone slapped in the face a dozen times at the Cremorne Gardens one night, by a fashionably attired Cyprian who had been his mistress, and who had been deserted by him, but not a blush warmed his cheek under the stinging slaps of her hand. Luxury and debauchery had emasculated him. He was no longer a man—he was a frame covered over by a handsome evening dress.
A GIDDY WOMAN.