Fallen Fortunes

by Evelyn Everett-Green

Grey gazed at himself in astonishment. His fear of the eyes of quondam friends vanished into thin air. Scarce would he have known himself. That others would know him, he could not believe. He had had no idea of the transforming properties of one of the great flowing wigs of the period; but when his own brown curls were covered and hidden beneath this mass of perfumed hair, his brows darkened and the skin of his face olive-tinted, his figure padded and arrayed in full military finery such as the Duke of Marlborough was wont to wear, he could almost believe that he saw that great warrior before his eyes, so cunningly had the artificers wrought. He looked younger than the General, but that was intended—an impersonation of youth and manly beauty and war-like prowess. This was what the author of the interlude aimed at, and this Grey looked to perfection, as he stood habited in the garments in which he was to appear before the public.

The Old Lion, himself transformed into an excellent presentment of Father Time, stood gazing at the young man with glowing eyes, directing the attendants to give a touch here or there to accentuate any point he wished brought out. Satisfaction beamed from every feature of his face. He seemed to see the town at his feet. In a week's time all London would be ringing with the fame of Jonathan Wylde.

It was just the sort of artificial scene likely to catch the popular taste. There was a rage for semi-mythological representations—dryads and nymphs and mermaids at the water theatre, Cupids and Psyches and heathen or classical deities at other places, whilst stilted and absurd allusions to Arcadian joys, nectar and ambrosia, spicy breezes of Paphos, or Hymen's seductive temples, fell trippingly from the tongues of every dandy with any claim to be a man of fashion, and were echoed in simpering accents by the ladies to whom this flowery nonsense was addressed.

The setting of the dramatic interlude had been carefully arranged. Father Time, with his flowing white beard, his scythe leaning against him, and his hour-glass at his feet, was seated aloft at one side of the stage overlooking a dim and vague expanse, which was supposed to represent the earth. There was something very majestic in the aspect of the old actor, whose name many still remembered, and a burst of applause followed the rise of the curtain. Curiosity was raised to a high pitch by the gossip already excited in dramatic circles, and the house was crowded to the ceiling with breathless and eager spectators.

The Old Lion delivered his harangue with all the fire and dignity for which his acting had been celebrated in past years. Seated upon his throne, surveying, as it were, the world, the crippled limbs no longer hampered him. A few telling gestures of the brown and skinny hand, the play of facial expression, the thunder or the melting pathos of his rich voice—these were all the aids he needed, and he used them with excellent effect. The audience sat spellbound. The young bloods even shrank and quailed and exchanged shamefaced glances as Father Time launched his thunders of scorn at the decadence of manhood, the decay of all true chivalry, the gilded luxury, the senseless folly, the gross extravagance he beheld on all hands. Where were the men? he asked, pointing a long and skinny finger straight at the house filled to overflowing with the fashion and wealth of the town. How did the youth of the great cities show their valour now? Why, by scouring the streets at night, setting upon helpless citizens, using them shamefully, even to leaving them half dead, with eyes gouged out, in emulation of the barbarous fashion of the Indian tribes, after which these gallants were not ashamed to call themselves. In the past men had laid down their lives to defend their country and the liberties of the subject; now they banded together to maltreat the very men who were set to maintain law and order. Of old, womanhood was sacred, and knights went forth to do doughty deeds for the honour of their ladies, and for the upholding of all the laws of chivalry, which they held dearer than life itself. Now young gallants delighted to show their reverence for womanhood by rolling some hapless citizen's wife or daughter down a sloping street in a barrel, laughing the louder if she screamed piteously, or even swooned with fright.

Was there a man yet left in the land? Where was such to be found? And tears streamed down the face of Father Time, as he made his moan, lamenting the days which had gone by, and fearing he would never see the like again.

Then came a telling pause of deep silence. The applause, which had broken out once and again during the monologue, had been hushed into shamed stillness at the last. Murmurs of sympathy and approval rose from the many present who hated and lamented the folly and extravagances of the day, and delighted to hear them so tellingly and scathingly reproved. Even the young bloods themselves could not but admire the skill and power of the speaker. They recognized the truth of the indictment, and felt a sense of shame and uneasiness which no preacher in the pulpit had ever aroused—perhaps because they so seldom went to listen, and only stayed to mock.

And then the silence was as suddenly broken by a tumultuous burst of amazed applause. A second figure had stepped upon the stage—tall, graceful, alert, instinct with strength and manly beauty; and a thundering shout went up from all the house,—

"The Duke! The Duke!"

Paying no heed to the tumult of applause, the Youth went slowly forward towards the throne upon which sat Father Time, and to him he made a deep obeisance. Then amid the breathless hush of the house began the animated dialogue betwixt the twain, wherein the Youth did strive to show that manhood was not yet dead, and to call to the notice of Father Time the things which he had seen, and which were yet taking place upon the face of the globe.