Stinging enough, is it not, Julia? I have met with few descriptions that have amused me more: and my translation,—extremely good, is it not? There are few translations that please me more than my own.
In a serious style, too, the Author is not amiss.[67]
More practically does the celebrated Smollett write to a friend: “I am old enough to have seen and convinced myself that we are all the playthings of Destiny, and that it often depends on a trifle not more important than the toss-up of a halfpenny, whether a man should raise himself to riches and honours, or pine away in misery and want till he dies.
August 15th.
I daily inspect the workmen in St. James’s Park, formerly only a sort of meadow for cows, and now converted into beautiful gardens, according to a plan of Mr. Nash’s. The water is also much better distributed. I acquire a great deal of technical information here, and admire the judicious division and series of the work, the ingenious modes of transport, the moveable iron railways, &c.
It is characteristic, that while the laws which protect private property are so strict that a man who climbs over a wall into a garden runs the risk of being hanged, or otherwise grievously punished; that if it occurs in the night the proprietor may shoot him dead;—with the public, wherever they have the shadow of a claim, it is necessary to go to work as gingerly as you would with a raw egg. This park is the property of the Crown, but has been open to the public from remote ages; and Government does not dare to close it, even temporarily, notwithstanding the improvements which the King is now carrying on, (at the nation’s cost, it is true.) A board is put up on which is inscribed literally as follows:—“The public are most respectfully requested, during the operations which are designed for the increase of their own gratification, not to injure the carts and tools of the workmen, and to avoid as much as possible the part where the men are at work.” Very little attention, however, is paid to this respectful and reasonable petition, and the carts and barrows which lie empty when the men leave work are often used by the boys to wheel each other about, and to play all sorts of tricks with. The girls seesaw on the long planks, and many little wretches amuse themselves with throwing stones in the water just at the very spot where ladies are standing, who are of course so splashed as to be obliged to hasten home. This brutal love of mischief is quite peculiar to the English people, and forms the sole apology for the grudging inhumanity with which the opulent classes shut up their charming pleasure-grounds. It is worth inquiring, however, whether the moroseness of the rich was not the cause, instead of the effect, of the mischievous temper of the poor. It is difficult for people on the Continent to imagine to what a pitch it goes.
The anxiety with which the rich English shut up their property from the profaning eyes of the stranger is sometimes truly amusing, but may chance to be painful. I was riding one day in the neighbourhood of London,—and attracted by the sight of a fine house and grounds, I asked the porter who stood at the lodge, whether he would allow me to look at the gardens? He had many scruples, but at last he opened the gate, taking charge of my horse during the time. I might have walked about for a quarter of an hour, and was just looking at the neatly-kept pleasure-ground, when a somewhat fat personage in his shirt appeared at a window of the house; he seemed to be running about in great distress, but at last threw open the window with great vehemence, and whilst I heard the violent ringing of a large bell, cried out to me with half-suppressed rage, “Qui êtes-vous, Monsieur? que cherchez-vous ici?” I thought it too ridiculous to shout back the answer from such a distance, and soon found it unnecessary; for a number of servants, alarmed by the ringing of the bell, flocked together from all directions, one of whom now repeated to me the question ‘ex officio.’ In a few words I let the proprietor know by him that I was a foreigner who had been attracted by fondness for gardening; that I had not climbed over the wall, as he seemed to believe, but had entered through the usual entrance, where my horse was still waiting; that I was heartily sorry for having caused him such a shock in his illness, and only wished that it might have no serious consequences, at the same time assuring him of my best respects, and that I would immediately leave the forbidden garden. I soon reached my horse, and rode off laughing, for this was the gay side of the affair. About a fortnight after, I passed by chance near the same house: I approached the lodge again, and rang the bell; another man appeared; and in a mischievous fit I inquired after the health of his master, and whether I could be permitted to see the garden? “God forbid!” was the answer, “on no account!” I now heard from the servant, to my sincere grief, that the poor fellow, his predecessor, had been dismissed with his wife and children, though he had been in the service of the family for many years, merely for having let a stranger enter without permission. Nevertheless this severe gentleman is one of the patent liberals of England. What would an illiberal one have done?
The walks and rides in the neighbourhood are now very inviting again, for autumn has set in early. The scorched grass has resumed its coat of bright green, and the trees hold their foliage longer and fresher than with us, though they begin to change their colour earlier. Winter comes late, often not at all, to throw its broad white mantle over them. The mowing of the grass, and cleaning and sweeping of the gardens and grounds never cease; indeed, as autumn and winter are ‘the seasons’ in the country, that is just the time when most care is bestowed upon them.
London is deserted by the fashionables; and that with such affectation, that many who are obliged to remain on business positively conceal themselves. The streets in the west end of the town are like those of a deserted city. * * *
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