Part 1 (1/2)
Comical People.
by Unknown.
PREFACE.
AMONG the contributions to the Great Exhibition which, from their position, did not acquire that popularity and praise which was due to them, were some fine specimens of embroidery from Vienna and various towns in Austria.
Hung high up, beyond the glance of the casual observer, the elaborately-worked tapestry of Maria Fusinata attracted little attention. Those, however, who had the good fortune to notice it were always delighted with the excellent adaptation of the clever designs of Grandville, which the embroiderer had so faithfully rendered. The expression of the animals was most cleverly given, and the brightness of the colours added much to the effect of the compositions.
Had Ploucquet added some of these designs to his ”Reynard the Fox,” he would have increased the attraction of his show, deservedly popular as it was. Grandville, in these delineations of the faculties of animals, is quite equal to Kaulbach; and, though the French artist had not the honour of having his pictures copied in stuffed animals, they are thought to be quite worthy of being formed into a volume as a sequel to the ”Comical Creatures from Wurtemberg.”
LADY CHAFFINCH'S BALL.
HEIGH-HO! well, I am at home again at last. I wonder if I am the same innocent little Linnet that left these bowers only three months ago.
What have I seen, where have I been?--or rather, What have I not seen, where have I not been? I have visited China and Peru, Nova Scotia, Trinidad, and Tuscany; I have been to Sweden, Egypt, Germany, and Mexico, and I have some recollections of Sardinia, and the United States. This is good travelling for three months, is it not?
Let me think: how shall I tell you about it? I will begin at the beginning--
Three months ago, as I was sitting in our summer-house, warbling one of my newest songs, our page Tom--Tom-t.i.t we call him, he is such a funny little fellow--brought me a letter that had just been left by the postboy.
I have it by heart.
”My dear little Songbird,”--this is a name they gave to me from my infancy, for they say I could sing before I could speak,--”My dear little Songbird,” thus the letter began, ”All the world is coming to London this spring to see the most wonderful of sights; try and persuade my dear sister, that kind Mamma of yours, to let you pay your long-promised visit to me. You must come in May, and you may stay with me as long as you can bear to be away from your delightful home. Let me know when I may expect you.
”Your loving Aunt, ”JENNY GOLDFINCH.”
And I remember that the envelope was addressed, ”Lady Linnet, Gorse Bush, Somersets.h.i.+re;” and that in the left-hand corner there was written, ”For Miss Linnet.”
Did not I fly to my ”kind Mamma” as soon as I had read this note, and when she had consented that I should go to see that dear old Aunt of mine in London, did not I half smother her with kisses. I thought the first of May would never come,--but it did; and Tom-t.i.t was sent to London with me by the railway to take care of me.
My good Aunt received me with the greatest kindness, and her son Drinkwater, one of the handsomest young fellows I ever saw in my life, began whispering compliments to me as soon as ever we were left together. I had a lovely little boudoir entirely for my own use, and my page Tom-t.i.t had nothing else to do but wait on me. My cousin Drinkwater and I were soon great friends; he took me to the Opera, where I listened to singing such as I had never heard at Gorse Bush; he took me to the Chiswick Fete, where I saw flowers such as I had never dreamed of; and he took me--how many times? well, I can't recollect--to that dear, delightful Crystal Palace, where we visited more foreign countries than I knew of in my Geography, and where we often found ourselves quite alone, looking at those charming seeds from the West India Islands; and where we enjoyed some of the most delightful days of all our lives,--at least, Drinkwater said so; and I think I must say so too.
Every one has been to the Crystal Palace, so it is of no use talking about the Koh-i-noor, or the fierce-looking Amazon, or the beautiful Veiled Vestal, or the Greek Slave, or those terrible-looking owls or funny foxes, or the other Comical Creatures that came from Wurtemberg. I will, therefore, tell you how we amused ourselves when we were not inclined to have our brains bewildered.
First, let me inform you that my cousin, who was born in London, knows all the grand people by sight, and bows to a great many of them. You may imagine what a treat it was to me, who had lived in a country village all my life, to see with my own eyes His Royal Highness the Prince, or His Grace the Duke, or Her Grace the d.u.c.h.ess, or His Excellency the Marquis, or the Most n.o.ble the Marchioness, pa.s.s by in their grand carriages. How I used to stand on tip-toe to get a glimpse of their faces over the people's heads, and how Drinkwater used to laugh at me.
One morning we were walking in Hyde Park, amusing ourselves in the usual way, when Drinkwater whispered to me hurriedly, ”Here come a great Lion and Lioness.” You may imagine my sensations. Bewildered with terror, I was about to leave him, and fly; but when I turned with trembling limbs and looked in the direction he pointed out, I saw that these fearful creatures appeared quite harmless: in fact, the great Lion, though he looked very magnificent, was quietly smoking a cigar; and except that the Lioness stared very fiercely, and wore spurs, and carried a riding-whip, I really don't think I should have known that she was a Lioness. A little Tiger, leading the Lioness's horse, followed them at a short distance.
I noticed that every one made way for these important members of society, who, indeed, seemed to think the earth hardly good enough for them to walk upon; but when they had pa.s.sed by, I heard the people say, ”That's the great Mr. Grandboy. He is one of our celebrated Lions. He is a perfect literary Beau Brummel; the author of several novels, that have been read prodigiously; he composes operas, sets the fas.h.i.+on of the cravat, and, they say, writes leaders for 'The Times.'”
”And who, pray, is the Lioness?”
”That is the Hon. Mrs. Delmacare. She writes novels, too, follows the hounds, and often whips her Tiger.”
Such were the remarks of the crowd.