be rated, the want of his counsel has not proved detrimental to the public service.
The Foxites, however, understood the sneer, and estimated it at its true value, for on turning to the advertising column we find that “the anniversary of Mr. Fox’s first election for Westminster will be held at the Shakespere tavern. The Honourable C. J. Fox, in the chair.” Where was the Shakespere tavern situated? We see that the dinner tickets were only eight shillings, although dukes and earls were to partake of it, and the time was four o’clock. We have the authority of the editor, that, on October 2nd, 1798, Mr. Pitt was not laid up in flannel with the gout, as it had been reported, for—
We saw him yesterday in the Park in perfect [sic] good health.
Even in the little paragraphs, the “we,” it will be seen, is retained, giving us a notion that even such scraps in those days were picked up by the editor himself instead of by penny-a-liners as now. In the gigantic “Thunderer” of to-day, with its abstract editor, we lose these little personal touches which bring us face to face with the demi-god that launched the dread bolts in those times.
As we write, the paper-boy comes for “The Times,” from which we have extracted a good pennyworth this morning, and we see him collecting his papers at door after door, all the way up the street. What a comment this upon a little paragraph in the “Times” of October, 1798, to the following effect:
The keepers of several reading-rooms in Fleet Street have been fined 5l. for lending newspapers for hire.
What meddlesome stumbling-blocks were placed in those days in the path of the poor politician.
Whilst the “Emperor of Germany” was deciding his politics in the face of the French Directory, and the “Grand Signior,”—what old world titles these!—was acting with “decision and vigour,” poor old George III. was at Weymouth, recruiting his poor shattered brain, and certainly the Court levelled itself to the meanest capacity in its amusements, if we may judge from the programme of the fête at Maiden Castle, near Dorchester, on the anniversary of the birth-day of the Duchess of Wurtemberg—which runs as follows;
To be played for at cricket, a round of beef—each man of the winning set to have a riband.
A cheese to be rolled down the hill—prize to whoever stops it.
A silver cup to be run for by ponies, the best of three heats.
A pound of tobacco to be grinned for.
A barrel of beer to be rolled down the hill—a prize to whoever stops it.
A Michaelmas goose to be dived for.
A good hat to be cudgelled for.
Half-a-guinea for the best ass in three heats.
A handsome hat for the boy most expert in catching a roll dipped in treacle and suspended by a string.
A leg of mutton and a gallon of porter to the winner of a race of 100 yards in sacks.
A good hat to be wrestled for.
Half-a-guinea to the rider of an ass who wins the best of three heats by coming in last.
A pig—prize to whoever catches him by the tail.
This was the age of Chloes and Phyllises, of Damons and Corydons, when shepherds piped to their shepherdesses on Dresden china tea-cups, and made love in the tender verses of noble poets. We see what the amusements of the country people were, and how they attracted royalty.
If we turn to the advertisements—the glory of the leading journal of the present day—we see on what slight beginnings its present prosperity was built. The first page, as at present, and half of the last page, contained then about as many as would go into one full column of the present journal. The nature of the advertisements of the last century differed but very little from those of the present day. “Elegant villas” and desirable mansions were advertised to let in much the same style as they are to-day. Even the public auction-rooms were the same—there was “Garraway’s” in the city and “Christy’s” in Pall Mall. Patent medicines cured all diseases as at present, and Dr. James’s powder was even then sold at “Newberry’s in St. Paul’s Churchyard!”
There are some noteworthy things, however, even among the advertisements. For instance, we see that a live male elephant and 1095 elephant’s teeth are to be sold at Garraway’s “by the candle.” This hints at a custom which dates from the time of Queen Anne, and was conducted this wise: a very small piece of candle was lit, and the biddings proceeded until it went out, the last bidder before which event took place, claiming the lot. The intense anxiety existing whilst the flicker of the mould or the dip was at the last gasp, induced much competition among the bidders, but it could hardly have been so satisfactory and decisive a method of sale as the sharp rap of the hammer.
There is something very illustrative of the times in the advertisement of “Miss Rutter’s Boarding School,” in which much stress is laid upon the instruction given in “useful and ornamental needlework.” We have seen the results of this careful training in the faded old sampler work framed in our grandmother’s houses. But the Miss Rutters’ pupils were indoctrinated into the useful as well as the ornamental, for we find there was a Mr. Rutter, who offers the “inestimable advantages to the young ladies” of the indispensable graces of domestic economy, and “a thorough knowledge in writing and arithmetic.” Possibly if the present generation of young ladies were to think a little more of these things, and less of a smattering in half-a-dozen languages, it would be better, especially for those bachelors who wish to know “How to live on two hundred a-year.” But the question arises, what has become of all those young misses of Miss Rutter’s academy, of Morden Lane, Surrey? Is there an old lady in a mob cap still living who can converse of the times of her youth? or are they all gone, “the old familiar faces” whose sayings and doings, goings and comings, are chronicled in this fragile, old, old paper, which seems to smile upon us with a smile of perpetual youth?
