The Old Chelsea Bun-House: A Tale of the Last CenturyManning, Anne
General
The Old Chelsea Bun-House: A Tale of the Last Century
Manning, Anne
England -- Social life and customs -- 18th century -- Fiction
They now fell to talking of the Company, and criticizing their Dresses
and Deportment, but I was too preoccupied with what they had been
saying to attend much to their caustic Remarks; for though they spoke
quietly, and their false Heads somewhat disguised their Voices, I could
not help entertaining an Impression that the Fox was Mr. _Caryl_.
Was it poor Mr. _Fenwick_, then, he alluded to so unhandsomely? Oh,
the Hollowness of Worldlings! Why, had I not with my own Ears heard
him commend Mr. _Fenwick's_ Poem to his Face, and thank him for the
Compliment of the Dedication? And yet, here he was waiving it off, as
'twere, and even hinting that Mr. _Fenwick_ wanted to be paid for it!
whereas I knew he had refused Money when offered! Oh, the Meanness!...
He was jealous, and envious too, I could make out, of a Man that had
writ better Verses than his own; and would fain have them supprest.
Well, well, this is a wicked World we live in; and that's no News
neither.
A false Head and a false Heart, thought I, as the Fox walked off with
the Goose. I declare my Hands tingled to pull off that Fox's Head
and expose him; but that would have been witless. I got tired of the
Vanity-Fair long before _Prudence_ did. At length even she had had
enough (and no Wonder, for our Attention had been on the full Stretch
for many Hours, without Refreshment or Change of Posture); but the
Difficulty was, how to steal away; for the Lobbies and grand Staircase
were as thronged as the Ball-Rooms, and we could not in our plebeian
Dresses, and unmasked, attempt going among the Company; so there we
continued to sit, long after we wanted to come away. At length the
Rooms began to thin; and we took Advantage of a chance Dispersion of
the Company to make a sudden Flight to the back Stairs. I thought
I heard Remarks and Exclamations made, but never looked round; and
there, at the Foot of the back Stairs, stood _Peter_ as pale as Death,
thinking he had missed us, and never should find us. He had passed
the Night, of course, at a Public-House--no good place for him, nor
for scores of others that did the same; and was now waiting with our
camelot Cloaks and Clogs, which he had stowed safely somewhere where
he knew he could find them again. Once equipped, we followed close at
his Heels as he elbowed his Way through a Rabble-Rout of Chairmen,
Link-Boys, Hackney-Coachmen, Pickpockets, and Lookers-on. It was
pouring of Rain, the Pavement shone like Glass, Day was breaking, and I
never heard such an uproar in my Life.... "Lady So-and-so's Chariot!"
echoed from one hoarse Voice to another all along and round the Corner;
and then "Lady So-and-so's Chariot stops the Way!"--till Lady So-and-so
stepped in and drove off.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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