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Chapter 9


The wish of persons in the humbler classes of life, to ape the
manners and customs of those whom fortune has placed above them, is
often the subject of remark, and not unfrequently of complaint.
The inclination may, and no doubt does, exist to a great extent,
among the small gentility--the would-be aristocrats--of the middle
classes. Tradesmen and clerks, with fashionable novel-reading
families, and circulating-library-subscribing daughters, get up
small assemblies in humble imitation of Almack's, and promenade the
dingy 'large room' of some second-rate hotel with as much
complacency as the enviable few who are privileged to exhibit their
magnificence in that exclusive haunt of fashion and foolery.
Aspiring young ladies, who read flaming accounts of some 'fancy
fair in high life,' suddenly grow desperately charitable; visions
of admiration and matrimony float before their eyes; some
wonderfully meritorious institution, which, by the strangest
accident in the world, has never been heard of before, is
discovered to be in a languishing condition: Thomson's great room,
or Johnson's nursery-ground, is forthwith engaged, and the
aforesaid young ladies, from mere charity, exhibit themselves for
three days, from twelve to four, for the small charge of one
shilling per head! With the exception of these classes of society,
however, and a few weak and insignificant persons, we do not think
the attempt at imitation to which we have alluded, prevails in any
great degree. The different character of the recreations of
different classes, has often afforded us amusement; and we have
chosen it for the subject of our present sketch, in the hope that
it may possess some amusement for our readers.

If the regular City man, who leaves Lloyd's at five o'clock, and
drives home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford-hill, or elsewhere, can
be said to have any daily recreation beyond his dinner, it is his
garden. He never does anything to it with his own hands; but he
takes great pride in it notwithstanding; and if you are desirous of
paying your addresses to the youngest daughter, be sure to be in
raptures with every flower and shrub it contains. If your poverty
of expression compel you to make any distinction between the two,
we would certainly recommend your bestowing more admiration on his
garden than his wine. He always takes a walk round it, before he
starts for town in the morning, and is particularly anxious that
the fish-pond should be kept specially neat. If you call on him on
Sunday in summer-time, about an hour before dinner, you will find
him sitting in an arm-chair, on the lawn behind the house, with a
straw hat on, reading a Sunday paper. A short distance from him
you will most likely observe a handsome paroquet in a large brass-
wire cage; ten to one but the two eldest girls are loitering in one
of the side walks accompanied by a couple of young gentlemen, who
are holding parasols over them--of course only to keep the sun off-
-while the younger children, with the under nursery-maid, are
strolling listlessly about, in the shade. Beyond these occasions,
his delight in his garden appears to arise more from the
consciousness of possession than actual enjoyment of it. When he
drives you down to dinner on a week-day, he is rather fatigued with
the occupations of the morning, and tolerably cross into the
bargain; but when the cloth is removed, and he has drank three or
four glasses of his favourite port, he orders the French windows of
his dining-room (which of course look into the garden) to be
opened, and throwing a silk handkerchief over his head, and leaning
back in his arm-chair, descants at considerable length upon its
beauty, and the cost of maintaining it. This is to impress you--
who are a young friend of the family--with a due sense of the
excellence of the garden, and the wealth of its owner; and when he
has exhausted the subject, he goes to sleep.

There is another and a very different class of men, whose
recreation is their garden. An individual of this class, resides
some short distance from town--say in the Hampstead-road, or the
Kilburn-road, or any other road where the houses are small and
neat, and have little slips of back garden. He and his wife--who
is as clean and compact a little body as himself--have occupied the
same house ever since he retired from business twenty years ago.
They have no family. They once had a son, who died at about five
years old. The child's portrait hangs over the mantelpiece in the
best sitting-room, and a little cart he used to draw about, is
carefully preserved as a relic.

In fine weather the old gentleman is almost constantly in the
garden; and when it is too wet to go into it, he will look out of
the window at it, by the hour together. He has always something to
do there, and you will see him digging, and sweeping, and cutting,
and planting, with manifest delight. In spring-time, there is no
end to the sowing of seeds, and sticking little bits of wood over
them, with labels, which look like epitaphs to their memory; and in
the evening, when the sun has gone down, the perseverance with
which he lugs a great watering-pot about is perfectly astonishing.
The only other recreation he has, is the newspaper, which he
peruses every day, from beginning to end, generally reading the
most interesting pieces of intelligence to his wife, during
breakfast. The old lady is very fond of flowers, as the hyacinth-
glasses in the parlour-window, and geranium-pots in the little
front court, testify. She takes great pride in the garden too:
and when one of the four fruit-trees produces rather a larger
gooseberry than usual, it is carefully preserved under a wine-glass
on the sideboard, for the edification of visitors, who are duly
informed that Mr. So-and-so planted the tree which produced it,
with his own hands. On a summer's evening, when the large
watering-pot has been filled and emptied some fourteen times, and
the old couple have quite exhausted themselves by trotting about,
you will see them sitting happily together in the little
summerhouse, enjoying the calm and peace of the twilight, and
watching the shadows as they fall upon the garden, and gradually
growing thicker and more sombre, obscure the tints of their gayest
flowers--no bad emblem of the years that have silently rolled over
their heads, deadening in their course the brightest hues of early
hopes and feelings which have long since faded away. These are
their only recreations, and they require no more. They have within
themselves, the materials of comfort and content; and the only
anxiety of each, is to die before the other.

This is no ideal sketch. There USED to be many old people of this
description; their numbers may have diminished, and may decrease
still more. Whether the course female education has taken of late
days--whether the pursuit of giddy frivolities, and empty nothings,
has tended to unfit women for that quiet domestic life, in which
they show far more beautifully than in the most crowded assembly,
is a question we should feel little gratification in discussing:
we hope not.

Let us turn now, to another portion of the London population, whose
recreations present about as strong a contrast as can well be
conceived--we mean the Sunday pleasurers; and let us beg our
readers to imagine themselves stationed by our side in some well-
known rural 'Tea-gardens.'

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the people, of whom there
are additional parties arriving every moment, look as warm as the
tables which have been recently painted, and have the appearance of
being red-hot. What a dust and noise! Men and women--boys and
girls--sweethearts and married people--babies in arms, and children
in chaises--pipes and shrimps--cigars and periwinkles--tea and
tobacco. Gentlemen, in alarming waistcoats, and steel watch-
guards, promenading about, three abreast, with surprising dignity
(or as the gentleman in the next box facetiously observes, 'cutting
it uncommon fat!')--ladies, with great, long, white pocket-
handkerchiefs like small table-cloths, in their hands, chasing one
another on the grass in the most playful and interesting manner,
with the view of attracting the attention of the aforesaid
gentlemen--husbands in perspective ordering bottles of ginger-beer
for the objects of their affections, with a lavish disregard of
expense; and the said objects washing down huge quantities of
'shrimps' and 'winkles,' with an equal disregard of their own
bodily health and subsequent comfort--boys, with great silk hats
just balanced on the top of their heads, smoking cigars, and trying
to look as if they liked them--gentlemen in pink shirts and blue
waistcoats, occasionally upsetting either themselves, or somebody
else, with their own canes.

Some of the finery of these people provokes a smile, but they are
all clean, and happy, and disposed to be good-natured and sociable.
Those two motherly-looking women in the smart pelisses, who are
chatting so confidentially, inserting a 'ma'am' at every fourth
word, scraped an acquaintance about a quarter of an hour ago: it
originated in admiration of the little boy who belongs to one of
them--that diminutive specimen of mortality in the three-cornered
pink satin hat with black feathers. The two men in the blue coats
and drab trousers, who are walking up and down, smoking their
pipes, are their husbands. The party in the opposite box are a
pretty fair specimen of the generality of the visitors. These are
the father and mother, and old grandmother: a young man and woman,
and an individual addressed by the euphonious title of 'Uncle
Bill,' who is evidently the wit of the party. They have some half-
dozen children with them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice
the fact, for that is a matter of course here. Every woman in 'the
gardens,' who has been married for any length of time, must have
had twins on two or three occasions; it is impossible to account
for the extent of juvenile population in any other way.

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grandmother, at Uncle
Bill's splendid joke of 'tea for four: bread-and-butter for
forty;' and the loud explosion of mirth which follows his wafering
a paper 'pigtail' on the waiter's collar. The young man is
evidently 'keeping company' with Uncle Bill's niece: and Uncle
Bill's hints--such as 'Don't forget me at the dinner, you know,' 'I
shall look out for the cake, Sally,' 'I'll be godfather to your
first--wager it's a boy,' and so forth, are equally embarrassing to
the young people, and delightful to the elder ones. As to the old
grandmother, she is in perfect ecstasies, and does nothing but
laugh herself into fits of coughing, until they have finished the
'gin-and-water warm with,' of which Uncle Bill ordered 'glasses
round' after tea, 'just to keep the night air out, and to do it up
comfortable and riglar arter sitch an as-tonishing hot day!'

It is getting dark, and the people begin to move. The field
leading to town is quite full of them; the little hand-chaises are
dragged wearily along, the children are tired, and amuse themselves
and the company generally by crying, or resort to the much more
pleasant expedient of going to sleep--the mothers begin to wish
they were at home again--sweethearts grow more sentimental than
ever, as the time for parting arrives--the gardens look mournful
enough, by the light of the two lanterns which hang against the
trees for the convenience of smokers--and the waiters who have been
running about incessantly for the last six hours, think they feel a
little tired, as they count their glasses and their gains.

Charles Dickens