of date, but in point of brilliancy in the higher
circles. Our ancestors never bumped along the streets, with a stable-boy
by their side, in a one-horse machine, which is now the _bon ton_ in
imitation of our Gallic neighbours, whose equipage is measured by
their purse. Where do you now see a carriage with six horses, and three
outriders, and an _avant courier_, except on Lord Mayor's day? Yet
how common this was with the nobility _d'autrefois_. Two grooms are no
longer his Grace's and my Lord's attendants, but each is followed by one
groom in plain clothes, not very dissimilar from the man he serves. Do
we ever see the star of nobility in the morning, to guard him who has
a right to it from popular rudeness and a confusion of rank? All is now
privacy, concealment, equality in exterior, musty and meanness: not
that the plain style of dress would be exceptionable, if we could say in
verity--

'We have within what far surpasseth show.'

But the lining is now no better (oftentimes worse) than the coat. Our
principles and our politeness are on a par--at low-water mark. The
tradesman lives like the gentleman, and the nobleman steps down a
degree to be, like other people, up to all fashionable habits and modern
customs; whilst the love for gain, at the clubs, on the turf, in the
ring, and in private life, debases one part of society, and puts down
the other, which becomes the pigeon to the rook. Whilst all this goes
on, the press chronicles and invents follies for us; and there are men
stupid enough to glory in their depravity, to be pleased with their
own deformity of mind, body, or dress, of their affectations, ~222~~and
their leading of a party. There is something manly in the Yacht Club, in
a dexterously driving four fleet horses in hand, in reining in the proud
barb, and in gymnastic exercises: but the whole merit of these ceases,
when my Lord (like him of carroty beard) becomes the tar without his
glory, and wears the check shirt without the heart of oak--when the
driver becomes the imitator of the stage and hackney box--when the
rider is the unsuccessful rival of the jockey; and the frequenter of the
gymnastic arena becomes a bruiser, or one turning strength into money,
be the bet or the race what it may.

'Shades of our ancestors! whose fame of old
In ev'ry time the echoing world has told!
Whose dauntless valour and heroic deeds,
Each British bosom yet enraptur'd re