body, and the maker calculated on gaining a fortune by it. But would you believe it, as soon as one pair had been cast for the heels of the Count himself, he ordered the moulds, patterns, and drawings to be brought home to him; had them broken up before his face, and with his own hands committed the fragments to the flames!
You observe that unimpeachable pony-phæton, drawn by two cream-coloured ponies—what simplicity—what taste—such inexpensive elegance, you might say! Notwithstanding which, that phæton has not been turned out of Long Acre under two hundred and fifty guineas, and the ponies one hundred and fifty the pair—not a speck you may perceive of silver or brass on the harness—not an atom of gold-lace on the subdued and sober livery of the tiger—the equipage is not, you see, perched on wheels or hung on a perch—it reclines, as it were taking its ease, and floats lightly and easily in perfect equilibrium. The turn-out is, without doubt, the most elegant in the ring—it attracts admiration by a studious endeavour to decline it, and belongs, I think, to the Earl of Harrington. To contrast with it, pray note that continental cab, driven by the man in a huge moustache—an attaché to the French embassy—did you ever—Long Acre would blush for such a concern: you see the body of the machine is painted an odious chocolate colour, picked out with broad stripes of white, that give it the appearance of being bound round the edges with penny tape, a blazing armorial bearing on every side, such as you see on shabby hackney coaches—it is evidently ashamed of itself, too, for you observe it is making a desperate effort to dive down head foremost between the shafts, to counteract which centripetal tendency is, without doubt, the proprietor's reason for mounting a tiger behind, who, in loutishness and size, looks more like an unfledged elephant—regard the harness, too, all brass and no leather. Who is that fellow in military uniform, joggling behind the cab on a waggoner's black horse, with a couteau de chasse, and a cock's feather in his cocked hat—a field-marshal, doubtless, of the grand army—no such thing, my dear sir, simply a footman in disguise. Mercy on us, assuredly our heads will be all cut off! Ridiculous as that turn-out appears in our country, and in our eyes, I can assure you that, on the Prado of Madrid, the Corso of Rome, or at the Parisian fête of Long Champs, this attaché and his descending cab would be considered machines of the very first fashion.
You see that slashing yellow chariot, with the pair of dark bays—close in the rear of it you may observe a coach of a deep claret-colour—a fine pair of bright bays under it, and the coachman and footmen in pepper and salt, with plain cockades—that is one of the royal carriages, and exactly the thing that a royal carriage ought to be—no cock's feathers, no lubberly footmen, no blazing armorial bearings—no gold, in short, upon our gingerbread. Close at the heels of the royal equipage may be seen three in a gig—such a gig, and such a three!—Fitz-Wiggins and the Frenchman are both thrown into the shade. Hilloa! who would have thought of seeing young Capillaire, the fashionable wig-trimmer's son of Bond Street—there he goes, however, at railway pace, on his half-guinea hack, making the best use he can of his ten-and-sixpence worth of equestrian exercitation. Now they are all at a dead lock—the triple line of wealth, fashion, and pretension has come to a regular stand-still—we will have time enough to walk half round the circle before they are able to get on again.
The stroll along the beach of that Cockney ocean the Serpentine, is delightful—the carriage-way is carefully watered, and the heat of the summer's day tempered by a refreshing breeze from the river. There is, on the one side and the other, as George Robins would say, a never-ending panorama of moving scenery. Now are we opposite the receiving-house of the Royal Humane Society, and pause a moment to admire the aptitude of the device carved in marble over the door—a cherub endeavouring to relight, with his breath, an extinguished lamp, with the touching and beautiful motto,
"Forsitan scintillula latet."
Let us turn up this little path, and make our way to the Chalybeate Springs,—I should rather say to the site of the Chalybeate Springs—for they are long since dried up, and, like benefits conferred, are forgotten. Here they were in this
