And these are pictures of high life, of which the originals are to be seen daily.
"The haberdasher of Cheapside, whose father, by adherence to the most rigid economy, had amassed a competence, and who transmitted his property, without his prudence, to his darling son, is determined to shew his spirit, by buying a _bit of blood_, keeping his gig, his girl, and a thatched cottage on the skirts of Epping Forest, or Sydenham Common; but as keeping a girl and a gig would be a nothing unless all the world were _up to it_, he regularly drives her to all the boxing-matches, the Epping hunt, and all the races at Barnet, Epsom, Egham, and Ascot Heath, where he places himself in one of the most conspicuous situations; and as he knows his racing, &c.

must eventually distinguish his name in the Gazette with a whereas! he rejoices in the progress and acceleration of his own ruin, and, placing his arms akimbo, he laughs, sings, swears, swaggers, and vociferates--'What d'ye think o' that now,--is'nt this doing it in stile, eh ?' "Prime of life to go it, where's a place like London?
Four in hand to-day, the next you may be undone." [Illustration: page44 Epson Racers] "Well, Sir, the mercer's wife, from Watling Street, thinks living in style is evinced by going once a year to a masquerade at the new Museodeum, or Argyle Rooms; having her daughters taught French, dancing, and music--dancing a minuet at Prewterers' Hall, or Mr.Wilson's{1} annual benefit--in getting a good situation in the green boxes--going to Hampstead or Copenhagen House in a glass coach on a Sunday--having card-parties at home 1 Mr.Wilson's flaming bills of "Dancing at the Old Bailey," which are so profusely stuck up about the city, are said to have occasioned several awkward jokes and blunders; among others related, is that of a great unintellectual Yorkshire booby, who, after staring at the bills with his mouth open, and his saucer eyes nearly starting out of his head with astonishment, exclaimed, "Dang the buttons on't, I zee'd urn dangling all of a row last Wednesday at t' Ould Bailey, but didn't know as how they call'd that danzing,--by gum there be no understanding these here Lunnun folk!" ~45~~during Lent, declaring she never drinks any thing else but the _most bestest_ gunpowder tea, that she has a most _screwciating_ cold, and that the country air is always _salubrus_, and sure to do her good.
"So much for living in style, and good breeding." "That's your true breeding--that's your sort my boys-- Fun, fire, and pathos--metre, mirth, and noise; To make you die with laughter, or the hiccups, Tickle your favourites, or smash your tea-cups." "By the way, in former times the term _good-breeding_ meant a combination of all that was amiable and excellent; and a well-bred person would shrink from an action or expression that could possibly wound the feelings of another; its foundation was laid in truth, and its supporting pillars were justice and integrity, sensibility and philanthropy; but "In this gay age--in Taste's enlighten'd times, When Fashion sanctifies the basest crimes; E'en not to swear and game were impolite, Since he who sins in _style_ must sure be right." A well-bred person must learn to smile when he is angry, and to laugh even when he is vexed to the very soul.
"It would be the height of _mauvaise honte_ for a wellbred person to blush upon any occasions whatever; no young lady blushes after eleven years of age; to study the expression of the countenance of others, in order to govern your own, is indispensably necessary.
"In former times, no well-bred person would have uttered a falsehood; but now such ideas are completely exploded, and such conduct would now be termed a _bore_.

My Lord Portly remarks, 'It is a cold day.' 'Yes, my Lord, it is a very cold day,' replies Major Punt.

In two minutes after, meeting Lord Lounge, who observes he thinks the weather very warm--'Yes, very warm, my Lord,' is the reply--thus contradicting himself almost in the same breath.

It would be perfectly inconsistent in a well-bred man to think, for fear of being absent.