It is difficult to remember that this was the England of the Six Acts, of Peterloo, and of the Industrial Revolution.  Mr. Creevey, indeed, could hardly be expected to remember it, for he was utterly unconscious of the existence—­of the possibility—­of any mode of living other than his own.  For him, dining-rooms 50 feet long, bottles of Madeira, broiled bones, and the brightest yellow satin were as necessary and obvious a part of the constitution of the universe as the light of the sun and the law of gravity.  Only once in his life was he seriously ruffled; only once did a public question present itself to him as something alarming, something portentous, something more than a personal affair.  The occasion is significant.  On March 16, 1825, he writes: 

I have come to the conclusion that our Ferguson is insane. He quite foamed at the mouth with rage in our Railway Committee in support of this infernal nuisance—­the loco-motive Monster, carrying eighty tons of goods, and navigated by a tail of smoke and sulphur, coming thro’ every man’s grounds between Manchester and Liverpool.

His perturbation grew.  He attended the committee assiduously, but in spite of his efforts it seemed that the railway Bill would pass.  The loco-motive was more than a joke.  He sat every day from 12 to 4; he led the opposition with long speeches.  ‘This railway,’ he exclaims on May 31, ‘is the devil’s own.’  Next day, he is in triumph:  he had killed the Monster.

     Well—­this devil of a railway is strangled at last....  To-day we
     had a clear majority in committee in our favour, and the promoters
     of the Bill withdrew it, and took their leave of us.

With a sigh of relief he whisked off to Ascot, for the festivities of which he was delighted to note that ‘Prinney’ had prepared ’by having 12 oz. of blood taken from him by cupping.’

Old age hardly troubled Mr. Creevey.  He grew a trifle deaf, and he discovered that it was possible to wear woollen stockings under his silk ones; but his activity, his high spirits, his popularity, only seemed to increase.  At the end of a party ladies would crowd round him.  ’Oh, Mr. Creevey, how agreeable you have been!’ ’Oh, thank you, Mr. Creevey! how useful you have been!’ ’Dear Mr. Creevey, I laughed out loud last night in bed at one of your stories.’  One would like to add (rather late in the day, perhaps) one’s own praises.  One feels almost affectionate; a certain sincerity, a certain immediacy in his response to stimuli, are endearing qualities; one quite understands that it was natural, on the pretext of changing house, to send him a dozen of wine.  Above all, one wants him to go on.  Why should he stop?  Why should he not continue indefinitely telling us about ‘Old Salisbury’ and ‘Old Madagascar’?  But it could not be.

    Le temps s’en va, le temps s’en va, Madame;
    Las!  Le temps non, mais nous, nous en allons.