CHAPTER VII

Gae him strong drink until he wink, That's sinking in despair; And liquor gúid to fire his blúid, That's prest wi' grief and care;— Then let him boose and deep carouse, Wi' bumpers flowing o'er; ?Till he forgets his fears and debts, And minds his ills no more.

DASHALL, during a stroll with his relation round the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, learning that several of his friends had formed a select party to dine at the Shakespear that day, sent in the names of himself and Coz, and they were received by the social and convivial assemblage with acclamation.

The Dinner-party comprised Sir Felix O'Grady, an Irish baronet just imported from the province of Munster; the honorable Frederick Fitzroy, a luminary in the constellation of Fashion; Colonel Mc. Can, a distinguished Scotch Officer; an amateur Poet; a member of the Corps Dramatique; and our old friends Sparkle and Mortimer, with the augmentation of Dashall and Tallyho, as already mentioned.

The viands were excellent, and the wines of the first quality. Conviviality was the order of the evening, and its whimsicalities were commenced during the repast, by the player, who, taking up a goblet of wine, and assuming the attitude of Macbeth in the banquet scene, exclaimed—

“I drink To the general joy of the whole table;— May good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both.”——

The bottle was now put into quick circulation; harmony and hilarity prevailed; and the poet, availing himself of the moments of inspiration, gave the following chant, extempore.—

Song. Air. Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen. Here's to the land where fair Freedom is seen, Old England,—her glory and trade, aye;— Here's to the island of Erin so green, And here's to Sir Felix O'Grady; Let the toast pass, Flinch not the glass That warms like the kiss of your favorite lass. Here's to the beaus and the belles of the day, The pleasures of life who enjoy, sir;— Here's to the leaders of fashion, so gay, And here's to the dashing Fitzroy, sir. Let the toast pass, Flinch not the glass That warms like the kiss of your favorite lass. Here's to our sailors who plough the salt wave, And never from battle have ran, sir;— Here's to our soldiers who nobly behave, And here's to brave Colonel Mc. Can, sir. Let the toast pass, Flinch not the glass That warms like the kiss of your favorite lass. Here's to the joys that our reason engage, Where Truth shines our best benefactress; Here's to the triumph of Learning,—the Stage,- And here's to each actor and actress. Let the toast pass, Flinch not the glass That warms like the kiss of your favorite lass. Here's to the man with a head to discern, And eke with a heart to bestow, sir, Tom Dashall, well skill'd Life in London to learn; And here's to the Squire Tallyho, sir. Let the toast pass, Flinch not the glass That warms like the kiss of your favorite lass. Here's to the friendship united and true, That paces variety's round, sir; To Sparkle and Mortimer fill then, anew, And let us with pleasure abound, sir. Let the toast pass, Flinch not the glass That warms like the kiss of your favorite lass.

This complimentary bag-a-telle was well received, and Sir Felix, shaking the amateur cordially by the hand, observed, that amongst other attainments before he left London, he meant to acquire the art of making verses, when he should give the poet a Rowland for his Oliver!

The player having but recently returned to Town, after completing his engagements with some of the Irish provincial theatres, proceeded to amuse his auditory, the baronet excepted, with accounts of the manner of posting in the sister kingdom.—

“Travelling,” said he, “in the province of Munster, having got into a chaise, I was surprised to hear the driver knocking at each side of the carriage.—“What are you doing?”—“A'n't I nailing your honor?”—“Why do you nail me up? I don't wish to be nailed up.”—“Augh! would your honor have the doors fly off the hinges?” When we came to the end of the stage, I begged the man to unfasten the doors.—“Ogh! what would I be taking out the nails for, to be racking the doors?”—“How shall I get out then?”—“Can't your honor get out of the window like any other jontleman?” I then began the operation; but having forced my head and shoulders out, could get no farther, and called again to the postillion.—“Augh! did any one ever see any one get out of a chay head foremost? Can't your honor put out your feet first, like a Christian?”

Here the baronet manifested considerable impatience, and was about to interrupt the narrator, when the latter requesting permission, continued:

“Next day four horses were attached to the crazy vehicle;—one, unfortunately, lost a shoe; and as I refused to go on until the poor animal was shod, my two postillions commenced, in my hearing, a colloquy.—“Paddy, where will I get a shoe, and no smith nigh hand?”—“Why don't you see yon jontleman's horse in the field; can't you go and unshoe him?”—“True for ye,” said Jem, “but that horse's shoe will never fit him.” “Augh! you can but try it,” said Paddy. So the gentleman's horse was actually unshod, and his shoe put upon the posting hack; and fit or not fit, Paddy went off with it.

“Same day, during a violent storm of wind and rain, 1 found that two of the windows were broken, and two could not, by force or art of man, be pulled up. I ventured to complain to Paddy of the inconvenience I suffered from the storm pelting in my face. His consolation was, “Augh! God bless your honour, and can't you get out and set behind the carriage, and you'll not get a drop at all, I'll engage!”

The player having thus closed his narrative, and the laughter of the company having subsided, the baronet very candidly admitted, that the sister kingdom in many parts, was miserably deficient in the requisites of travelling, and other conveniences to which the English were accustomed. But in process of time (he continued) we shall get more civilized. Nevertheless, we have still an advantage over you; we have more hospitality, and more honesty. Nay, by the powers! but it is so, my good friends. However much we unhappily may quarrel with each other, we respect the stranger who comes to sojourn amongst us; and long would he reside, even in the province of Munster, before a dirty spalpeen would rob him of his great coat and umbrella, and be after doing that same thing when he was at a friend's house too, from which they were taken, along with nearly all the great coats, cloaks, shawls, pelisses, hats and umbrellas, belonging to the company."{1}

1 We are inclined to believe that Sir Felix alludes to the fol-lowing instance of daring depredation.

Extraordinary Robbery. On Thursday night, whilst a large party of young folks were assembled at the house of Mr. Gregory, in Hertford Street, Fitzroy Square, to supper, a young man was let in by a servant, who said he had brought a cloak for his young mistress, as the night was cold. The servant left him in the hall, and went up stairs; when shortly after, a second arrived with a hackney coach, and on his being questioned by the servant, he said he brought the coach to take his master and mistress home. The servant was not acquainted with the names of half the company, and therefore credited what was told her. The two strangers were suffered to stand at the stairs head, to listen to the music and singing, with which they appeared highly delighted, and also had their supper and plenty to drink. But while festive hilarity prevailed above, the villains began to exercise their calling below, and the supper table in a trice they unloaded of four silver table spoons, a silver sauce-boat, knives and forks, &c. and from off the pegs and banisters they stole eight top-coats, several cloaks, shawls, pelisses and hats, besides a number of umbrellas, muffs, tippets, and other articles, all of which they carried off in the coach which was in waiting. To complete the farce, the watchman shut the coach door, and wished “their honours” good night. The robbery was not discovered until the company was breaking up. No trace of the thieves can be found.

There was certainly somewhat of an Irishism in the baronet's remark.—Of eight great coats stolen, the thieves could not discriminate who were the respective owners, and if it had been possible that they could have discriminated, it is not likely that any regard for the laws of hospitality would have induced them to make an exception of Sir Felix O'Grady's property amidst the general depredation.

The company, although secretly amused by the baronet's remarks, condoled with him on the loss he had sustained; and the player protesting that in stating the facts of Irish posting, he had no intention of giving the baronet the least offence, unanimity was restored, and the conviviality of the evening proceeded without further interruption.

Sir Felix made Irish bulls, and gave Irish anecdotes; the amateur occasionally gave a song or a stanza impromptu; the player spouted, recited, and took off several of his brother performers, by exhibiting their defects in close imitations,—

“Till tired at last wi' mony a farce,” They sat them down—

and united with the remaining company in an attentive hearing to a conversation which the honorable Frederick Fitzroy had just commenced with his friend Dashall.—

“You have now,” said the honourable Frederick Fitzroy, addressing himself to Dashall, “You have now become a retired, steady, contemplative young man; a peripatetic philosopher; tired with the scenes of ton, and deriving pleasure only from the investigation of Real Life in London, accompanied in your wanderings, by your respectable relative of Belville-Hall; and yet while you were one of us, you shone like a star of the first magnitude, and participated in all the follies of fashion with a zest of enjoyment that forbid the presage of satiety or decline.”

“Neither,” answered Dashall, “have I now altogether relinquished those pleasures, but by frequent repetition they become irksome; the mind is thus relieved by opposite pursuits, and the line of observation which I have latterly chosen has certainly afforded me much substantial information and rational amusement.”

“Some such pursuit I too must think of adopting,” replied Fitzroy, “else I shall sink into the gulph of ennuit to the verge of which I am fast approaching. Independent of the frequent ruinous consequences of the gaming-table, I have taken a dislike to its associates, and therefore abandoned their society; nor will you be surprised at my having adopted this resolution, when I inform you, that at my last sitting in one of these nefarious haunts of dissipation, I was minus to the extent, in a few hours, of several thousand pounds, the prize of unprincipled adventurers, of swindlers, black-legs, and pigeon-fanciers!”{1}

1 A pigeon-fancier is one of those speculators at the Gambling Houses, whose object it is to lie in wait for inexperienced noviciates, and under the pretext of fair and honorable dealing pluck their feathers; that is to say, strip them bare of their property. Days and nights are passed at the gaming-table. “I remember,” said the Earl of G——, “spending three days and three nights in the hazard room of a well-known house in St James's Street; the shutters were closed, the curtains down, and we had candles the whole time; even in the adjoining rooms we had candles, that when our doors were opened to bring in refreshments, no obtrusive gleam of day-light might remind us how the hours had passed. How human nature supported the fatigue, I know not. We scarcely allowed ourselves a moment's pause to take the sustenance our bodies required. At last one of the waiters, who had been in the room with us the whole time, declared that he could hold out no longer, and that sleep he must. With difficulty he obtained an hour's truce; the moment he got out of the room he fell asleep, absolutely at the very threshold of our door. By the rules of the house he was entitled to a bonus on every transfer of property at the hazard-table; and he made in the course of three days, up- wards of Three hundred pounds! Sleep and avarice had struggled to the utmost, but, with his vulgar habit, sleep prevailed. We were wide awake. I never shall forget the figure of one of my noble associates, who sat holding his watch, his eager eyes fixed upon the minute-hand, whilst he exclaimed continually, “This hour will never be over!” Then he listened to discover whether his watch had stopped, then cursed the lazy fellow for falling asleep, protesting, that for his part, he never would again consent to such a waste of time. The very instant the hour was ended, he ordered “that dog” to be awakened, and to work we went. At this sitting Thirty-five Thousand Pounds were lost and won. I was very fortunate, for I lost a mere trifle—Ten Thousand Pounds only!”

Dashall congratulated Fitzroy on his resolution, in having cut the dangerous connexion, and expressed a hope that in due process of time he would emancipate himself from the trammels of dissipation generally.

“That,” rejoined Fitzroy, “is already in a considerable degree effected.”

“In the higher and middle classes of society,” says a celebrated writer, “it is a melancholy and distressing sight to observe, not unfrequently, a man of a noble and ingenuous disposition, once feelingly alive to a sense of honor and integrity, gradually sinking under the pressure of his circumstances, making his excuses at first with a blush of conscious shame, afraid to see the faces of his friends from whom he may have borrowed money, reduced to the meanest tricks and subterfuges to delay or avoid the payment of his just debts, till ultimately grown familiar with falsehood, and at enmity with the world, he loses all the grace and dignity of man.”—

“Such,” continued Fitzroy, “was the acmé of degradation to which I was rapidly advancing, when an incident occurred to arrest the progress of dissipation, and give a stimulus to more worthy pursuits.

“One morning having visited a certain nunnery in the precincts of Pall-Mail, the Lady Abbess introduced me to a young noviciate, a beautiful girl of sixteen.

“When we were left alone, she dropped on her knees, and in attitude and voice of the most urgent supplication, implored me to save her from infamy!”

“I am in your power,” she exclaimed, “but I feel confident that you will not use it to my dishonor.—I am yet innocent;—restore me to my parents,—pure and unsullied,—and the benediction of Heaven will reward you!”—

She then told me a most lamentable tale of distress;—that her father was in prison for a small debt; and that her mother, her brothers and sisters, were starving at home.—Under these disastrous circumstances she had sought service, and was inveighd into that of mother W. from whence she had no hope of extrication, unless through my generous assistance! She concluded her pathetic appeal, by observing, that if the honorable Frederick Fitzroy had listened to the call of humanity, and paid a debt of long standing, her father would not now be breaking his heart in prison, her family famishing, nor herself subject to destruction.

“And I am the Author of all!” I exclaimed, “I am the dis-honorable Frederick Fitzroy, who in the vortex of dissipation, forgot the exercise of common justice, and involved a worthy man and his suffering family in misery! But I thank heaven, the injury is not irreparable!”

“I immediately explained to Mother W. the peculiarly distressing situation of this poor girl, rescued her from meditated perdition,—restored the husband to his family, with improved circumstances,—and by a continuance of my support, I trust, in some degree to atone for past transgression.”

This narrative excited much interest, and the approval, by the company, of Fitzroy's munificence was expressive and unanimous.

The conviviality of the evening was renewed, and sustained until an early hour, when the party broke up; having enjoyed “the feast of reason, and the flow of soul,” with temperate hilarity.

Dashall, his Cousin, and Fitzroy, proceeding under the piazzas of Covent Garden, the latter suggested an hour's amusement in the Cellars underneath the Hotel, a proposition which was immediately acceded to by his companions, and the trio descended into the lower regions.

The descent however bore not any resemblance to that of Telemachus into Hell. A brilliant light irradiated their passage, and the grim shadows of the infernal abode were, if present, without the ken of ocular observation. In place of the palace of Pandemonium, our triumvirate beheld the temple of Bacchus, where were assembled a number of Votaries, sacrificing to the jolly Deity of the Ancients, in frequent and powerful libations.

By some unaccountable means the daemon of discord, however, gained admission and ascendancy.

A scene now took place which baffles every attempt at description.—The row became general; decanters, glasses, and other fragile missiles, were resorted to,—their fragments strewed the floor,—and the terrified attendants hastened to require the interposition of the guardians of the night, in restoring order and tranquillity.

Amidst the ravage and dissonance of war, our trio preserved a strict neutrality, and before the arrival of the mediating powers, had regained their position in the piazzas, where they waited the result of the conflict.

Negotiations of peace having been unavailingly attempted, the refractory combatants were taken into custody, after an obstinate resistance, and conducted to “duress vile,” in the Watch-house.

The tragi-comedy was dacently wound up by one of the performers, a native of the Emerald Isle, who thinking it necessary that the neighbourhood should have an intimation of the proceedings, announced the hour of “past three,” with the accompaniment of “a bloody MORNING!”{1}

The neutrals now proceeded to their respective homes, and our two associates reached their domicile, without the occurrence of further incident.

Next morning the indicative double rit-tat of the postman induced the Squire from the breakfast-parlor to the hall. The servant had opened the door, and received the letters; when an itinerant dealer in genuine articles obtruded himself on the threshold, and doffing his castor after the manner of a knowing one, enquired whether his honor was pleased to be spoke with. Tallyho desired him to step in, and required to know his business. The fellow with a significant wink, and many prelusive apologies for the liberty he was about to take, stated that he had accidentally come into possession of some contraband goods, chiefly Hollands, Geneva, and India silk handkerchiefs, of prime and indisputable excellence; which he could part with at unparalleled low prices;—that he had already, in this private way, disposed of the greatest portion, and that if his honor was inclined to become a purchaser, he now had the opportunity of blending economy with superlative excellence, in an almost incredible degree, and unequalled in any part of the three kingdoms.

This flourish the Squire answered with becoming indignity; expressed his surprise at the consummate assurance of any trickster who would dare to offer him a contraband article, to the prejudice of His Majesty's revenue; and ordered the servant to turn the “scoundrel” out of doors.{2}

1 The above mentioned fracas took place a few weeks ago.— The offenders “against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King,” were next day held before one of the Police Magistrates, when it appearing that the row occurred under the influence of ebriety, and that the landlord and the watchmen were the only sufferers, a com-promise was permitted, and the parties were discharged with a suitable admonition. 2 “Contraband articles.” The Squire apparently was not aware that the superlatively excellent Hollands, Geneva, and India-hand-kerchiefs were, the one the manufacture of Spital-fields, and the other the sophisticated balderdash known by the name of Maidstone gin. It is a fact, altho' not generally known, that at the different watering places every season, the venders of silk handkerchiefs manufactured in Spital-flelds, carry on a lucrative trade, by disposing of them under the affectation of secrecy, as the genuine produce of the Indian loom; and thus accommodating themselves to the prejudice of their customers against our native productions; get off in threefold proportion, the number sold in London, and at a cent per cent greater advantage! With respect to alleged contraband SPIRITS, the deceit is more successfully manoeuvred in Town than in the country.— The facility of smuggling on the coast frequently supplies the maritime visitant with a cheap and genuine beverage. In Town the same opportunity does not occur, and on the uninitiated in the cheats of London, the system of this species of imposition is more frequently practised. Professing to exhibit Real Life in London, we shall not trouble our readers with an apology for the introduction of the following appropriate incident— Court ok Requests.—Holborn.—A case of rather a curious nature, and which was characterised rather by the absurd credulity of the parties than by its novelty, came before the Commissioners on Thursday last. A man of the name of O'Regan attended the Court, to show cause against a summons which had been issued, calling upon him to pay a debt of eighteen shillings, which was alleged to be due by him to a person who stated his name to be Higgins. The parties were both Irishmen, and exhibited a good deal of irritation as well as confusion, in their stories. With some difficulty the following facts were collected from their respective statements;—On Tuesday week, about nine o'clock in the evening, a man dressed in the costume of a sailor, and wearing a large rough coat, similar to that commonly worn by sea-faring men, in bad weather, entered the shop of O'Regan, who is a dealer in salt fish, and other haberdashery,” as he called it, in St. Giles's; and beckoning to the back part of the room, and at the same time looking very significantly, said, “May be you would not like a drop of the “real thing,” to keep a merry Christmas with?” “What do you mane?” says O'Regan. “Whiskey, to be sure,” says the man. “Faith, and it's I that would, “replied O'Regan, “provided it was good and chape.” “Och, by the piper of Kilrush,” says the man, “there has not been a noter, claner, more completer drop of Putshean (whiskey illicitly distilled,) smuggled across the Herring-brook (the Irish Channel,) for many a long day, and as for chapeness, you shall have it for an ould song.” “You don't mane to say it's after being smuggled!” says O'Regan. “Be my soul, but I do,” rejoined the man, “it's I and Jack Corcoran, a friend of mine, brought it safe and sound into the Thames last Sunday, in the shape of a cargo of butter-firkins, from Cork.” “Could a body taste it?"pursued O'Regan. With a couple of “why nots,” says the man, “I've a blather full of it under my oxther (his arm- pit,) if you'll lind us hould of a glass.” O'Regan said he hadn't a glass handy, but he brought a cup, and the bladder being produced, a fair taste was poured forth, which O'Regan, having tippled it off, after collecting his breath, swore was “the darling of a drop, it was the next kin to aquafortis.”—“Aqua fifties you mane” says the man, “aquafortis is a fool to it.” The next question was, as to the price?"Och, by the powers,” says the honest smuggler, “as you're a countryman and friend, you shall have it for ten shillings a gallon, and less than that I would'nt give it to my mother.” O'Regan thought this too much, and proposed eight shillings a gallon; but, after much chartering, he agreed to give nine shillings. The quantity was next discussed. The man could not sell less than an anker, four gallons. This was too much for O'Regan; but he finally determined to get a friend to go partners, and Higgins, who lodged in his house, was called down and also indulged with a taste, which he likewise pronounced “beautiful.” It was then arranged, with strong injunctions of secrecy, that the tub should be brought the next night, in a half-bushel sack, as if it were coals, and the hour of nine was appointed. The smuggler then departed, but was true to his appointment. He came at the hour fixed on the Wednesday night, and in the disguise proposed. The commodity was then carried into a little back parlor, with great mystery, and deposited in a cupboard, and the doors being all shut, he demanded his cash. “To be sure,” says Higgins; “but, first and foremost (for he was more cautious than his friend,) let us see if it is as good as the sample was?” “Och, the devil burn me,” says the smuggler, “if I'd desave you.” “Sure I know you would'nt,” replied Higgins, “only just I'd like to wet my whistle with another drop, as you may say.” “Touch my honor, touch my life,” says the smuggler; and seizing the tub with some indignation, he called for the poker, and then striking the barrel on each side the bung-hole, out started the bung. He next called for a table-spoon, and a cup, and ladling out about a noggin, alias a quartern, handed it to O'Regan, who, having taken a suck, by the twist of his eye and the smack of his lips, evinced his satisfaction. Higgins finished it; and exclaiming, “it's the dandy,” passed his hand in his pocket, without further hesitation, and produced his eighteen shillings. O'Regan did the same, and the cask being safely locked in the cupboard, the smuggler was let out with as much caution as he had been admitted. O'Regan and Higgins then held a council upon the division of the spoil; and the latter went up stairs to fetch down a two gallon jar, while the former ran to the public-house to borrow a measure. They soon met again in the parlor, and the tub was brought out. They endeavoured at first to get the bung out in the same manner which they had observed the smuggler pursue, but not being equally acquainted with the subject, they could not succeed. This difficulty, however, was soon obviated. O'Regan obtained a large gimblet from a next door neighbour, and a hole being bored in one of the ends, the liquor began to flow very freely into the measure which was held to receive it. Higgins remarked that it looked very muddy, and on the pint being full, lifted it up to have another sup; but he had no sooner taken a gulp, than, to the dismay of O'Regan, he exclaimed, “Oh, Holy Paul, it's bilge!” mentioning a very unsavoury liquid. “Brother,” says O'Regan, and snatching the measure from his partner, took a mouthful himself, which he as quickly spirted about the floor; and then, in an agitated tone, cried out, “Sure enough Higgins, it is bilge, and precious bail it is, as ever I drank.” They now eyed each other for some time with mutual surprise, and then sympathetically agreed that they must have been “done.” It was still, however, a matter of surprise to them, how their friend, the smuggler, could have taken good whiskey (which that they had tasted from the bung-hole certainly was,) from such nastiness. In order to solve their doubts, they procured a pail; and, having emptied the cask, they proceeded to break it to pieces, when, to their astonishment, the mystery was unravelled, and their folly, in being made the dupes of a pretended smuggler, made fully manifest; for immediately under the bung-hole they found a small tin box, capable of containing about half a pint, which, being tightly tacked to one of the staves, kept the pure liquor, a small quantity of which still remained, from that which was of a very opposite character. It was no laughing matter, and they were not, therefore, very merry on the occasion; and still less so, when Higgins demanded of O'Regan the repayment of his eighteen shillings; this O'Regan refused, and a quarrel ensued, which after having terminated in a regular “set to,” attended with painful consequences to both; was followed by Higgins applying to this Court for the summons which led to their appearance before the Commissioners. The whole of the circum-stances, with infinite trouble, having been thus unravelled; the Commissioner declared his inability to afford Mr. Higgins any re-dress. There was clearly no debt incurred; there was a mutual compact, entered into for an illegal purpose, for had the liquid which they had purchased been smuggled spirits, they were liable to pay a large penalty for having bought it. But putting aside all these considerations, it was clear that Higgins had, with a proper degree of caution, endeavoured to satisfy himself of the quality of the article before he paid his money; and thereby showed that he was not acting under a confidence in any guarantee on the part of O'Regan; and consequently could have no claim on him. In this view of the case, he should dismiss the summons without costs. The parties then retired, amidst the laughter of the by-standers; and Higgins, who was evidently much mortified, swore he would take the worth of his eighteen shillings “out of O'Regan's bones!”

This command was obeyed with alacrity, and as promptly acceded to by the discomfited intruder, who, however, retrieved, without doubt, in the credulity of others, the disappointment he had sustained by the pertinacity of the Squire.

The morning was unfavourable to pedestrian excursion. The library was well stored with literature in choice variety. To this antidote of ennui the Squire resorted, while Dashall wrote cards of invitation to a few select friends, whom he knew would, sans cerémonie honor his table to take bachelor's fare with him in the evening.

“I pity the man in a rainy day,” says a writer, “who cannot find amusement in reading.” This was not the case with the two associates;—the intellectual treat afforded by the library was fully enjoyed; and the moments glided on, imperceptibly, until verging on the hour of dinner.

The friends to whom Dashall had sent round, one and all accepted his invitation, and the remainder of the day was devoted to that refined hilarity, of which his hospitable board was always the chief characteristic.