CHAPTER XXV

Lack a day! what a gay What a wonderful great town! In each street, thousands meet, All parading up and down. Crossing—jostling—strutting—running, Hither—thither—going—coming; Hurry—scurry—pushing—driving, Ever something new contriving. Oh! what a place, what a strange London Town, On every side, both far and wide, we hear of its renown.

Escorting to the ever-varying promenade of fashion, the Hon. Tom Dashall and his Cousin Bob, whose long protracted investigation of Life in London was now drawing to a close, proceeded this morning to amuse themselves with another lounge in Bond-street: this arcadia of dignified equality was thronged, the carriage-way with dashing equipages, and the pave with exquisite pedestrians. Here was one rouged and whiskered; there another in petticoats and stays, while his sister, like an Amazon, shewed her nether garments half way to the knee. Then “passed smiling by” a Corinthian bear, in an upper benjamin and a Jolliffe shallow. A noted milliner shone in a richer pelisse than the Countess, whom the day before she had cheated out of the lace which adorned it. The gentleman with the day-rule, in new buckskins and boots, and mounted on a thorough-bred horse, quizzed his retaining creditor, as he trotted along with dusty shoes and coat; the “lady of easy virtue” stared her keeper's wife and daughter out of countenance. The man milliner's shop-boy, en passant, jogged the duke's elbow; and the dandy pickpocket lisped and minced his words quite as well as my lord.

Tom pointed out some of the more dashing exhibitants; and Bob inquiring the name of a fine woman, rather en bon point, with a French face, who was mounted on a chesnut hunter, and whom he had never before seen in the haunts of fashion—“That lady,” said he, “goes by the name of Speculator; her real name is Mademoiselle Leverd, of the Theatre Français at Paris: she arrived in this country a month since, to “have an opportunity of displaying her superior talents; though it is whispered that the object of her journey was not altogether in the pursuit of her profession, but for the purpose of making an important conquest.”

“And who is that charming woman,” continued Bob, “in the curricle next to L———d F———?”

“That,” returned Tom, “is Mrs. Orbery Hunter. The beautiful man next you, is the “commercial dandy,” or as Lord G——l styles him, Apollo; and his Lordship is a veracious man, on which account R——— calls G——— his lyre.”

“Ah, do you see that dashing fellow in the Scotch cloak, attended by a lad with his arm in a sling? That is the famous Sir W. M———,who doubles his income by gambling speculations; and that's one of his decoys, to entrap young country squires of fortune to dine with him, and be fleeced. In return, he is to marry him (on condition of receiving £100. for every thousand) to an heiress, the daughter of his country banker.”

“Why, all the first whips in the female world are abroad to-day. There is the flower of green Erin, Lady Foley. See with what style she fingers the ribbans. Equally dexterous at the use of whip and tongue; woe to the wight who incurs the lash of either.

“That reverend divine in the span new dennet and the Jolliffe shallow, who squares his elbows so knowingly, as he rubs on his bit of blood, is Parson A———. He is the proprietor of the temple of gaming iniquity, at No. 6, Pall Mall. He is a natural son of Lord B———re, by whom he was brought up, liberally educated, and presented with church preferments of considerable value. He married, in early life, the celebrated singer, Miss M—h—n, whom he abandoned, with his infant family. This lady found a protector for herself and children in the person of the Rev. Mr. P———s, and having since obtained a divorce from her former husband, has been married to him. The parson boasts of his numerous amours, and, a few years since, took the benefit of the act. Before he ventured upon the splendid speculations at the Gothic Hall, with F———r T———n, Mr. Charles S———, and Lord D———, he used to frequent the most notorious g———g houses, occasionally picking up a half crown as the pigeons were knocked down by the more wealthy players. But, chousing his colleagues out of their shares, and getting the Gothic Hall into his own hands, he has become the great man you see, and may truly be called by the title of autocrat of all the Greeks.

“And who,” inquired Bob, “is that gay careless young fellow in the Stanhope, who sits so easy while his horse plunges?”

“That,” replied Tom, “is the Hon. and Rev. Fitz S———, with the best heart, best hand, and the best leg in Bond-street. He is really one of the most fascinating men in polished society, and withal, the best judge of a horse at Tattersalls, of a dennet at Long Acre, or a segar in Maiden Lane.”

“You need not tell me who that is on the roan horse, with red whiskers and florid complexion. (The Earl of Y———, of course). Madame B. tells a curious story of him and a filly belonging to Prince Paul. His Lordship had a great desire to ride the said filly, and sent Madam B. to know the terms. 'Well!' said his Lordship, when she returned—'Fifty pounds,' she replied.—'Hem!' said his lordship, 'I will wait till next year, and can have her for five-and-twenty.'”

“By this hand, another female equestrian de figure.' That tall young woman on the chesnut, is Lady Jane P———, sister of Lord U———. They say, that she has manifested certain pawnbroking inclinations, and has shewn a partiality in partnership at Almack's, to the golden balls. “That fine young woman, leaning out of the carriage window, whose glossy ringlets are of the true golden colour, so much admired by the dandies of old Rome, is his Lordship's wife. He's not with her. But you know he shot Honey at Cumberland Gate, when he was two hundred miles off, and therefore he may be in the carriage, though he's away.

“The person in the shabby brown coat is the Duke of Argyle. The pair of horses that draw his carriage is the only job that Argyle ever condescended to engage in.”

“And who is that fat ruddy gentleman, in the plain green coat, and the groom in grey?”

“What, you're not up to the change of colour? That's our old friend the Duke again, and the grey livery augurs, (if I mistake not), a visit to Berkeley square. His R——— H——— must take good care, or that bit of blood will be seized while standing at the door of the Circe, as his carriage was the other day, by the unceremonious nabman. But that's nothing to what used to occur to the Marquis of W———. They say, that if he deposited a broach, a ring, or a watch upon his table, a hand and arm, like that of a genius in a fairy tale, was seen to introduce itself bon-gre, mal-gre, through the casement, and instantly they became 'scarce.'”

“But I have heard,” said Bob, “of a fashionable nabman asking the Duke the time, and politely claiming the watch as soon as it was visible.”

The most prominent characters of the lounge had now disappeared, and Tom and Bob pursuing their course, found themselves in a few minutes in Covent Garden, from whence, nothing occurring of notice, they directed their steps towards Bow-street, with the view of deriving amusement from the proceedings of justice in the principal office on the establishment of the metropolitan police, and in this anticipation they were not disappointed.{1}

1 More Life in St. Giles's.—Mr. Daniel Sullivan, of Tottenham Court Road, green-grocer, fruiterer, coal and potatoe merchant, salt lish and Irish pork-monger, was brought before the magistrate on a peace-warrant, issued at the suit of his wife, Mrs. Mary Sullivan. Mrs. Sullivan is an Englishwoman, who married Mr. Sullivan for love, and has been “blessed with many children by him.” But notwithstanding she appeared before the magistrate with her face all scratched and bruised, from the eyes downward to the tip of her chin; all which scratches and bruises, she said, were the handy-work of her husband. The unfortunate Mary, it appeared, married Mr. Sullivau about seven years ago; at which time he was as polite a young Irishman as ever handled a potatoe on this side the Channel; he had every thing snug and comfortable about him, and his purse and his person, taken together, were “ondeniable.” She herself was a young woman genteely brought up—abounding in friends and acquaintance, and silk gowns, with three good bonnets always in use, and black velvet shoes to correspond. Welcome wherever she went, whether to dinner, tea, or supper, and made much of by every body. St. Giles' bells rang merrily at their wedding—a fine fat leg of mutton and capers, plenty of pickled salmon, three ample dishes of salt fish and potatoes, with pies, pudding and porter of the best, were set forth for the bridal supper; all the most “considerablest” families in Dyott Street and Church Lane, were invited, and every thing promised a world of happiness—and for five long years they were happy. She loved, as Lord Byron would say, “she loved and was beloved; she adored and she was worshipped;” but Mr. Sullivau was too much like the hero of the Lordship's tale—his affections could not “hold the bent,” and the sixth year had scarcely commenced, when poor Mary discovered that she had “outlived his liking.” From that time to the present he had treated her continually with the greatest cruelty; and, at last, when by this means he had reduced her from a comely young person to a mere handful of a poor creature, he beat her, and turned her out of doors. This was Mrs. Sullivan's story; and she told it with such pathos, that all who heard it pitied her, except her husband. It was now Mr. Sullivan's turn to speak. Whilst his wife was speaking, he had stood with his back towards her, his arms folded across his breast to keep down his choler; biting his lips and staring at the blank wall; but the moment she had ceased, he abruptly turned round, and, curiously enough, asked the magistrate whether Mistress Sullivau had done spaking. “She has,” replied his worship; “but suppose you ask her whether she has any thing more to say.” “I shall, Sir!” exclaimed the angry Mr. Sullivan. “Mistress Sullivan, had you any more of it to say '!” Mrs. Sullivan raised her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her hands together, and was silent. “Very well, then,” he continued, “will I get lave to spake, your Honour?” His Honour nodded permission, and Mr. Sullivan immediately began a defence, to which it is impossible to do justice; so exuberantly did he suit the action to the word, and the word to the action. “Och! your Honour, there is something the matter with me!” he began; at the same time putting two of his fingers perpendicularly over his forehead, to intimate that Mrs. Sullivan played him false. He then went into a long story about a “Misther Burke,” who lodged in his house, and had taken the liberty of assisting him in his conjugal duties, “without any lave from him at all at all.” It was one night in partickler, he said, that he went to bed betimes in the little back parlour, quite entirely sick with the head-ache. Misther Burke was out from home, and when the shop was shut up, Mrs. Sullivan went out too; but he didn't much care for that, ounly he thought she might as well have staid at home, and so he couldn't go to sleep for thinking of it. “Well, at one o'clock in the morning,” he continued, lower-ing his voice into a sort of loud whisper; “at one o'clock in the morn-ing Misther Burke lets himself in with the key that he had, and goes up to bed—and I thought nothing at all; but presently I hears something come tap, tap, tap, at the street door. The minute after comes down Misther Burke, and opens the door, and sure it was Mary— Mistress Sullivan that is, more's the pity—and devil a bit she came to see after me at all in the little back parlour, but up stairs she goes after Misther Burke. Och! says 1, but there's some-thing the matter with me this night! and I got up with the night-cap o' th' head of me, and went into the shop to see for a knife, but I couldn't get one by no manes. So I creeps up stairs, step by step, step by step,” (here Mr. Sullivan walked on tiptoe all across the office, to show the magistrate how quietly he went up the stairs), “and when I gets to the top I sees 'em, by the gash (gas) coming through the chink in the window curtains; I sees 'em, and ?Och, Mistress Sullivan!' says he: and 'Och, Misther Burke,' says she:—and och! botheration, says I to myself, and what shall I do now?” We cannot follow Mr. Sullivan any farther in the detail of his melancholy affair; it is sufficient that he saw enough to convince him that he was dishonoured: that, by some accident or other, he disturbed the guilty pair, whereupon Mrs. Sullivan crept under Mr. Burke's bed, to hide herself; that Mr. Sullivan rushed into the room, and dragged her from under the bed, by her “wicked leg;” and that he felt about the round table in the corner, where Mr. Burke kept his bread and cheese, in the hope of finding a knife. “And what would you have done with it, if you had found it?” asked his worship. “Is it what I would have done with it, your honour asks?” exclaimed Mr. Sullivan, almost choked with rage—“Is it what I would have done with it?—ounly that I'd have digged it into the heart of 'em at the same time!” As he said this, he threw himself into an attitude of wild desperation, and made a tremendous lunge, as if in the very act of slaughter. To make short of a long story, he did not find the knife; Mr. Burke barricadoed himself in his room, and Mr. Sullivan turned his wife out of doors. The magistrate ordered him to find bail to keep the peace towards his wife and all the King's subjects, and told him, that if his wife was indeed what he had represented her to be, he must seek some less violent mode of separation than the knife. There not being any other case of interest, Tom and Bob left the office, not, however, without a feeling of commiseration for Mr. Sullivan, whose frail rib and her companion in iniquity, now that the tables were turned against them by the injured husband's “plain unvarnished tale,” experienced a due share of reprobation from the auditory.

Pursuing their course homeward through St. James'-square: “Who have we here?” exclaimed Tom; “as I live, no other than the lofty Honoria, an authoress, a wit and an eccentric; a combination of qualities which frequently contribute to convey the possessor to a garret, and thence to an hospital or poor house. It is not uncommon to find attic salt in the first floor from heaven, but rather difficult to find the occupier enabled to procure salt whereby to render porridge palateable. The lady Honoria, who has just passed, resides in a lodging in Mary-le-bone. She having mistaken stature for beauty, and attitude for greatness, a tune on her lute for fascination, a few strange opinions and out of the way sayings for genius, a masculine appearance for attraction, and bulk for irresistibility, came on a cruise to London with a view to call at C———House, where she conceived she might be treated like a Princess.

“She fondly fancied that a certain dignified personage who relieved her distress, could not but be captivated with the very description of her; in consequence of which, she launched into expenses which she was but ill able to bear, and now complains of designs formed against her and of all sorts of fabulous nonsense. It must, however, be acknowledged, that an extraordinary taste for fat, has been a great som-ce of inconvenience to the illustrious character alluded to, for corpulent women have been in the habit of daily throwing themselves in his way under some pretence or other; and if he but looked at them, they have considered themselves as favourites, and in the high road to riches and fame.

“It is well known that a certain French woman, with long flowing black hair, who lived not an hundred miles from Pimlico, was one who fell into this error. Her weight is about sixteen stone—and on that account she sets herself down as this illustrious person's mistress; nay, because he saw her once, she took expensive lodgings, ran deeply in debt, and now abuses the great man because he has not provided for her in a princely style, “pour se beaux yeux;” for it must be admitted, that she can boast as fine a pair of black eyes as ever were seen. The circumstance of this taste for materialism, is as unfortunate to the possessor, as a convulsive nod of the head once was to a rich gentleman, who was never without being engaged in some law suit or other, for lots knocked down to him at auctions, owing to his incessant and involuntary noddings at these places. The fat ladies wish the illustrious amateur to pay for peeping, just as the crafty knights of the hammer endeavoured to make the rich gentleman pay for his nodding at them.”

“Fat, fair, and forty, then,” said Sparkle, “does not appear to be forgotten.”

“No,” was the reply, “nor is it likely: the wits of London are seldom idle upon subjects of importance: take for instance the following lines:—

“When first I met thee, FAT and fair, With forty charms about thee, A widow brisk and debonair, How could I live without thee. Thy rogueish eye I quickly spied, It made me still the fonder, I swore though false to all beside, From thee I'd never wander. But old Fitzy now, Thou'rt only fit to tease me, And C—————M I vow, Has learn't the art to please me.”

By this time they were passing Grosvenor gate, when the Hon. Tom Dashall directed the attention of his Cousin to a person on the opposite side of the street, pacing along with a stiff and formal air.

“That,” said he, “is a new species of character, if it may properly be so termed, of which I have never yet given you any account. Sir Edward Knowell stands, however, at the head of a numerous and respectable class of persons, who may be entitled Philosophic Coxcombs. He proceeds with geometrical exactness in all his transactions. You can perceive finery of dress is no mark of his character; on the contrary, he at all times wears a plain coat; and as if in ridicule of the common fop, takes care to decorate his menials in the most gorgeous liveries.

“The stiffness and formality of his appearance is partly occasioned by the braces which he very judiciously purchased of Martin Van Butchell, and partly by the pride of wealth and rank.

“There is a pensiveness in his aspect, which would induce any one to imagine Sir Edward to be a man of feeling; but those who have depended upon outward appearances alone, have found themselves miserably deceived; for as hypocrisy assumes a look of sanctity, so your philosophic coxcomb's apparent melancholy serves only as a mask to cover his stupidity.

“Sir Edward is amorously inclined; but he consults his reason, or pretends to do so, and by that means renders his pleasures subservient to his health. It cannot be denied he sometimes manifests contortions of aspect not exactly in unison with happiness; but his feelings are ever selfish, and his apparent pain is occasioned by the nausea of a debauch, or perhaps by the pressure of a new pair of boots. If you are in distress, Sir Edward hears your tale with the most stoical indifference, and he contemplates your happiness with an equal degree of apathy—a sort of Epictetus, who can witness the miseries of a brother without agony or sympathy, and mark the elevation of a friend without one sentiment of congratulation: wrapt up in self, he banishes all feeling for others.

“This philosopher has a great number of imitators—perhaps not less than one thousand philosophic coxcombs visit London annually; and if Sir Edward were to die, they might all with great propriety lay claim to a participation in the property he might leave behind him, as near relations to the family of the Knowells. These gentlemen violate all the moral duties of life with impunity: they are shameless, irreligious, and so insignificant, that they seem to consider themselves born for no useful purpose whatever. Indeed they are such perfect blanks in the creation, that were they transported to some other place, the community would never miss them, except by the diminution of follies and vices. Like poisonous plants, they merely vegetate, diffuse their contagious effluvia around, then sink into corruption, and are forgotten for ever.”

“Whip me such fellows through the world,” exclaimed Sparkle, “I have no relish for them.”

On calling in at Long's Hotel, they were informed that Sparkle's servant had been in pursuit of his master, in consequence of letters having arrived from the country; and as Dashall knew that he had two excellent reasons why he should immediately acquaint himself with their contents, the party immediately returned to Piccadilly.