IN the evening, the party repaired to the Steyne, which they found
almost covered with company, met to enjoy the cool sea-breeze, by the
clear rays of a harvest moon, to display themselves, criticise others,
and various purposes, according to their age, condition, circumstances,
or inclination. Here were lords and baronets, squires and merchants,
soldiers and sailors, physicians and counsellors, and dignitaries;
here were apothecaries, attorneys, and curates; here were tradesmen
and mechanics, and shopmen and journeymen; all with their respective
fair, from the duke to the barber, the duchess to the sempstress, all
on a footing of equality, under the general denomination of gentlemen
and ladies. Here if a fastidious grandee might feel indignant at
being elbowed or jostled by a shoemaker or taylor, the liberal and
enlightened patriot would rejoice in the consideration, that these
were all effects of a free and equitable constitution, which assures
to the industrious and skilful the fruits of their labour, enables
them to compensate the toils of their arduous exertions by occasional
relaxation, and braces their bodies and invigorates their minds for
future efforts beneficial to themselves and the public. But a grandee
is not the person most likely to feel or express displeasure at this
temporary intermixture of ranks; those are often the aptest to stand
upon points of precedence and dignity, who really have none to support.
An earl may with safety venture to walk from the Pavillion to Fisher’s
with his taylor, without any apprehension of being supposed the equal
of that taylor; but if a retired soap-boiler or oilman were to allow
Mr. Snip the same liberty, the case would be very different; they
might be presumed to be companions of the said taylor; which would
derogate from their supposed dignity, and would be more heinously
offensive to their respective wives. Jealousy is most commonly the
result of conscious deficiency; thence those are the most apprehensive
of contamination from persons whom they regard as _low_, who are really
in their situation or sentiments the most low themselves. This was
the view in which the Hamiltons, Wentbridges, and Mortimers, regarded
the present amalgamation. They beheld honest vulgarity of manners
as an object of sportive humour, when mingled with affectation, but
reserved contempt for meanness of conduct. Having enjoyed themselves
for an hour in this promenade, they retired into the library, where,
after having reconnoitred their fellow-visitors, and recollected
various faces they had seen on the Steyne, Mrs. Hamilton was joined
by two ladies, whom she recognized as neighbours, with whom she had
a slight acquaintance. These were Mrs. Pompous, who had formerly
kept a boarding-school near Mile-End, and her daughter, miss, now an
unwilling votary of the goddess Diana, and who had received, unasked,
the boon prayed for by Daphne, and would not, like that famed nymph,
have fled, even if the suitor had not been an Apollo. Mrs. Pompous
had, after her retirement from tuition, betaken herself to Southampton
Buildings, that she might be near her brother, a topping hosier by
the top of Shoe Lane. These ladies declared themselves very much
dissatisfied with Brighton, because there was so many _low_ people
there. “Them,” observed the veteran teacher, “are kind of creatures
that one wishes to _purtect_ or _sarve_, but not to meet cheeck by
jowl, when one comes to elegant society. Wilhelmina and I were quite
asheamed just now to meet Miss Furbelow, the mantuamaker, who, though
she knows our condition in life, had the folly to come up and speak
to us as frankly and freely as if she had been our own equals.” “I do
not think, mamma,” said miss, “that it was intentional presumption in
the girl, but rather the thoughtless ignorance of what is due to the
diversity of ranks in social life. You will observe, Mrs. Hamilton,”
continued miss in the true imperative tone of preceptorial habit, “that
there are different orders, situations, and professions in every
well constituted society.” “A very just observation,” said our hero.
Thus encouraged, she went on: “Now, I do think, that such diversity
of condition should be attended to, either at private parties, or
at public places; for instance, it might happen that Miss Furbelow,
(proceeded Miss Pompous,) and any of us might meet in a party, one
would behave civilly, and even with affability and condescension to
such a person; but then, she ought to know her distance.” Here Captain
Mortimer inquired how this Miss Furbelow conducted herself in company?
The answer came from Mrs. Hamilton, “Very properly and genteelly.”
“Is she the servant or dependent of the persons with whom she happens
to associate?” “Neither.” “Then I cannot see,” said the captain, “why
she is to receive affability or condescension from those with whom
she is on a footing of perfect equality.” Miss, accustomed to have
her dictates received as oracular truths, was much displeased with
this contradiction, and answered, with angry solemnity, “that these
were antediluvian notions, fit for the time of Queen Bess, not for
the present.” The captain assured her, “that with regard to Queen
Bess, as she called her, she was totally mistaken, both in fact and
history; that degradation of useful professions befitted the remains
of feudal ideas of those times much better than the enlightened wisdom
of the present ages.” Miss retorted, “that he was totally wrong, and
knew nothing of history when he talked so.” The captain, though acute,
intelligent, and liberal, had not that perfectly fashionable polish
which can completely command and disguise passions: he answered the
last observation contemptuously, but desisted from farther contest. A
person coming up, heartily shook our hero by the hand, and expressed
his joy at seeing him. This was a little man, seemingly about thirty,
five feet and an inch in height, tolerably well proportioned, so as in
person to be an abridged edition of a man, but with a countenance grave
and solemn. Without relaxing the serious turn of his features, he said
to Hamilton, “I am so happy to meet you, we shall have such food for
remark and observation.” “Ah! my friend Scribble,” said Hamilton, “I
had no expectations of meeting you in this place; we shall have such
criticism and satire, now that you are here: but come, Dicky, go home
and sup with us, and give some account of yourself.” He accordingly
introduced him to his mother, and the other party in general, but
more particularly to his friend John Mortimer. After they had reached
their house, taking John and Scribble into a back-parlour, he very
gravely presented Mortimer to Dicky; “This is Mr. Mortimer, a young
friend of mine, of abilities and literature, that will be very happy
to avail himself of an opportunity of being known to a gentleman of
Mr. Scribble’s immense, valuable, and diversified stores.” Scribble
kindly answered, “he should be extremely happy by his communications
to benefit the gentleman. Are you, sir, engaged in any work? because,
if you are, whatever the subject may be, I shall lay you down the
rules of composition.” Mortimer thanked him, but assured him, that,
for the present, he had no such production in contemplation. Being now
summoned to supper, Mr. Scribble, conceiving it incumbent on him to
be spokesman of the company, opened upon sea-bathing, and professing
a profound knowledge of the animal system, in a preaching tone,
expatiated on its process in the invigoration of the nerves. Coming
from operation to result and effects, he very learnedly summed up the
narratives and arguments of his harangue: “The salt-water contributes
at once to purification, and to tension, and also to elasticity; the
votaries of bathing have in every movement a pleasing bound, and an
efficacious vigour. Every act of the animal œconomy in which they may
be engaged is performed more completely and satisfactorily. All these
I could illustrate to demonstration, but a few may suffice.” Mrs.
Hamilton, not knowing what the nature of the elucidation might be,
proposed to suspend the subject for the present, and a more general
conversation was introduced, which lasted till the party separated.
Next morning Scribble, after bathing, met Hamilton on the west cliff;
Mortimer soon after joining them, they took a walk along the cliff,
when Hamilton praised the infinite treasures of knowledge, human and
divine, that Scribble possessed: “Come, now Dicky, astonish Mortimer
here, by a frank account of your studies.” “A detail,” replied Dick,
“would be tedious; but since you insist upon it, I will give you a
short sketch of what I have read, or treated in publications, or,
in short, what I know.” “What you know and can write upon,” said
Hamilton; “to speak generally and concisely, every thing; nothing
comes wrong to Dicky.” “That is too much,” said Scribble, vouchsafing
a smile; “but I certainly have considered and discussed a good many
subjects; physics and metaphysics, history and poetry, criticism
and compilation, divinity and morality, legislation and political
œconomy, the law of nature and of nations, agriculture, manufactures,
commerce, and finance, botany, chymistry, mineralogy, electricity,
geology, geography, nosology, and medicine, have all exercised my
pen.” Mortimer uttering interjections, expressing his admiration and
surprize, Scribble, farther to transport his wonder, went on: “Though
neither a physician, nor a surgeon, I am more deeply skilled in
midwifery than any professed practitioner of the obstetric art. Though
not called to the bar, I know better than Erskine how counsellors ought
to plead. Though no clergyman, I know how men of that profession ought
to preach.” “Mr. Scribble’s extraordinary merit,” said Hamilton, “is
the cause of no less extraordinary envy. Nothing that he brings out
has the reception which transcendent merit and abilities deserve. The
malignancy of critics abuses his works, and the public most foolishly
and unfortunately countenances all his detractors.” “So they do,” said
Scribble, “they are all in a confederacy against _me_.” “The public,”
observed Hamilton, “has acted extremely ungratefully to my friend
here. If you were to collect all that his indefatigable activity has
written, you would find it more than the labours of some of our ancient
divines. Nay, I really do not believe, that Saint Cyril himself wrote
more against the Nestorian heresy, though he contributed seven folio
volumes to orthodoxy, than Mr. Scribble’s reservoir of erudition has
done to attack heretics in literature, who, as he observes, abound
so much in the present day; and,” continued our hero, “it is not on
one subject, but on all that he writes; my friend here is not more
meritorious for his genius than his courage. There’s no subject but
Dicky will venture upon; I am convinced, if it were proposed to him,
he would undertake to make out the longitude, or to solve all the
hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt.” “But for all this,” said Scribble, “I
am subject to the grossest defamation.” “Do you know,” said Hamilton,
“what the impudent fellows say of poor Scribble?” “I cannot conceive,”
replied Mortimer, “what is even possible to be said against such genius
and erudition.” “Oh! the invention of malice will say any thing.”
“Why, what do they say?” said Dick, somewhat irritated. “Insolent
scoundrels,” said Hamilton; “Well, I will tell you, Scribble, that we
may have a laugh at their folly.” “Ay, do,” said the other. “Why, it
was only t’other evening I called at the club, and the conversation
turned upon the merits of my friend Dicky Scribble here: I said
nothing: but one said, ‘he’s a special fellow; he’s a good raker; he
has industry; and has got together some scraps on a great variety of
subjects: he is superficial in all:’ here, I thought it incumbent on
me to take your part; ‘I certainly (said I) think Mr. Scribble a man
of extraordinary genius.’ Strongbrain was there; he looked in my face,
and laughed. ‘Hamilton, you do not think him a man of extraordinary
genius.’ Angry as I was at being so contradicted, I could not help
laughing also.” “Laughing,” said Scribble angrily; “you, as my friend,
should have knocked him down.” “By the lord, I must have then knocked
down all the meeting, for they all agreed with him.” “Hamilton, you
over-rate that Strongbrain; _I_ think very little of him, _I_ must
say, you yourself require a good deal of care to form your judgment,
Now you think highly of Robertson and Hume, and such men as those, you
are quite led by prevailing opinion; that is always the way with men
of no great reach of abilities; whereas men of real talents differ
in their opinion from every body else.” Hamilton not recollecting he
was the aggressor, and that this remark was provoked by his satirical
report, was so far irritated, as to proceed in humbling poor Scribble’s
arrogance. “Yes,” said our hero, “one instance of that kind of
extraordinary genius is John Dennis, who, when all the world allowed
praise to Addison and Pope, endeavoured to prove that neither of them
possessed any genius. Zoilus too was another extraordinary personage,
who endeavoured to prove that Homer was no poet.” “All that,” said
Scribble, “is mere common-place: I tell you, that persons now looked
up to for literature and ability, are admired without reason, and I
can surpass them all myself; and will surpass them all too.” “Come,
come,” said Hamilton, “don’t be angry now, I was only telling you what
I heard; but we shall not touch any more on _your genius and learning_;
_it is a tender point_: I know your works excel most of the age; and
I dare say, every body else thinks so too, only they say the contrary
to vex you.” Easily persuaded, that others thought as highly of him
as he did of himself, Scribble swallowed these declarations, and soon
after departed to attend an appointment. “Who is this?” said Mortimer.
“Scribble,” answered his friend, “is one of that numerous class who,
without genius or philosophy, set up in the trade of authorship. He
is, however, much better qualified than many of the fraternity; he
has received a classical education, is master of arts, has been bred
to the English bar, but, finding he could get no employment, harangues
against all the counsellors who receive briefs, especially Erskine,
Gibbs, and Garrow; although he has not laid the foundation of erudition
in either physical or moral sciences, he has raked together a great
quantity of detached and miscellaneous facts, and as he has formed a
decent, though stiff and pedantic style, he can write common-place
observations on most subjects that occur; and while he confines himself
to skimming the surface, he does well enough, and is very useful drudge
in any periodical publication; _but that won’t serve the fellow, he
must write books forsooth_. His parts are middling, but _his head has
got a wrong twist, common sense presides not in his brain_. Dicky would
_shine_! To a man that seeks literary distinctions, without great
powers and acquirements, an obvious tract is _singularity_. Scribble
is a great controverter of established opinions: He does not gainsay
them by any ingenuity of hypothesis, but by simple contradiction. He
is also a great exclaimer against established, or rising characters,
especially in literature; that springs, partly from envy, but chiefly
from vanity and self-conceit, or rather from an envy proceeding from
vanity and self-conceit.” “What kind of books does he write?” said Mr.
Mortimer, “I never heard of his name.”--“He is not eminent, but still
he is noted.”--“But his books,” rejoined Mr. Mortimer, “what are they?
scissars and paste, I suppose.”--“No; that they ought to be: scissars
and paste is the resource of book-manufacturers, without invention
or wisdom; but Scribble tries originals, and often spends more time
and pains in speaking, (for he is a great coffee-house declaimer,) or
in writing paradoxical nonsense, than might by compilation furnish
a good-looking fair book for his worthy friend Billy Nincompoop.”
“Who the devil is Billy Nincompoop?”--“An undertaker-general in the
book-manufactory line. I shall give you some account of him another
time: all I can now say is, that he has more journeymen at work than
any mailer-manufacturer either at Birmingham or Manchester, and a great
deal of work they do, and often very dirty work it is. Billy keeps a
very sooty forge.”
The youths now returned to breakfast; soon after they accompanied the
ladies to the Steyne, and the sun being very warm, they retired into
the library, where they found a tall corpulent divine, with his bib
and apron, and a large bushy wig, expounding the operations of the
Austrians upon the Danube, and describing, as well as he could, the
siege of Belgrade; the Emperor Joseph, he instructed the company,
was a profound politician, and a consummate general: he was also, he
firmly believed, a zealous friend to the protestant religion; witness
his efforts for suppressing monasteries, and other repositories of
popery.--Captain Mortimer said, “he could not perceive much of his
wisdom there; his innovations were rash and precipitate, and appeared
to be more for the sake of plunder than conversion; that the effect
was revolt among his most industrious and flourishing subjects.” “They
are insolent and audacious,” repeated the dignitary, in a pompous and
sonorous tone, which with many served to fill up the chasm of argument;
“subjects ought not to question the will of their rulers. A prince is
responsible for his conduct only to that being from whom he derives his
power,” “Pretty doctrine that in a free country,” (said the captain,
somewhat iritated by the dictatorial manner of the self-sufficient
priest,) “God forbid it should ever prevail in Britain. But Britain
out of the question, it is totally erroneous in its application to the
people of the Netherlands, whose first executive magistrate, Joseph,
was on specified terms. Joseph has broken the conditions, therefore his
subjects have a right to be off the bargain.” “That is an irreverend
and seditious way of speaking.” “Irreverend and seditious,” said the
captain, “who are you that dare use such language to a gentleman,
merely because he won’t take your solemn sounding nonsense, for sense
and argument.” Hamilton seeing the choler of his naval friend, found
means, by sliding into the conversation, to soften matters; and though
no friend to public argumentation, yet, desirous of gratifying Maria’s
uncle, he took a comprehensive survey of the conduct of Joseph, proved
him to be the mere creature of imitation, who totally misunderstood
his models: that to follow Frederick in the fashion of the times,
he was an infidel; but contrary to the wise caution of his Prussian
neighbour, manifested his infidelity in practical policy, and wished to
destroy ecclesiastical establishments, the best preservers of civil and
social order. In his present war with Turkey, he was the mere tool of
Catherine, and was exhausting the resources of his country, to promote
projects totally useless to his own dominions, and merely instrumental
to the ambition of the Empress. But if the war had been wise in its
origin, it was feeble and inefficient in its execution. “In short,”
said Hamilton, “in the internal administration that drove subjects to
revolt, and in the external policy that engaged without provocation in
a war to aggrandize another, I should think there are strong objections
to Joseph as a consummate politician; and in the military conduct
of four disciplined armies, repulsed by an undisciplined militia of
barbarians that were enabled to invade and lay waste their fertile
provinces, and alarm their capital, there are objections to the
character of Joseph as a consummate general. But these, I dare say,
the knowledge and ratiocinative powers of the reverend gentleman will,
no doubt, satisfactorily solve.” The doctor, who both in the pulpit
and out of it, had been accustomed to preach, but not to hear or to
reason, did not think proper to reply to this answer, but strutted out
of the library. Not so Dicky Scribble, who had some time before joined
the party, and eagerly listened in hopes of an argument which might
display his logic and his eloquence, and co-operate with a paragraph
that was to appear in a London morning paper that would reach Brighton
that evening, announcing among the arrivals Richard Scribble, Esq. the
celebrated author. With these views and expectations he accosted our
hero. “Mr. Hamilton, hem, I have heard with great pleasure, hem, your
very ingenious argument, and I am not surprised that your eloquence
overwhelmed an ordinary hearer, hem, but bestowing every praise on
the brilliancy of your remarks, you will give me leave to question
their logical force, hem. I will undertake to prove that the Emperor
Joseph is a very wise man, hem.” “I know you will, my good friend,
_undertake_ to prove that or any thing else, but respite your wisdom
and erudition for the present, we are going to the parade. You that are
a man of taste and refinement are friendly to gallantry and a polite
attention to the ladies.” “Undoubtedly,” said Scribble, and to give a
practical proof of his elegant address, on which he very much plumed
himself, he made his best bow to Miss Mortimer, begged he might have
the honour of her company, and while she was humming the South Downs,
in unison with the band, he entertained her, or at least himself, with
a dissertation on the different modes in which different nations, in
ancient and modern times, treated women. Captain Mortimer at this time
was praising and thanking our hero for his powerful assistance against
the parson; but however he said, “it was not difficult, it was a
first rate, full rigged, against a hulk; but this little cock-boat,
Dicky, as you call him, to be sure he makes a great noise, but it is
like the guns on a rejoicing day, all powder and no ball.” Having
contemplated the military evolutions, after the corps were dismissed,
they were joined by an officer with whom John Mortimer was acquainted.
This gentleman was presently accosted by one of the soldiers of the
light infantry corps, who requested leave of absence from the evening
parade. His commander questioned him about his business, not approving
of the excursions of soldiers in the dusk; but to the surprise of
himself and the rest of his company, was answered that his engagement
was _to preach the gospel_. The captain at the intercession of the
party, permitted the desired absence for a pastime not very usual
among soldiers. Mr. Scribble would have opened an argument to prove
that such preachers might do more harm than good, but found no one
disposed either to refute his reasonings, or listen to his wisdom.
The party being engaged to dine with the Mortimers, Mr. Scribble was
asked. The fish consisted of turbot and foals. Here Dicky had, or at
least took, an opportunity of holding forth upon ichthyology, which
learned term, he in deference to the ladies, explained, and endeavoured
to account for the scarcity of cod, haddocks, &c. on the coast of
Sussex. He informed the company that he thought very little of Buffon’s
Natural History, and that he had thoughts of writing on the subject
himself, to detect and expose the other, and to remedy his defects.
“It is a pleasing and instructive subject, but has never been hitherto
properly treated, that is one of the _desiderata_ in literature,
which I am afraid it will be reserved for myself to fill.” “There are
so many chasms,” said Hamilton, “which your benevolence proposes to
supply, that I am apprehensive you will hardly be able to bear the
laborious task.” “Oh! I have a very strong mind. One work much wanting
is a history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. You, sir,”
appealing to Dr. Wentbridge, “will admit that Gibbon’s religion is not
of the best.” “Most readily,” replied the doctor. “In his views and
arrangement,” rejoined Dicky “I will demonstrate that he is extremely
defective, that he is narrow, uncomprehensive, and confused.” “The
eviction of such a proposition, would convey a new truth to my mind,”
said the doctor; “but so important a subject requires a written
treatise.” “That I intend.” “Have you written any thing historical,
sir?” “O, yes, from authentic records and documents that I found in an
old chest near Glastonbury-abbey, I composed in seven volumes, quarto,
a true, and impartial, history of Jack the Giant-killer, including
cotemporary heroes. I have the satisfaction to say before this good
company, that more profound views of human nature are no where to
be found, but envy, that corrosive passion, blasted the tree at its
birth, else it would have been a goodly child, which in its mature
vigour, would have reflected honour on its happy and delighted parent.
How do you like my figure?” “Very much,” said Hamilton, “it is very
fine, and for mixture, Burke himself mixes.” “Perhaps you mean that as
a compliment, my good friend,” said Scribble, who during dinner had
drank wine with every individual in the company, and afterwards had not
been sparing, “but I do not think very highly of him. On any subject
that he has undertaken, I will undertake to write better. Name the
subject, it is all one to Scribble. I have in agitation a new theory
on the sublime and beautiful, which will astonish the world. Longinus,
Addison, Burke, Gerrard, Hutchinson, Hogarth, psha, they do very well
to pass on superficial people, but I believe I must take the subject
in hand myself.” “How do you like the eloquence of Mr. Fox,” said Dr.
Wentbridge. “Why, tolerably well his speaking, eloquence you cannot
call it. Fox is a good sensible man enough, but no orator.” “What is
an orator,” said Dr. Wentbridge. “What is an orator,” replied our
sage, “ask your nephew there. Hamilton, you remember my speech at the
forum.” Mr. Pitt being now proposed as a toast, Scribble having first
filled and drunk a bumper, half shut his eyes, curled up his nose,
looked contemptuous and great. “I think nothing of Pitt’s ability, a
superficial young man. If I had been prime minister, now you would
have seen the country in a very different situation; men of letters
and wisdom should have been the sole governors. I should not have
employed a copying clerk in an office, unless he could speak Greek;
moreover, unless he was conversant in metaphysical, physical, and
moral erudition and science. Not a letter should have been written
of which a Cicero could be ashamed. The epistles upon plain business
should have been attuned to Cicero in harmony, and swelled to Cicero
in magnificence. How do you like my phraseology, is it not worthy of
the subject?” “Highly,” said the doctor, “but as to the matter of
fact, Cicero’s letters upon business have neither the tone, nor the
swell that you mention, they are clear and plain narratives, with
apposite observations, and strong reasoning, expressed in language
simple and energetic, but totally unadorned.” “I know,” said Scribble,
rather shortly, “what Cicero’s letters are.” Wentbridge not deigning
to enter into a contest with this gentleman, the subject dropped.
Besides himself, Mr. Scribble had one admirer in the company, this
was Mr. Roger O’Rourke, who regarded him as a phenomenon of wisdom
and learning, pledged his bumpers, and as they adjourned to tea, took
occasion to pay him a compliment, and ask his advice. “By Jasus, Mr.
Scribble, you are the cleverest fellow I ever see in my life, unless
it was Counsellor Magpie at Dundalk assizes, when I was tried for
horse----I _mane_ when I was a witness for horse-stealing; but he did
bother them all so, by Jasus he got it all his own way, and proved
an allby, and that made us all snug: I _mane_ made the prisoners
snug. I after that took to the dancing line, and then to the Gospel;
but my father-in-law, and my friend Mr. Hamilton here would have me
give up the preaching, because it led me to bad courses, and to be
sure, to confess the truth honestly, a methodist preacher has such
temptations among the dear cratures, that flesh and blood cannot
stand it. The saints are so warm and so loving, then there are so
bewitching opportunities; there is the love feast, the holy kiss,
and the spiritual communion in the dark; the evening meetings in the
_conventickles_, and _tickle_ they do sure enough. Even an Englishman
with all his prudence, or a Scotchman with all his gravity, but much
more, a poor boy from Ireland must give way. For when man and woman
meet alone, Mr. Scribble, they are dangerous kind of combustibles:
and then there is that faith without works gives such encouragement.
Its all as one as if I was to live as I pleased at an ale-house, and
tell the landlord I believe you to be a very good sort of a man. He,
every time I ran up a score, would take a wet cloth and wash the chalk.
By Jasus he would not want customers. Now, sir, as you appear to be
a man of great sense, I wish to consult you on a point of conscience
and _sacrecy_. You see, sir, to confess the truth, my wife, the large
fat lady with the red hair, that _set_ opposite to you, is none of the
handsomest, and besides, as Louis XV. Emperor of Germany observed,
_toger perde_[2], which it seems in their language is, _too much of one
thing is enough_. What with the bathing and sea air, and the bracing
and one thing or another, and looking at the sweet creatures in the
face, I have a great mind to take to the methodism again. I am sure I
could be more _populous_ than that light infantry man. If you would
speak a good word for me to young Mr. Hamilton, for he rules the roast
with the old boy, just to let me have a small excursion while they
stay at Brighton, I shall, as in duty bound, both in my sermons and
out of them, praise your works.” Scribble having further conversation
in the course of the evening with Mr. O’Rourke, concluded that with
some training in orthography and grammar, he might be improved into a
spiritual writer, for his friend Billy Nincompoop, who it seems would
soon want a fresh hand in the divinity branch of the manufacture; and
promised to take an early opportunity of further conversing with Mr.
O’Rourke. They now adjourned to the meeting of the military saint,
who borrowed the quaker rendezvous for that night. This preacher was
deemed the best singer of martial songs in the whole regiment; upon
the faith of that perfection he acted also as precentor. He got very
well through the performance, bating that he once fell into the tune of
“The top sail shivers in the wind,” and in endeavouring to get out of
it, he got hold of “The black joke.” He however succeeded in pitching
his voice for the next stave by humming the serious and melancholy
ditty, “There came a ghost to Margaret’s door,” and got at last into a
proper strain of psalmody. The discourse had nothing particular in it
to distinguish it from any other methodist sermon, consisting merely
of cant, mysticism, soft love imagery, melodious inanity, chequered
with the terrible pictures of the punishment of unbelievers, when
in possession of the devil. The sermon included a very particular
detail of roasting in hell-fire, which, next to the amorous parts,
gave the highest satisfaction to the devotees. Towards the end of his
discourse, he took occasion to compare Brighton to Sodom and Gomorrah,
and exhorted them speedily to depart from such a scene of wickedness:
he should lead them to the right way. The drum-major, who happened
to be present, hearing this declaration, took it into his head that
the preacher intended to desert, seized him as he was descending from
a bench; but finding on examination that the orator had only been
speaking by types and similitude, he suffered him to depart in peace.
From the chapel, Mr. Scribble prevailed on the company, though it was
late, to look in at the library, hastily proceeded to the reading
table, and taking up the Humbug, call out, “How shameful it is in
those news-writers, that a man of any eminence cannot move from one
place to another, but they must make it public.” “What is the matter,
Richard,” said Hamilton. “Read that paragraph.” We learn from Brighton
that the celebrated Richard Scribble, Esq. delights and astonishes the
frequenters of the rooms and libraries by the brilliancy of his wit,
and the depth of his erudition. “It is astonishing how the Humbug could
know that already,” said Hamilton, “last night was your first in the
library, and however witty and wise you might appear, I cannot account
for your fame reaching London in time for the morning press, but by
enchantment.” Soon after the company parted for the evening.
The next day, a water excursion was proposed for Shoreham. On their
way, their pilot poured out his maledictions against Mr. Pitt, for
having so completely suppressed smuggling, that as the waterman
phrased it, there was now no opportunity for _honest_ industry. Having
arrived at this ancient borough, and viewed the rope-works and other
curiosities, the conversation turned from the commercial state, to
the political history of this noted repository of electors. Some of
the company animadverting severely on the gross corruption of 1768,
Mr. Scribble undertook to prove that corruption was necessary to the
existence of executive government; but, he was interrupted in his
dissertation, by notice from the watermen, that they must immediately
return, or that they would lose the tide: they accordingly returned
to Brighton. That Evening they spent at the Promenade Grove, where
there was a great deal of company, and most fortunately, our hero’s
party was joined by Mr. Chatter, the apothecary, intelligencer
general of the place. Several ladies entered the room, one of whom was
strikingly beautiful in her face; of a most expressive countenance; of
a fine stature, and exquisite form; Hamilton being at some distance,
his sister asked Mr. Chatter who that was? “The wife of a valiant
soldier, pretty miss, who assisted Wolfe at Quebec; forced the city to
surrender; became a viscount on the death of his father; a famous hand
for wit and humour; was lord-lieutenant of Ireland; great favourite
with the whole nation; did not call for coffee too soon after dinner;
eldest son became an earl while he was viscount;--said a good thing
upon that. His son regretting that he had a higher title than his
father. I don’t care, George, which title you have, so long as you
don’t get hold of mine; but the viscount is lately made a marquis.
She is a charming woman--the marchioness,” said Miss Hamilton; “she
is an excellent wife, mother, and mistress of a family, pretty miss,
a pattern to her rank and sex. If all were to take example by her,
Doctors’ Commons would starve; but I do not suppose you know any
thing of them sort of things yet, miss.” Miss Mortimer now observed
a lady of a fine shape, with a most fascinating countenance, and
applying to Mr. Chatter, this communicative person very readily gave
her information, prefaced with a hem, and the hem accompanied with a
shrug of the shoulders, “that’s a lady of quality too, very different
from the marchioness; she is the countess of a Cockatrice, evil
tongues don’t stick to say;----but my lord is a good, easy man, not
at all exceptious, and if he is pleased, nobody else has a right to
be displeased. She has daughters grown up and married,--that is one
of them a little behind that lady with the rolling eye; she seems
already to have a good modest assurance of her own too. O Lord, there
is little Tommy Titmouse, the famous coachman.” “Poor Titmouse,” said
Hamilton, “he is a good-natured little creature, and encourages the
breed of horses; therefore, he is not so totally useless as one is apt
to think.” “Observe,” said Mortimer, “that tall military figure; that
is a nobleman, who unites the hero, the scholar, the statesman, the
philanthrophist, and the finished gentleman,--such as English nobility
ought to be. That also is a lord, who is speaking to him.” “What, he
with the strong, black, bushy eyebrows?” said Miss Mortimer. “That,”
said Hamilton, “is a man of as powerful a masculine understanding,
as most that have ever sitten in the house of peers, or occupied the
highest offices in the state.” There now entered a slim, middle-sized
gentleman-like man: evidently an old beau, wishing to appear young, who
was immediately accosted by the fascinating countess above-mentioned,
“and is Great Bayleaf come to enliven Brighton with his gaiety and
gallantry.” His lordship, with the fashionable inattention of the
manners of the time, made no direct answer; but, looking through a
spyglass at Miss Mortimer;--“fine girl that, Cockatrice, is she one of
us?” “Of us, no; one of the canaille I suppose; a fine fellow that;
that squires her though;” “well enough for a trooper,” said the peer;
“but perhaps, such are to your ladyship’s taste;” “and perhaps such
girls may be to yours; but, take my word for it, such a youth would
be much more to their’s.” “I admit the competency of your ladyship,
to deliver judgment on the case, and sustain your verdict; he shall
be a fine fellow, since you will have it so. But, who are all here?
Who of us.” “Of you, _Peers of England--pillars of the State_: there
is, as you see there, the lord chancellor, and the lord chief justice
Norland, to engage with your ladyship on constitutional law, and state
politics. Lord Carolina to engage you on warfare and literature.--I saw
two or three of the bishops here too; they will afford an opportunity
of opening your stores on divinity.” “Aye, aye,” said Bayleaf, “what
you say of learning and divinity reminds me of a piece of news I just
heard. I find my Lord Cockatrice is turning author;” “What is he
about to write?” “A commentary on the patience of Job.” “Well,” said
Bayleaf, “your friend George Bonmots, who has been your partner in
other concerns, seems to be letting you into a partnery of his wit;
but, I much question whether your capital be sufficient.” “But your
ladyship has not yet answered my question:--Who of our friends are at
Brighton?” “Oh! abundance; there is my Lord Spindle, Viscount Ogle, Sir
Billy Butterfly, Tommy Titmouse, the Lady Leerwell, the Dowager Dimple,
the Countess of Cockdie, Lady Frances Faro, Sir John Jockey, and an
old friend of your house, his new-married lady, and various others,
whom I have not time now to recount.” During this dialogue, a plump,
sturdy, rosy-cheeked person made up to Mr. Chatter, who received him
with much heartiness. “Ah, my good friend, Kit Cotton, who thought of
seeing you at Brighton?” “Being now less off business, and a gemman,
I have come down a bit to see your doings.” “So you have left off
business.” “Yes; I have retired into the country now, for the benefit
of air and exercise. I bought a nice house by Kingsland turnpike, near
the brickfield, within sight of the great cow-keeper’s yard. Charming
prospect I have on the one side to Ballspond and Hoxton; on another, to
Hackney fields, all the way over to the Cat and Shoulder of Mutton. We
are just upon the road, and there is a power of coaches that passes us
every day; so it is very pleasant to sit at the window and count them.
I know to a minute when every stage coach should pass, for I was always
pretty cute, and _obsarves_ what is going forewood.” “But why are you
in mourning; no family misfortune I hope?” “Oh yes, our Deborah have
left me a widower; but, as the parson says, the will of Providence must
be done. Daughter Peg now keeps house. It was she that made me come
down here, for, says she, father, now you be come on in the world, and
a gemman; it is right you should put yourself forwood among other great
gentlefolks. I was agreeable, and proposed Margate; but Peg said, says
she, Margate be well enough for the ribble rabble Canille, says she;
but won’t do for those who have _pretensions_ to gentility, says she.
Most of our old neighbours are gone there that I used to keep company
with before I left off business; and my daughter Peg says they won’t do
for people of condition. This is a good smartish place enough, not much
worse than White Conduit House; but for one thing, is bad. I axed the
waiter for some _baccar_, he laughed, and told me, as how no smoking
was allowed here.” Mr. Cotton being departed, Scribble was disposed to
entertain the party with a dissertation on the tendency of habit, to
determine the sentiments and characters of men; but the commencement of
a favourite song postponed his erudition.