The Smith’s Anger.—A Drunken Tour through Westminster in the Olden
Time.—The Watch.—A Scene at the Chequers.—The Determination.
When Britton fled in sudden fright from the low wall by Millbank, he
took his rout up Abingdon-street, and turning into the first house of
entertainment he saw, he ordered a quantity of brandy that made the
landlady stare again; but when he lifted the measure to his mouth, and
then after a dead silence of about a minute, laid it down empty, the
aforesaid landlady’s eyes became much larger than before, and she
looked again and again in the measure, as if she imagined the brandy
might still be only lurking in some corner, and would suddenly make its
appearance again.
When Britton then struck his own head, which he did with his clenched
fist, the landlady gave a great jump, and exclaimed,—
“Bless us, and save us!”
“I am a fool! An ass!” cried Britton. “To be scared by a shadow—curses!
What’s to pay, woman? Don’t stand staring at me!”
“You—you’ve had a—pint, sir,” gasped the alarmed landlady.
“Take your money out of that, and be quick,” cried Britton, throwing
down a guinea, the ring of which on a little bit of marble, which the
landlady kept behind the bar door, being quite satisfactory, she turned
round to hand her customer his change, but to her surprise he was gone.
Half maddened by rage and drink together, Britton now rushed back to
where he had left Maud; but both she and Sir Frederick, from the pace
at which they had immediately left the place, were out of sight and
hearing; muttering, therefore, imprecations on his own head, the smith
returned towards Westminster in a fit mood for anything.
“Fool that I am!” he roared, for the tremendous dose of brandy he had
taken made him quite reckless of who might be within hearing. “Idiot! I
who have made the clang of my hammer heard by midnight, when within a
dozen paces of me was a—sight—sight that would—d—n the lights! They
stand in my eyes—and the houses are toppling. Fool—fool to let her go.
Would Jacob Gray have done as much? No, no, not he. It was the idiot
Britton. Oh, if I could find them out—Gray and the boy—ay, the boy—I’d
dash his brains out against Gray’s politic skull. Curses on them all.
The—the very pavement is mocking me. The houses reel, and the lamps
seem—dance—dancing—from earth to sky—as if they were all mad. It’s to
annoy me—I know it is.”
He reeled on, the liquor he had drunk so recklessly each moment
exerting greater effect upon him. The few chance passengers whom he met
heard his wild ravings before he reached them, and some had the
prudence to cross to the other side of the street, while others would
stand in a doorway until the evidently furious man had gone past them.
One watchman, who had just awakened from a sound nap, and walked out of
his box, eager to show his efficiency upon somebody, had the temerity
to hold up his lantern in Britton’s face, and make the simple and
innocent remark of—
“Hilloa, friend!”
Britton was, however, in no humour to be spoken to at all, and with one
crashing blow of his herculean fist he sent watchman and lantern into
the middle of the road, where they lay a dirty mass, consisting
principally of a greatcoat of a dingy white brown, with the letters
W.L., signifying Westminster Liberties, on the back of it.
This little adventure calmed, in a slight degree, the animal
irritability of Britton; and although he shouted and reeled along in a
stage of intoxication only one degree removed from the last, he spoke
more joyously, and even condescended to alarm the neighbourhood by some
snatches of Bacchanalian songs, roared out in a voice loud enough to
arouse the celebrated Seven Sleepers. In fact, divers of the indignant
and infuriated inhabitants opened their windows, and called “watch!”
but as no watch answered, they closed them again, wondering where the
watchman was, and remarking, as testy old gentlemen do now of the new
policeman, that he is never to be seen when he is at all
wanted,—although, in this case, the watchman might have been seen by
any curious inhabitant who chose to walk into the middle of the road in
Abingdon-street.
In about half an hour the guardian of the night recovered; and as
Britton had hurried on, and the neighbourhood was restored to quiet and
serenity, he roused it all up again, by springing his rattle, and
crying “murder!” for about five minutes incessantly.
The good folks of Abingdon street and its vicinity had therefore two
alarms that eventful night, the one by Britton himself roaring through
the streets when there was no watchman, and the other by the watchman
when there was nobody to apprehend.
In the meanwhile Britton went on until he reached, more from habit than
design, the door of the Chequers. There he paused, and as it happened
to be shut, by way of saving himself the trouble of knocking or lifting
the latch, he flung himself against it with such force, that he rolled
into the passage, as if he had been suddenly discharged from a cannon.
The landlord was not slow in recognising his Majesty King Britton, and
stooped to assist him to rise with all humility, which piece of
kindness was rewarded as kings very often reward their subjects, at
least as far as principle went, for the smith seized the unhappy
landlord by the hair of his head, and then bumped the said head against
the floor, with a reiteration of blows that alarmed the house.
“That will teach you to shut your doors in the faces of your best
customers,” stammered Britton, rising.
“Ye—ye—yes,” said the landlord, rubbing his head, and making a variety
of wry faces, “I—I—really—good Master King Britton—you—are
quite—facetious. I declare I never had such knocks on the head in my
life. I’ll see you hung some day.” This latter sentence was uttered
aside, and with an air of candour that left no doubt of the deep
sincerity of it.
“Stir yourself,” cried Britton. “Who’s here?”
“Who’s here, King?”
“Yes—Have you any croaking spies here? Who was yon vagabond in the grey
coat?”
“The—the—villain who stood in your worship’s way awhile ago?”
“Ay, the same: do you know him?”
“No, no, your Majesty.”
“So much the better. I do know him, and if you had, I’m not sure but I
should have been under the ne—ne—necessity of smashing you—do you hear?”
“Yes—most humbly—Oh, I shall see you at Tyburn yet!”
“What’s that you mutter?”
“I—I was arguing that—all villains ought, to be at Tyburn, your
worship.”
“Oh, ought they? Then why ain’t you there?”
“I—I—really don’t know.”
At this juncture, when the courteous host felt himself rather at a loss
to give a reason why he should not be hung, there entered the house a
little bustling man, exclaiming, as he came,—
“Well, they are coming it—there’s nothing but lights here, there, and
everywhere. You may hear the music in the park. Ah! No doubt, ’tis a
right merry scene.”
“What do you mean?” roared Britton. “Ex—ex—plain yourself, you
bad-looking—piece of—of—bad—clay, you gnat—ex—explain, or I’ll give you
a blow—shall—shall—Curse me, if—I know.”
“Ah, explain yourself, Master Sniggle,” said the host, winking at the
little man.
“Why,” said the little man, “there’s lights everywhere—there’s lights
above—lights below—”
“Ex—ex—plain!” roared Britton.
“Well, I am explaining. There’s lights—”
“If—you—you say lights again, I’ll be the death of you.”
“The—the—death of me for saying lights?”
“You are an idiot,” said Britton, gravely.
“Ah, a rank idiot,” cried the landlord, winking again at the little
man, who, however, was too much enraged to notice the telegraphic
regard of the politic host.
“I an idiot!” he exclaimed. “Well, I never heard the like of that
before. I tell you what it is, master landlord, I—I—I won’t drink any
more of your ale—d—e!”
“You—you can’t drink much, you wretched little midge,” said Britton.
“Sir,” cried the little man, giving his hat a fierce cock. “Sir, I
never enter your house again, and my wife shall get her rations from
the Blue Cat and Frying Pan, or the Crocodile and Crumpet, d—e!”
The landlord now winked so dreadfully and so incessantly, that it
seemed quite doubtful whether or not he would ever leave off again; but
the little man was not to be winked into good-humour, and shook his
head in great indignation.
Britton reeled towards the bar, exclaiming, “Give me a half-pint
measure, and if I don’t put him into it, my name ain’t King—King
Britton!”
The landlord now took the opportunity of whispering to Master Sniggles—
“Do for Heaven’s sake be an idiot.”
“I—I—the devil!” cried Sniggles.
“Say, you are a midge,” added the landlord, at the same time enforcing
his argument by a poke in the regions of Master Sniggles’ ribs.
“He’ll be desperate if you contradict him. Be an idiot just for old
acquaintance sake, and to oblige me.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” suggested the little man.
“Now,” roared Britton, returning with a pewter measure in his hand.
“Are you going to ex—explain yourself.”
“Ye—yes,” stammered the little man. “The lights, good sir, were at the
large house belonging to the rich squire, whose floors, they say, are
paved with dollars, and his walls hung with gold leaf.”
“Whe—do—you mean, Learmont?”
“Ay, marry do I—that’s his worshipful name; they say he eats off gold
plate, and cuts his food with a diamond.”
“But what about the lights?” roared Britton.
“Why, that’s what I asked a knave that was lounging at the door, and
he, a burly knave he was, he says to me—he was a stout fellow to—”
“What did he say?”
“Why, says he, the squire gives an entertainment to-night to the court
and nobility.”
“Oh,” cried Britton. “He does, and he has not invited me.”
The landlord winked at Master Sniggles, and Master Sniggles this time
winked at the landlord, both the winks signifying how very far gone was
Britton in drunkenness to make so very absurd and preposterous a remark.
Britton was silent for a few moments. Then a half-drunken,
half-malignant smile covered his swarthy visage.
“I will go,” he cried, “I will be the only uninvited guest, and—and yet
the most free. Ha, ha! Learmont would as leave see the devil himself
walk in as King Britton, the smith. I’ll go!”
“Does your majesty really mean,” suggested the landlord, “to kick up a
royal row at the rich squire’s?”
“Do I mean?” said Britton. “I will have a dance in his halls, I say.
There’s not a knave in his household dare stand in my way. Hurrah!
Hurrah! I’m a gentleman. I do nothing but drink, so I’m a gentleman.
Ha! Ha! Ha! Learmont don’t expect me, but there’s nothing like an
unlooked for pleasure. I’ll visit him to-night, if the pit of hell
should open at his threshold to stay my progress.”
So saying, he dashed from the Chequers leaving the landlord and Master
Sniggles gazing at each other in speechless amazement.
What occurred at the drunken smith’s visit to Learmont’s fête, we are
already aware.