“How durst you come into this room and company without leave?”
KILLEGREW.
Philip Martindale proceeded, as we have stated, from the coffee-house
towards Tothill Street, with a view of keeping his engagement with
his friend of the scarlet coat and crimson countenance. He had entered
into his memorandum-book the number of the house to which he had
been directed, but he omitted as useful a notice, namely, to take
down the division or apartment in which the gentleman of the pit had
his residence. For the fact is, that the ingenious bird-feeder and
fancier resided in an upper apartment, nearer to the sky by one flight
of stairs than the Hon. Philip Martindale imagined. The house was a
miserable contrast to the splendid mansion which he had left. Whether
it had ever been cleansed either by paint or water, since the day it
was built, seemed a matter of doubt. The windows had been broken, and
had been mended partially but not with glass. The very window-frames
seemed to be in such a state of dilapidation that a breeze might blow
them from their position.
When the door was opened by a middle aged female, whose miserable
and dirty attire made her look twenty years older than she was, the
olfactory nerves of the young gentleman were assailed by a grievous
combination of various odours, among which onions, tobacco, and gin,
were the predominant. Asking of the miserable being who opened the door
whether Clarke was within, he was told to walk up stairs. Very slowly
and very cautiously did he mount the creaking staircase, setting his
foot gently and inquiringly upon each successive stair to ascertain
whether it would bear his weight: of one or two he had so much distrust
as to step completely over them.
When arrived at the first landing-place, he heard a multitude of
voices, which he naturally supposed to proceed from some gentlemen of
the fancy. Without knocking at the door, he immediately let himself
in, and found to his great astonishment that he had mistaken the
apartment. He found himself surrounded by a group of dark-complexioned,
sallow-looking, unshorn beings; some of whom were sitting on the floor,
others on crazy boxes and broken chairs, and all of whom were smoking
cigars. The dingy dress which they wore, and the faded decorations
which were suspended on their left breast, immediately proclaimed them
to be emigrants. As soon as he entered the room, their voices were
stilled, and they turned their inquiring and sickened looks towards him
as if to a harbinger of some intelligence of good. The moment that he
felt where and with whom he was thus accidentally placed, his spirit
sunk within him; and he did feel a deep compassion for the miserable
objects which surrounded him.
One of the party, by the freshness of his dress and the cleanliness of
his person, appeared to have arrived but recently among them. He was
a man of middle age, wearing a very respectable military dress; and
though of thoughtful look, he did not appear dejected or heartbroken.
To him Mr. Martindale addressed himself in the Italian language,
apologising for his accidental and unintentional intrusion. The
stranger replied in English, spoken with a foreign accent, but with
tolerable fluency, stating that he had just arrived in England, and
being directed to where he could find some of his fellow-countrymen,
he had but recently entered the house, and was grieved to see them so
situated. He also said that he himself was not much better provided
for, but that his wife and child were in England, though he could not
at present discover in what part of the country. He said that he had
received letters from them, but that those letters were lost, with part
of his own luggage. But he trusted, he continued, that he should find
out, by inquiry, where his family was; and he concluded a long harangue
by asking Philip Martindale, with great simplicity, if he knew where
Mr. Smith lived.
This is a question which wiser men than the Hon. Philip Martindale
would be puzzled to answer; and it is a question which weaker men than
he would have smiled at. He was not a man without feeling, though he
was a man of the world; and it excited in his mind other thoughts and
feelings than those of a ridiculous nature, when he saw a foreigner
in England, whose discovery of his wife and child depended on the
finding out of the residence of a person of so common a name as Smith.
Forgetting, therefore, his engagement with Stephen the guard, he set
himself seriously and closely to interrogate the poor man, in order to
find some better and more definite clue to the discovery of his family
than the name of Smith. Thereupon the countenance of the foreigner
brightened up, his eyes sparkled, and the tear was on his cheek, when
he said:
“Oh! sare, you are good. I thank you much for your great trouble: you
are all so good in England to the poor estranger when he is in misery.
It is sad to leave my own land; but what am I without my poor child?”
“Well, my good friend,” replied Philip, “I hope and trust you will find
your child. But surely you must have some other knowledge of the person
with whom your family is residing than merely the name of Smith. You
have had letters from them, you say; can you not recollect from what
place those letters were dated?”
“Oh, no! I could not recollect it once: it was no name in the
geography; it was in the province.”
“Then, of course, it was not London;” replied Mr. Martindale.
“No, no, no, it was not London; it was in the province: it was far away
from London thirty or forty mile.”
“But did not you sometimes send letters to your family, and can you not
tell how you addressed your letters to them? Perhaps if you were to
consider a little while, you might be able to call to mind something
that might assist in discovering the place of their abode. If you had
letters, most likely some account was given of the place where they
lived: or if it were a small village, they may have mentioned the name
of the nearest post-town.”
“Oh yes, it was very pretty place. It was thirty or forty mile from
London. It was very beautiful place. There was large, very fine palace
called Abbey. There was very fine lake.”
This description reminded Philip Martindale of the place of his own
residence, and he therefore asked if the name of the place was at all
like Brigland. The foreigner looked thoughtful, and attempted to repeat
the word, saying: “Breeklan! Breeklan!” Then, after a pause of a few
seconds, his features underwent a complete change, and with a kind of
hysteric laugh or screech of exultation, he cried out:
“Oh, that was it! that was it! Oh, good sare, it was Breeklan--oh, tell
me where is Breeklan, and I will see my child and my dear wife--oh, I
will see them once again--oh, you have save me from great misery.”
Then he seized Philip Martindale’s hand and pressed it with great
emotion, repeating his solicitations; and the tears rolled down his
cheeks, and he smiled with such an expression of delight, that the
young gentleman was moved; and after he had given some charitable
donations to the rest of the unhappy ones in the miserable apartment,
he proceeded to conduct the newly-arrived stranger where he might find
a conveyance to take him to Brigland.
Philip Martindale then returned to the house where the game-cocks were
to be seen, and there he met his friend Stephen the guard, and some
other friends of the fancy, by the fascinations of whose sweet society
he was detained in the metropolis somewhat longer than he designed,
and by whose winning ways he found himself poorer than was quite
convenient. The opinion he expressed concerning the fighting birds--the
particulars of the exhibition with which he was afterwards favoured
at the Westminster-pit--the brilliant conversation in which he there
engaged--the bets which there he laid and lost--the flattering homage
which he there received--the satisfaction which resulted from it--all
these and many other matters of a like nature we pass over unrecorded;
trusting that, where one reader blames the omission, fifty will commend
it.
But though we describe not these scenes, it does not follow that we
should pass them over without reflection. One very natural reflection
is, that gentlemen of high birth and estate are much to be envied
for the pleasure which they enjoy in those scenes. There must be a
peculiar delight in such pursuits, or the superfine part of our species
could not possibly condescend, for the sake of them, to associate on
most familiar terms with persons whose birth is most miserably low,
whose understandings are most grievously defective, whose manners
are abominably coarse. Take from the side of one of these honorables
the jockey, the boxer, the feeder, or the coachman, with whom he is
all courtesy and good humor and familiarity, and place there a man
of middle rank in society, respectable in every point of view, with
what cool contempt would the dignity of high birth regard him. One
other reflection is, that such pursuits ought to be calculated to
raise these said gentle and noble ones very high in their own esteem,
inasmuch as they are not thereby raised in the esteem of others. Their
disinterested generosity is also much to be applauded, seeing that by
thus lavishing their wealth on those whose only support is the gambling
propensity of men of wealth, they take away from the public a large
number of such as might otherwise have exercised their wits in picking
pockets or breaking into houses. They who would suppress gambling
deserve the thanks of the ninnies who would be thus preserved from
being plundered in an honorable and gentlemanly manner; but what would
become of the rogues and sharpers who live upon the folly of right
honorable and high-born simpletons? Politic morality is perhaps one
of the greatest difficulties which legislators have to contend with.
Begging pardon for these reflections, we proceed with our story.
We have stated that the Hon. Philip Martindale suffered in his purse
from his visit to the Westminster-pit. The following morning he
meditated much upon the subject; and he also applied the powers of
his mind to the ring, and recollected that he had there oftentimes
suffered as much in his purse as some of the pummeled heroes had
in their persons. Then while he was in the humor for thinking, he
endeavoured to calculate how much these amusements had cost him; and in
the course of that calculation it most unaccountably came into his mind
that many of the frequenters of these exhibitions had no ostensible
means of living, and that they yet lived well, and that of course they
must have lived upon him and others of high rank and birth. Following
that train of thought, and finding that several of the superfine ones
who had formerly patronised these sports had for some reason or other
gradually fallen off from them, he began to think that he would also
abstain from them, and confine himself to the more respectable and
gentleman-like avocations of the race-course and the hazard-table: for
there he should meet with a more numerous assemblage of persons of his
own rank; and as he had three horses entered to run at Newmarket, and
as one of these was an especial favorite, he had some expectation of
retrieving his losses, at least in part. He fully determined that he
would no longer associate with the vulgar ones of the ring and the pit.
Oh, what an excellent homily is an empty purse!
Now it happened very fortunately for the trusty Oliver, and for his
master too, that when the latter had finished his meditations, and was
entering the shop of his gunsmith, he should meet there his worthy
friend Sir Andrew Featherstone. The greeting was cordial; for the
meeting was agreeable on both sides. Sir Andrew Featherstone was a
baronet of very ancient family:--that rendered him acceptable to the
Hon. Philip Martindale. But he had other recommendations--he was the
best-tempered man in the world. There are myriads of this description.
He kept a most excellent table, had a capital pack of hounds, and
two very beautiful daughters, whom we shall have great pleasure in
introducing to our readers in due course of time. The families of
the Featherstones and the Martindales had been intimate time out of
mind; and it was the wish of Sir Andrew to marry one of his daughters
to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But the young gentleman himself had
never given the subject a single thought. By one of those remarkable
coincidences which are happening every day, Sir Andrew mentioned the
archery-meeting, and expressed a wish that Philip would honor it with
his presence. The young gentleman found this reality as great a relief
to his mind, as his trusty Oliver had found the invention a relief
to his mind; and he immediately dispatched a note to his venerable
relative, stating his engagement, and fixing the day of his return to
Brigland.