_A Romance of High Holborn._
It came to pass that, towards the close of 1826, I found occasion to
change my tailor, and by chance, or the recommendation of friends--I
cannot now remember which--applied to one who vegetated in that
particular region of the metropolis where the rivers of
Museum-street and Drury-lane (to adopt the language of metaphor)
flow into and form the capacious estuary of High Holborn. Whoever
has sailed along, or cast anchor in this confluence, must have seen
the individual I allude to. He sits--I should perhaps say sat,
inasmuch as he is since defunct--bolt upright, with a pen behind his
ear, in the centre of a dingy, spectral-looking shop, quaintly hung
round with clothes, of divers forms and patterns, in every stage of
existence--from the first crude conception of the incipient surtout
or pantaloons, down to the last glorious touch that immortalizes the
artist. His figure is slim and undersized; his cheeks are sallow,
with two furrows on each side his nose, filled not unfrequently with
snuff; his eyes project like lobsters', and cast their shifting
glances about with a vague sort of mysterious intelligence; and his
voice--his startling, solemn, unearthly voice--seems hoarse with
sepulchral vapours, and puts forth its tones like the sighing of the
wind among tombs. With regard to his dress, it is in admirable
keeping with his countenance. He wears a black coat, fashioned in
the mould of other times, with large cloth buttons and flowing
skirts; drab inexpressibles, fastened at the knee with brass
buckles; gaiters, which, reaching no higher than the calf of the
leg, set up independent claims to eccentricity and exact
consideration on their own account; creaking, square-toed shoes; and
a hat, broad in front, pinched up at the sides, verging to an angle
behind, and worn close over the forehead, with the lower part
resting on the nose. His manner is equally peculiar; it cannot be
called vulgar, nor yet genteel--for it is too passive for the one,
and too pompous for the other; it forms, say, a sort of compromise
between the two, with a slight infusion of pedantry that greatly
adds to its effect.
On reaching this oddity's abode, I at once proceeded to business;
and was promised, in reply, the execution of my order on the
customary terms of credit. Thus far is strictly natural. The clothes
came home, and so, with admirable punctuality, did the bill; but the
death of a valued friend having withdrawn me, soon afterwards, from
London, six months elapsed; at the expiration of which time I was
refreshed, as agreed on, by a pecuniary application from my tailor.
Perhaps I should here mention, to the better understanding of my
tale, that I am a medical practitioner, of somewhat nervous
temperament, derived partly from inheritance, and partly from an
inveterate indulgence of the imagination. My income, too--which
seldom or never encumbers a surgeon who has not yet done walking the
hospitals--is limited, and, at this present period, was so far
contracted as to keep me in continual suspense. In this predicament
my tailor's memorandum was any thing but satisfactory. I wrote
accordingly to entreat his forbearance for six months longer, and,
as I received no reply, concluded that all was satisfactorily
arranged. Unluckily, however, as I was strolling, about a month
afterwards, along the Strand, I chanced to stumble up against him.
The shock seemed equally unexpected on both sides; but my tailor (as
being a dun) was the first to recover self-possession; and, with a
long preliminary hem!--a mute, but expressive compound of
remonstrance, apology, and resolution--opened his fire as follows:--
"I believe, sir, your name is D----?"
"I believe it is, sir."
"Well, then, Mr. D----, touching that little account between us, I
have to request, sir, that--"
"Very good; nothing can be more reasonable; wait the appointed time,
and you shall have all."
This answer served, in some degree, to appease him; no, not exactly
to appease him, because that would imply previous excitement, and he
was invariably imperturbable in manner; it satisfied him, however,
for the present, and he forthwith walked away, casting on me that
equivocal sort of look with which Ajax turned from Ulysses, or Dido
from Æneas, in the Shades.
A lapse of a few weeks ensued, during which I heard nothing further
from my persecutor; when, one dark November evening--one of those
peculiarly English evenings, full of fog and gloom, when the
half-frozen sleet, joined in its descent by gutters from the
house-tops, comes driving full in your face, blinding you to all
external objects--on one of these blessed evenings, on my road to
Camden Town, I chanced to miss my way, and was compelled,
notwithstanding a certain shyness towards strangers, to ask my
direction of the first respectable person I should meet. Many passed
me by, but none sufficiently prepossessing; when, on turning down
some nameless street that leads to Tottenham Court-road, I chanced
to come behind a staid-looking gentleman, accoutred in a dark brown
coat, with an umbrella--the cotton of which had shrunk half-way up
the whalebone--held obliquely over his head. Hastily stepping up to
him, "Pray, sir," said I, "could you be kind enough to direct me to
---- place, Camden Town?"
The unknown, thus addressed, made the slightest possible inclination
towards me; and then, in an under tone, "I believe, sir, your name
is D----?"
I paused; a vague sort of recollection came over me. Could it
be?--no, surely not! And yet the voice--the manner--the--the--
My suspicions were soon converted into certainty, when the stranger,
with his own peculiar expression, quietly broke forth a second time
with, "Touching that little account--"
This was enough; it was more than enough--it was vexatiously
superfluous. To be dunned for a debt, at the very time when the
nerves could best dispense with the application; to be recalled back
to the vulgarities of existence, at that precise moment when the
imagination was most abstracted from all commercial common-places;
to be stopped by a tailor, (and such a tailor!) when the mind was
dreaming of a mistress--the bare idea was intolerable! So I thought;
and, without further explanation, hurried precipitately from the
spot, nor ever once paused till far removed from the husky tones of
that sepulchral voice which had once before so highly excited my
annoyance.
[The narrater then visits one of Mr. Champagne Wright's masquerades,
where he falls in love with a _fresco_ nun. He receives a
billet.]
I stood like one bewildered; but, soon recovering my self-possession,
moved direct towards the chandelier, with a view to peruse an
epistle expressive of woman's fondest love. As with glistening
eyes I proceeded to tear open the billet, a flood of transporting
thoughts swept over me. I fancied that I was on the eve of
acquaintance with ----; but, judge my astonishment, when, instead
of the expected document, the key to such transporting bliss, I
read, engraved in large German text, on a dirty square card,
embossed at the edge with flowers, the revolting, business-like
address of
Mr. Thomas M----e,
Tailor,
116, High Holborn.
It so happened that, the next day, I dined with C----. Of course the
masquerade, and with that the tailor, were the first topics of
conversation between us. Both allowed that the circumstances
respecting his late appearance were uncommon; but there, with my
friend, the matter ended: with me it was a more enduring subject for
reflection; and, after a night kept up till a late hour over a bowl
of C----'s most faultless punch, I set out, moody and apprehensive,
to my humble abode. By this time it was past three o'clock; the
streets were nearly all deserted.--While thoughtfully plodding
onwards, a sudden noise from the Holborn end of Drury-lane took my
attention; it evidently proceeded from a row--a systematic,
scientific row; and, indeed, as I drew near the scene of action, I
could distinctly hear the watchman's oaths blending in deep chorus
with the treble of some dozen or two valorous exquisites.
I felt certain rising abstract ideas of pugnacity, and conceived
myself bound to indulge them on the first head and shoulders I
should meet. This spirit brought me at once into the thick of the
fight, and, before I was well aware of my proximity, I found myself
fast anchored alongside a veteran watchman, with a pigtail and half
a nose. The conflict now commenced in good earnest; there were few
or no attempts at favouritism; the blows of one friend told equally
well on the scull of another; watchman assaulted watchman with a
zeal respectable for its sincerity; and, indeed, had these last been
any thing more than a bundle of old coats and oaths, they would most
undoubtedly have drubbed each other into a better world. After a
lively and well-sustained affair of about twenty minutes, a squadron
of auxiliary watchmen arrived, and, with some difficulty, deposited
us all safely in the watch-house. And here the very first person
that met my gaze--seated, with due regard to dignity, in an
arm-chair, a pair of spectacles on his nose, a glass of
brandy-and-water by his side, and a newspaper, redolent of cheese,
before him--was the constable of the night--the nun of the
masquerade--the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn! The wretch's eyes
gleamed with a savage but subdued joy at the recognition; a low,
chuckling laugh escaped him; while his dull countenance, made doubly
revolting by the dim light of the watch-house, fell, fixed and
scowling, upon me, as he pointed towards the spot where I
stood.--"Dobson," he exclaimed; and, at the word, forth stepped the
owner of this melodious appellative, with "this here man."--Luckily,
before he could finish his charge, a five-shilling-piece, which I
thrust into his unsuspecting palm, created a diversion among the
watchmen in my behalf; under favour of which, while my arch enemy
was adjusting his books, I contrived to escape from his detested
presence.
It happened that about a month subsequent to this last rencontre,
circumstances led me to Bologne, whither I arrived, late in the
evening, by the steamboat. On being directed to the best English
hotel in that truly social Anglo-Gallic little town, I chanced to
find in the coffee-room an old crony, whom I had known years since
at Cambridge, and who had just arrived from Switzerland, on a
speculation connected with some vineyards.
I had a thousand questions to ask my friend, a thousand memories to
disinter from their graves in my heart, past follies to re-enact,
past scenes to re-people. We began with our school-days, pursued the
subject to Cambridge, carried it back again to Reading, and thence
traced it through all its windings, now in sunshine, now in gloom,
till the canvass of our recollection was fairly filled with
portraits. In this way, time, unperceived, slipped on; noon deepened
into evening, evening blackened into midnight, yet nothing but our
wine was exhausted.
At last, after a long evening spent in the freest and most social
converse, my friend quitted the coffee-room, while I--imitating, as
I went, the circumlocutory windings of the Meander--proceeded to my
allotted chamber. Unfortunately, on reaching the head of the first
staircase, where two opposite doors presented themselves, I opened
(as a matter of course) the wrong one, which led me into a spacious
apartment, in which were placed two fat, full-grown beds. My lantern
happening to go out at the moment, I was compelled to forego
all further scrutiny, so without more ado, flung off my clothes,
and dived, at one dexterous plunge, right into the centre
of the nearest vacant bed. In an instant I was fast asleep;
my imagination, oppressed with the day's events, had become
fairly exhausted, and I now lay chained down in that heavy,
dreamless sleep, which none but fatigued travellers can appreciate.
Towards daybreak, I was roused by a peculiar long-drawn snore,
proceeding from the next bed. The music, though deep, was gusty,
vulgar, and ludicrous, like a west wind whistling through a
wash-house. I should know it among a thousand snores. At first I
took no notice of this diversified sternutation, but as it deepened
every moment in energy, terminating in something like a groan, I was
compelled to pay it the homage of my admiration and astonishment.
This attention, however, soon flagged; in a few minutes I was a
second time asleep, nor did I again awake till the morning was far
advanced. At this eventful juncture, while casting my eyes round the
room with all the voluptuous indolence of a jaded traveller, they
suddenly chanced to fall on a gaunt, spectral figure, undressed,
unwashed, unshaved, decked out in a red worsted night-cap, its left
cheek swollen, as if with cold or tooth-ache, and seated bolt
upright in the very next bed, scarce six inches off my nose. And
this figure was----but I need add no more; the reader must by this
time have fully anticipated my discovery.
That night I started from Bologne. I could no more have endured to
stop there, conscious that the town contained my persecutor, than I
could have flown. Accordingly, after a hurried breakfast, I
proceeded to arrange what little business I had to transact; and
this completed, away I posted to the well-known shop of Monsieur
----, dentist, perruquier, and general agent to the steam-packet
company. Fortunately the little man was at home, and received me
with his usual courtesy. He was very, very sorry that he could not
stay to converse with me, but a patient in the inner parlour
required his immediate attendance; he must therefore--. I
entreated him not to apologize; my business was simple--it was
merely to ascertain at what hour the first packet sailed; and having
so said, and received a satisfactory reply, I prepared to quit the
shop, when just as I was turning round to shut the door, I caught a
glimpse through the half-closed curtains that shaded the inner room
of a cheek and one eye. The cheek was swollen, and a solitary patch
of snuff rested, like a fly, upon its surface. It was the Mysterious
Tailor; he had come in to have his tooth pulled out.
Notwithstanding my anxiety to quit Bologne, it was evening before I
was on board the packet; nor did I feel myself at ease, until the
heights had dwindled to a speck, and the loud carols of the
fishermen returning home from their day's sport, had sunk into a
faint, undistinguished whisper. Our vessel's course for the first
hour or so was delightful. Towards night, the weather, which had
hitherto proved so serene, began to fluctuate; the wind shifted, and
gradually a heavy swell came rolling in from the north-east towards
us. As the hour advanced, a storm seemed advancing with it; and a
hundred symptoms appeared, the least of which was fully sufficient
to certify the coming on of a tremendous hurricane. Our captain,
however--a bronzed, pinched-up little fellow, whom a series of
north-westers seemed to have dried to a mummy--put a good face on
the matter, and our mate whistled bluffly, though I could not help
fancying that his whistle had something forced about it.
We had by this time been tossing about upwards of four hours, yet
despite the storm, which increased every moment in energy, our
vessel bore up well, labouring and pitching frightfully to be sure,
but as yet uninjured in sail, mast, or hull. As for her course, it
was--so the mate assured me--"a moral impossible to say which way we
were bound, whether for a trip to Spain, Holland, or Van Dieman's
Land; it might be one, it might be t'other." Scarcely had he uttered
these words, when a long rolling sea came sweeping on in hungry
grandeur towards us, and at one rush tore open the ship's gun-wale,
which now, completely at the mercy of the wave, went staggering,
drunken, and blindfold, through the surge. From this fatal moment
the sailors were kept constantly at the pumps, although so
instantaneous was the rush of water into the hold, that they did
little or no good; there seemed, in fact, not the ghost of a chance
left us; even the mate had ceased whistling, and the captain's oaths
began to assume the nature of a compromise between penitence and
hardihood.
It was now midnight, deep, awful midnight; the few remaining
passengers had left the deck and retreated into a bed which they
shared in common with the salt water. The Captain stood, like one
bewildered, beside the helm, while I lay stretched along the
forecastle, watching, as well as I could, the tremendous rushing of
the waves. It was during a partial hush of the storm, when the wind,
as if out of breath, was still, that a shifting light attached
to some moving body, came bearing down full upon us.
"This is an ugly night, sir," said the Captain, who now, for the
first time, found words, "yet methinks I see a sail a-head."
"Surely not," I replied, "no earthly vessel but our own can live on
such a sea."
Scarcely had the words escaped me, when "helm a lee!" was roared out
in a loud emphatic tone, something between rage and fright.
The captain strove to turn his helm, but in vain, the rudder had
lost all power. At this instant, a rushing sound swept past us, and
the two ships came in direct contact with each other. The crash was
tremendous: down with a dizzy spinning motion went the strange
vessel; one yell--but one shrill piercing yell, which is ever
sounding in my ears, ensued--a pause, and all was over.
My heart died within me at that cry; an icy shudder crept through
me, every hair of my head seemed endowed with separate vitality. To
go down into the tomb--and such a tomb!--unwept, unknown, the very
lights from the English coast still discernible in distance, yet not
a friend to hold forth aid; the idea was inexpressibly awful. Just
at this crisis, while grasping the bannister with weak hands, I lay
faint and hopeless on the deck, I fancied I saw a dark figure
crawling up the cabin-steps towards me. I listened; the sound drew
near, the form advanced, already it touched that part of the
staircase to which I clung. Was it the phantom of one of those
wretches who had just met death? Had it come fresh from eternity,
the taint of recent earth yet hanging about it, to warn me of my own
departure? A sudden vivid flash enabled me to dispel all doubt; the
dull, grey eye, and thin furrowed form, were not to be so mistaken;
the voice too--but why prolong the mystery? it was my old
unforgotten persecutor, the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn. What
followed I know not: overpowered by previous excitement, and the
visitation of this infernal phantom, my brain spun round--my heart
ticked audibly like a clock--my tongue glued to my mouth--I sank
senseless at the cabin door.
_(To be concluded in our next.)_
* * * * *