be tried upon him, and the Monmouth-Street merchant pronounced that
if I had been cut out on purpose for him, I could not have fitted him
better; on this I was engaged by him for the day. I soon discovered by
some detached pieces of poetry in blank verse, and other papers of the
like nature put into my pocket, that I was accompanying an author.—His
wan and dead complexion made me at first imagine him to be a person
confined to a sedentary life, but notwithstanding his unfavourable
aspect, I could conceive strong marks of the gentleman, and likewise
imagined him to be a scholar, though the rays of learning which beamed
from his countenance, seemed to be clouded by misfortune and care.—But
to proceed, three times did this son of Apollo attend the door of a
certain great man, before he could gain admittance: the first time the
servant said his master was dressing, the second time he was busy, and
the third we were so fortunate as to be shewn into a small antechamber,
with directions to sit down, and my comrade should be informed when
he could speak with this very great man, whom, but for the situation
of the house, I should have imagined was a prime minister: at last,
after waiting above an hour, my companion was desired to walk into
a parlour, where was sitting by the fire side, surrounded by half a
dozen little kittens, an old man (gentleman I cannot with propriety
term him). Without asking the gentleman to sit, he began,—Well, sir,
what do you want with me? I wait upon you, sir, replied the author,
in relation to a play I some time ago left in your hands.—How long
since? says this well mannered gentleman. Fifteen months, Sir, replied
the author—O, is that all, says he,—well, and pray, what is this
extraordinary play of yours, continues he; a tragedy, I suppose? It
is a tragedy, Sir, answered the author, still standing, (which gave me
an opportunity of remarking a letter that lay upon the table directed
to the manager of one of the theatres). What do you call it? says this
important gentleman. It is called ——, replied the author,—and hope
it has met with your approbation, continued he.—O, to be sure, says
the sneering manager, without reading it.—I imagined, says the author,
you would have been kind enough to have indulged me with a couple of
hours out of fifteen months to have perused it, or if you did not
intend to peruse it, you would have returned it me again. Ay, ay, says
the manager; you shall have it again, take it away with you in God’s
name—(looking among a parcel of papers) I don’t mean, Sir, returned
the author, to take it from you unless you should reject it, after you
have read it.—Why, Sir, says the manager, did not you this moment
ask me to return it? If you had no intention to peruse it, says the
author. Peruse it! replies the manager—why, Sir, do you think I have
nothing else to do than as soon as ever people of your way of living
have wrote a thing, to play it immediately? what, I suppose, continues
he, you think I should read it, alter it, expunge, and add to it, then
rehearse it and so perform it, that you might receive the benefit all
in ten days or a fortnight?—No, no, Sir you are too quick for me;
let’s see where is this thing (looking over a bundle of manuscript
plays)—what is the _procession_ in your play, continued the manager?
I shall best find it by that, for they are all marked.—There is no
procession at all in mine, Sir, says the author. No procession! Sir,
says the amazed manager, what do you mean?—perhaps you call it—a
_solemn dirge_—a _triumph_—or an—_ovation_—or—There is nothing at
all of the kind Sir, says the author, in my play, nor did I apprehend,
says he, it was absolutely necessary to.—Necessary? interrupted the
manager,—pray, Sir, what would nine out of ten of the tragedies that
have come out within these 20 years have been good for, if it had not
been for the processions; but if yours has no procession, adds he, I am
sure it is not amongst these; (laying the papers he had been looking
over down)—but we shall find it presently somewhere, I warrant you—a
procession not necessary!—(looking for the play).—By this time the
author began to entertain a most sovereign contempt for him, as I
judged from his countenance.—At length the manager produced the play,
but in such a condition! some part wanting half a leaf, some a quarter,
others three quarters, and what remained was in tatters, and strangely
smeared and stained, having been frequently used no doubt in taking the
tea-kettle off the fire, and other such worthy employments, as I saw
him take it from _under a coffee pot_ that stood in the window.—The
author at first was astonished when he saw it, but recovering himself,
calmly said, he believed it had been perused, for by the appearance
of it, it seemed to have been often in his _hands_; and opening
it.—Really, Sir, says the author, you have been in a mistake, for it
is evident you have read it over, and have _expunged_ several pages of
it, (shewing him the dismembered play)—and, continues he, dare say you
will be able to get through it in a short time, therefore will continue
it in your hands, and hope you will be so obliging as to _add to
it_—No, no, Sir, replied the manager, I shall give myself no farther
trouble about it; as for the leaves being torn, some of the servants
can give you the best account of them.—If, continued he, there had
been a _procession_ in it.—Here he was interrupted, by the arrival of
a person with a Harlequin’s dress, and the author laying the mangled
play upon the table, took his leave, giving place to _Harlequin_—a
circumstance that ought not to give him much pain, as it is no more
than what the best dramatic authors both ancient and modern, have
frequently done.
This tragic gentleman having conducted me home, continued Sable, I was
again deposited among my old acquaintance, the _occasional gentlemen_,
from whose conversation I received much useful knowledge and rational
entertainment. But to proceed—.
My next excursion, resumed Sable, was with a person who conducted me
from my habitation in Monmouth-Street, to an indifferent apartment in
an alley near Chancery-Lane where he adorned himself with the military
ensigns, a cockade and sword, and marched with me to a tavern in the
city, where being shewn into a room, he left word if any body enquired
for an officer, to shew them in to him, and seating himself he drew
from his pocket a letter, in which were these words in an excellent
woman’s hand.—“Dear cap. —— my papa has received your letter, and tells
me he shall meet you at the time and place you have appointed—I shall
be impatient to know the result of this interesting conversation, and
hope it will prove favourable to you—”. This letter was directed to be
left at a coffee-house in the Strand for my companion. He did not wait
long before a plain decent looking tradesman was introduced to him—My
comrade received him with an affected politeness, which was returned by
the stranger, with an aukward civility: being both seated, the coldness
of the weather was the first topic of conversation, the tradesman
making a sorrowful observation on the dearness of provisions, and
that coals were risen that day; the military gentleman joined in
lamenting the hardness of the times, and concluded the subject by
pitying the poor; the stranger then filled a bumper, and knocking
his glass against the captain’s drank to their better acquaintance,
which having taken off, Mr. Sirloin, (that being the stranger’s name)
after a few minutes silence on both sides, began the discourse, by
saying to my companion, that he believed he had received, a letter
from him in relation to his daughter Susan. The captain answered, he
should make no ceremony in telling him that he professed a regard for
the young lady.—Young lady, says Mr. Sirloin, I beg, Sir, you’ll
not young lady my daughter.—Susan is a good likely girl for that
matter, but as for being a young lady, I don’t know what title she
has to that. Indeed her mother, who has had the whole management of
her, has always filled the girls head with a parcel of nonsense. Your
plain way of thinking, returned the captain, I highly approve, but
her education entitles her to.—Ay, interrupted Mr. Sirloin, that was
against my will too, but my wife would have it so, and so she was
sent to a boarding school; to be sure, continued he, as she was but
a half boarder, I came into it for peace and quietness, but if it
was to do again—for added he, she has learned nothing but to talk
of gentility and fashions, and dancings, and plays, and I don’t know
what.—These things, Sir, answered the captain, are accomplishments
which are necessary in every woman who has any pretensions to marry
genteelly.—Therefore, Sir, returned Mr. Sirloin, unnecessary for my
daughter; for I am sure—I don’t know what pretensions she has to
think of marrying genteelly, or out of her sphere.—I am a plain man,
Sir, as you see, continues he, and to be sure would do every thing for
the best for my daughter, and no doubt should like very well to see
my daughter made a gentle-woman of; but then, adds he, how it that
to be? that’s the question—for my part I don’t see now a days that
gentlemen let ’em have ever so good a fortune, are willing to take a
girl for love alone—no offence I hope to you, Sir,—By no means Sir,
replied the captain, I assure you, Sir, I esteem your sentiments; and
though love is the chief ingredient in a happy marriage, yet to make
it quite compleat, a little fortune is necessary.—Now I rather think,
says Mr. Sirloin, as times go, that _fortune_ is looked upon as the
_chief ingredient_—you’ll excuse me, Sir, I am a blunt man—Pray, Sir,
make no apology, replied the captain.—Well, Sir, says Mr. Sirloin,
let us now enter upon the business we met upon.—You say you have a
regard for my daughter, I suppose you mean love. I do, Sir, answered
the captain.—You are an officer, Sir, my daughter tells me.—Yes,
Sir, returned the captain, but, to deal ingenuously with you, I am
only a younger brother, therefore I can’t boast of any great fortune,
a thousand pounds or so, besides my commission,—with which, continues
he, I am capable of appearing as a gentleman, and hope I have always
acted as such.—A thousand pound, says Mr. Sirloin, is a great deal
of money in my opinion; I don’t know what you may think of it: as for
your commission, says he, that’s quite out of my way, and therefore I
know nothing of it; and now, Sir, continues he, as you have told me who
you are, it is but fair that I should tell you who I am.—I am, adds
he, a butcher by trade, and by industry and frugality, I make shift
to maintain myself and family with what I call credit, for I make it a
rule, never to bespeak any thing for myself or any of my family, but
what I know I can afford, nor let any thing be wore, or made use of,
till I have paid for it.—I pay my landlord his rent every quarter
day, and I don’t owe any man a shilling in the world, and so now, Sir,
if you like me for a father-in-law, without farther ceremony here’s
my hand,—and done’s the word. This close way of doing business, says
Sable, I found disconcerted my martial conductor, who evaded closing
with the proposal, saying such a thing as marriage, required a little
more consideration than a bet at a cock-match or a horse-race.—Why
look you, Sir, says Mr. Sirloin, this is my way of doing business; if
I see a bullock in the market, which I think is for my purpose, I go
and examine him, and if I find that he’ll do, I enquire his price,
and if its about the mark, I bid money for him, and if my money is
accepted, I have the beast; but if not, we part, and there’s no harm
done, you know; now apply that, Sir.—Well, Sir, returned the captain,
to make a matter of trade of this affair, as I profess a regard for
your daughter, if you will give me a fortune with her I will marry her,
notwithstanding the disgrace it will be to my family.—Fortune, Sir!
says Mr. Sirloin, what fortune do you expect me to give? I suppose,
Sir, says the captain, you intend to give her a fortune equal to her
education and appearance in the world.—As for her education and
appearance in the world, says Mr. Sirloin, I have told you how that
came about, and that it was not my fault, and now I’ll tell you what
I’ll give you with her: I’ll spend a few guineas in a wedding dinner
with all my heart; but as for fortune, I assure you I have none to
give.—You certainly are in jest, Sir, says the captain, as you have
educated and drest your daughter in the character of a lady of fortune.
Zounds, Sir, says Mr. Sirloin, I tell you my wife has had the whole
management of her, and that it is not my fault.—This very thing, adds
he, have I told my wife over and over: for, says I, what tradesman
do you think will have her, as she will to be sure expect to live in
the manner she has been brought up, and if she does not, says I, then
she will be unhappy; and what tradesman is there, says I, that can
afford, or if he could, wou’d think it proper, to keep her like a lady?
and what gentleman, says I, will take a butcher’s daughter without a
farthing, only because the girl, says I, has a notion of dress and
politeness, as they call it? so that, says I, the girl will be brought
up to be fit for nothing, and in the end, says I, turn whore; but it
signified nothing; for my wife said her daughter should be brought up
and drest as well as Mr. Spigot, the ale-house-man’s daughter, who was
no better than she was, and that something might happen.
Here Mr. Sirloin was interrupted by the sudden entrance of the wife
of his bosom, who was followed by Miss Sirloin, as I soon found her
to be.—The slayer of oxen was at once astonished and intimidated on
seeing his wife; Mr. Sirloin, says the lady, on her entrance, I am
surprized at your impolitic behaviour. I have heard every word you
have said, and any one would imagine you had no more sense that the
_beasts_ you kill, to tell a gentleman the circumstances of your family
in the manner you have, Mr. Sirloin is a monstrous thing.—Mr. Sirloin
declared he had said nothing but the truth, and added that listeners
seldom heard any good of themselves. Mrs. Sirloin returned, that he
was a poor mean spirited wretch, and had not a grain of ambition in
him. Mr. Sirloin replied, he believed it might be better, if some folks
had less, and for his part he did not see what business people in
his sphere had to do with ambition; for, says he, they are generally
getting into some scrape or another.
Miss, during the altercation betwixt her _Papa and Mama_, had drawn
near the captain, who took very little notice of her: Mrs. Sirloin
now addressed herself to the captain, and told him, she hoped he would
excuse Mr. Sirloin’s want of politeness, and assured him, that though
it was true, her daughter was not the largest fortune in the parish,
neither was she the least, adding, that as Suky was their only child,
she would be entitled to every farthing that would be left on their
deaths, and which she durst say would _amount to near a hundred pound_.
To be sure, continues she, if Mr. Sirloin was but a pushing man, he
might be able to leave her many hundreds.
Mr. Sirloin said, he understood the captain was in love with Susan,
and said he should think with that and the thousand pound he had,
they might live very happy. The captain replied, that it was true, he
had a great regard for Miss Sirloin, and that his fortune was about
a thousand pound; but that as he was of one of the best families in
Dorsetshire, it wou’d be a disgrace to it to marry into Mr. Sirloin’s
family, unless it was made up by a fortune; and that he had been told
Miss Sirloin wou’d be worth a thousand pound, and which by her dress,
and the company she kept, he thought could be no less. Mr. Sirloin
declared, that whoever said he cou’d give his daughter a thousand
pound was a _scandalous person_; as for her dress and company, do you,
speaking to his wife, answer for that.
The waiter now told Mr. Sirloin, a person would be glad to speak to
him, and on his going out, Mrs. Sirloin told the captain, that she
presumed his intentions had been honourable, and that his addresses
had not been made to her daughter altogether for the _lucre of gain_,
the captain protested his love was intirely disinterested; but that
he could not on account of his family, think of entering into an
alliance with Mr. Sirloin without a fortune.—Mr. Sirloin was now
returned, and rubbing his hands, asked if the captain was willing to
accept of his daughter or not; the captain strongly urged, that the
disgrace it would be to his family would not permit him to engage any
farther. Pray, Sir, says Mr. Sirloin, what is this great family you
talk so much of?—I am, answered the captain, of the family of the
_Fortune-hunters_, which is as ancient a one as any in the kingdom. Mr.
Sirloin asked him if he did not know one _John Trott_.—The captain
upon this appeared extremely confounded, but, stammer’d out he knew no
such person; upon this Mr. Sirloin rang the bell, and asked the waiter
if he knew that gentleman, pointing to the captain,—yes, replied the
waiter, very well, his name is John Trott; he was a footman to ’squire
——, and was discharged for some misdemeanors about half a year ago;
and speaking to the new-made captain, said; you know me very well,
Mr. Trott, don’t you? the captain replied, he never saw him before
to his knowledge.—Come, come, Mr. Trott, says the waiter don’t wink
at me, I’ll not see any body imposed upon, I know you very well. Mr.
Sirloin’s choler being now raised to the highest degree, he could not
contain himself any longer; but pulling off his wig and coat, told my
unfortunate companion, that though he had imposed upon him, he would
take no advantages of him but wou’d box him fairly; but the martial
hero declined the combat; upon which Mr. Sirloin, giving a loose
to his hands and feet together, employed them both so fast upon my
unluky comrade, that it was hard to determine which of them went the
fastest, and my passive conductor seemed resolved to see whether his
patience, or Mr. Sirloin’s strength would hold out the longest; and
Mr. Sirloin being a corpulent man, was at length obliged to give over
his labour for want of breath, and thereby the captain’s principle of
non-resistance, obtained a complete victory over the active vigour of
the enraged butcher.
Mr. Sirloin, having a little recovered himself from the fatigue the
violent exertion of his strength had occasioned, now turned to his
wife and daughter, and told the latter, that for the future she should
be under his direction, and bid her see that to-morrow, she appeared
in the shop as his daughter, with a coloured apron before her, and
dispose of those dangling things at her elbows or he’d burn ’em: the
two ladies having seen such manifest proofs of Mr. Sirloin’s prowess
were intimidated into silence, not even daring to exercise those
dreadful weapons their tongues, which were now for the first time, I
believed, subdued.
The captain during this had employed himself in wiping the dirt which
had been left by Mr. Sirloin’s shoes off him, every now and then saying
this was fine treatment for a _Gentleman_.
Mr. Sirloin now opened the door, and ordered the martial captain
to leave the room, who seemed very glad to obey him, Mr. Sirloin
complimenting him with two or three very handsome kicks at his
departure.
The fruits of this adventure, continued Sable, were pretty equally
divided betwixt me and my unfortunate associate, though I believe
the _marks_ of Mr. Sirloin’s favours, continued a considerable time
longer upon the unsuccessful captain than upon me, a circumstance which
instead of creating envy in me, proved rather a matter of consolation.
The address and deportment of this assumed military gentleman,
continued Sable, did not at first discover to me any thing that
resembled the gentility of an officer in the army, nor did his lodging
correspond with such a character, therefore I imagined he was only in
reality, like me a gentleman _pro tempore_.
The descendant of the ancient family of _Fortune-Hunters_,
continued Sable, having conducted me again to my former lodging in
Monmouth-Street, and a variety of brushes having been used upon me,
like a Hackney-horse after a day’s journey, I remained some time
without any remarkable adventure happening to me; at length, continued
Sable, a member of Comus’s court, but better known by the significant
appellation of a _Choice Spirit_, conducted me to a tavern in the
Strand, where I found a number of gentlemen, and the better sort of
tradesmen, assembled together, whom I soon learned were the members of
a society that met once a week, and that this was their anniversary
feast-day. It being in the morning, they were now met together to take
a walk, or to spend the time in some amusement, that might best conduce
to create an appetite, to enable them to do honour to the approaching
entertainment. My companion singled out one, who from his broad sleek
face, and rotundity of belly, seemed to have signalized himself at the
destruction of many a feast, and by the jocular speeches of several
of the members, together with his own expressions, boasting of his
excellence in the masticating way, I was fully confirmed that his being
so uncommonly well larded, was owing to his superior merit in the
science of eating.
My conductor proposed a walk to this gentleman, but he objected to
it, on account of the fatigue it would be to him, and that it might
disorder his stomach, which he declared was in excellent order, but
said he had no objection to take a little air up the river, and which
he fancied, with now and then a glass of wine and bitters, they might
carry with them, would strengthen his appetite; this proposal was
accepted by my comrade, and two other gentlemen agreed to accompany
them; accordingly at Somerset-stairs a boat was hired, and the watermen
ordered to row them up to Putney.
During our voyage this son of Comus regaled the worthy disciples of
Epicurus, with some gingerbread nuts he had brought with him, at first
he refused to eat any, fearing he said they would damp his appetite,
but my spark telling him, they were an excellent stomachic, and that
there was a particular ingredient in them that was an enemy to every
thing that clogged the stomach, he was prevailed upon to beguile the
time with feeding on the appetite-creating gingerbread, which he did
very plentifully, ever and anon diluting with a glass of wine and
bitters. The last speech of my companion, together with his taking the
nuts he himself ate, and those he gave the other two gentlemen, from
a different pocket than that out of which he regaled the well-larded
gentleman with, made me conclude the gingerbread _teemed_ with some
_jest_.
By the time we arrived at Putney, continued Sable, our fat companion
had emptied the pocket of my humorous conductor, of all the stomachic
gingerbread, declaring it was the best he had ever tasted. We landed
at Putney, where we staid only to get a fresh cargo of wine, and
them returned to the general rendezvous, where being arrived, and the
champion come within sight of the table, that was by this time prepared
ready for the guests, he said he believed he should make a very hearty
dinner, for that though he had eat a large quantity of some excellent
gingerbread nuts, yet he felt a kind of a gnawing in his stomach. Soon
the feast was ushered in, and my companion guessing that it would not
be long before the _mine sprung_, prudently retired to another part of
the table to avoid the _explosion_.
The company being all seated, each helped himself to what he chose,
and presently casting my eyes upon our companion and gingerbread-eater,
I saw him labouring most furiously to bring down a pyramid of turbot
he had raised upon his plate, at every other mouthful drinking a small
glass of wine, saying, by that means he should be able to eat as much
again; having accomplished the destruction of the first plate full, he
had again heaped it to its former size, and by a vigorous attack, again
threatened its downfall; but now the gingerbread I suppose, began to
operate, for before he had destroyed one quarter of the plate full, he
began to make strange faces, and twined his body about, as if he sat
upon something that made him uneasy, which he continued for several
minutes, at length a noise was heard to issue from his bowels, like
the sound of distant thunder, and immediately starting from his chair,
with great haste left the room, and so precipitate was his flight,
that by his hasty rising, he overthrew one of his next neighbours,
who endeavouring to save himself, pulled down a large bason of oyster
sauce, that stood before him, which first falling upon his face, from
thence had formed a rivulet down a crimson sattin waistcoat he had on.
By the time this unfortunate gentleman had wiped himself, Mr. Feastlove
(that being the fat gentleman’s name) was returned, and having asked
pardon of the company in general for his abrupt departure, and the
gentleman whom he had thrown down in particular, for the damage done
to him, he again sat down, declaring he was never taken so in all his
life.—A clean plate being brought him, he once more fill’d it with
turbot, and having drank two glasses of wine, began to give evident
tokens of a perfect recovery, but by the time he had disposed of half
of it, his countenance began to wax pale, and the contortions of his
body declared he sat very uneasy, and the rumbling noise in his bowels
soon after alarmed the company, and seemed to be the signal for a
second flight, upon which the gentlemen who sat on each side of him
moved as far from him as they could, lest in his retreat, he might
again overturn one of them; however, he yet continued upon his chair
frowning and eating; after drinking a glass of wine, the noise in his
bowels increased, but yet he was loath to leave the feast, though he
had laid down his knife and fork and sat grinning horridly upon his
chair, with his hands upon each knee, as if he had really been in an
action not decent to be mentioned; but fearing, I suppose, that worse
would ensue, he angrily rose from his chair, and once more hasted out
of the room, cursing and wondering as he went what could be the matter
with him.