WHICH SEVERAL GREAT LITERARY CHARACTERS MAKE THEIR APPEARANCE.
“We must begin, my dear madam,” said Sir George Thrum, “by unlearning
all that Mr. Baroski (of whom I do not wish to speak with the slightest
disrespect) has taught you!”
Morgiana knew that every professor says as much, and submitted to
undergo the study requisite for Sir George's system with perfect good
grace. Au fond, as I was given to understand, the methods of the two
artists were pretty similar; but as there was rivalry between them, and
continual desertion of scholars from one school to another, it was
fair for each to take all the credit he could get in the success of
any pupil. If a pupil failed, for instance, Thrum would say Baroski had
spoiled her irretrievably; while the German would regret “Dat dat yong
voman, who had a good organ, should have trown away her dime wid dat old
Drum.” When one of these deserters succeeded, “Yes, yes,” would either
professor cry, “I formed her; she owes her fortune to me.” Both of them
thus, in future days, claimed the education of the famous Ravenswing;
and even Sir George Thrum, though he wished to ecraser the Ligonier,
pretended that her present success was his work because once she had
been brought by her mother, Mrs. Larkins, to sing for Sir George's
approval.
When the two professors met it was with the most delighted cordiality
on the part of both. “Mein lieber Herr,” Thrum would say (with some
malice), “your sonata in x flat is divine.” “Chevalier,” Baroski would
reply, “dat andante movement in w is worthy of Beethoven. I gif you
my sacred honour,” and so forth. In fact, they loved each other as
gentlemen in their profession always do.
The two famous professors conduct their academies on very opposite
principles. Baroski writes ballet music; Thrum, on the contrary, says
“he cannot but deplore the dangerous fascinations of the dance,” and
writes more for Exeter Hall and Birmingham. While Baroski drives a cab
in the Park with a very suspicious Mademoiselle Leocadie, or Amenaide,
by his side, you may see Thrum walking to evening church with his lady,
and hymns are sung there of his own composition. He belongs to the
“Athenaeum Club,” he goes to the Levee once a year, he does
everything that a respectable man should; and if, by the means of this
respectability, he manages to make his little trade far more profitable
than it otherwise would be, are we to quarrel with him for it?
Sir George, in fact, had every reason to be respectable. He had been a
choir-boy at Windsor, had played to the old King's violoncello, had
been intimate with him, and had received knighthood at the hand of his
revered sovereign. He had a snuff-box which His Majesty gave him, and
portraits of him and the young princes all over the house. He had also
a foreign order (no other, indeed, than the Elephant and Castle of
Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel), conferred upon him by the Grand Duke when
here with the allied sovereigns in 1814. With this ribbon round his
neck, on gala days, and in a white waistcoat, the old gentleman looked
splendid as he moved along in a blue coat with the Windsor button, and
neat black small-clothes, and silk stockings. He lived in an old tall
dingy house, furnished in the reign of George III., his beloved master,
and not much more cheerful now than a family vault. They are awfully
funereal, those ornaments of the close of the last century--tall gloomy
horse-hair chairs, mouldy Turkey carpets with wretched druggets to guard
them, little cracked sticking-plaster miniatures of people in tours and
pigtails over high-shouldered mantelpieces, two dismal urns on each side
of a lanky sideboard, and in the midst a queer twisted receptacle
for worn-out knives with green handles. Under the sideboard stands a
cellaret that looks as if it held half a bottle of currant wine, and
a shivering plate-warmer that never could get any comfort out of the
wretched old cramped grate yonder. Don't you know in such houses the
grey gloom that hangs over the stairs, the dull-coloured old carpet that
winds its way up the same, growing thinner, duller, and more threadbare
as it mounts to the bedroom floors? There is something awful in the
bedroom of a respectable old couple of sixty-five. Think of the old
feathers, turbans, bugles, petticoats, pomatum-pots, spencers, white
satin shoes, false fronts, the old flaccid boneless stays tied up in
faded riband, the dusky fans, the old forty-years-old baby linen, the
letters of Sir George when he was young, the doll of poor Maria who died
in 1803, Frederick's first corduroy breeches, and the newspaper which
contains the account of his distinguishing himself at the siege of
Seringapatam. All these lie somewhere, damp and squeezed down into glum
old presses and wardrobes. At that glass the wife has sat many times
these fifty years; in that old morocco bed her children were born. Where
are they now? Fred the brave captain, and Charles the saucy colleger:
there hangs a drawing of him done by Mr. Beechey, and that sketch by
Cosway was the very likeness of Louisa before--
“Mr. Fitz-Boodle! for Heaven's sake come down. What are you doing in a
lady's bedroom?”
“The fact is, madam, I had no business there in life; but, having had
quite enough wine with Sir George, my thoughts had wandered upstairs
into the sanctuary of female excellence, where your Ladyship nightly
reposes. You do not sleep so well now as in old days, though there is no
patter of little steps to wake you overhead.”
They call that room the nursery still, and the little wicket still hangs
at the upper stairs: it has been there for forty years--bon Dieu! Can't
you see the ghosts of little faces peering over it? I wonder whether
they get up in the night as the moonlight shines into the blank vacant
old room, and play there solemnly with little ghostly horses, and the
spirits of dolls, and tops that turn and turn but don't hum.
Once more, sir, come down to the lower storey--that is to the Morgiana
story--with which the above sentences have no more to do than this
morning's leading article in The Times; only it was at this house of
Sir George Thrum's that I met Morgiana. Sir George, in old days, had
instructed some of the female members of our family, and I recollect
cutting my fingers as a child with one of those attenuated green-handled
knives in the queer box yonder.
In those days Sir George Thrum was the first great musical teacher
of London, and the royal patronage brought him a great number of
fashionable pupils, of whom Lady Fitz-Boodle was one. It was a long long
time ago: in fact, Sir George Thrum was old enough to remember persons
who had been present at Mr. Braham's first appearance, and the old
gentleman's days of triumph had been those of Billington and Incledon,
Catalani and Madame Storace.
He was the author of several operas (“The Camel Driver,” “Britons
Alarmed; or, the Siege of Bergen-op-Zoom,” etc. etc.), and, of course,
of songs which had considerable success in their day, but are forgotten
now, and are as much faded and out of fashion as those old carpets which
we have described in the professor's house, and which were, doubtless,
very brilliant once. But such is the fate of carpets, of flowers, of
music, of men, and of the most admirable novels--even this story will
not be alive for many centuries. Well, well, why struggle against Fate?
But, though his heyday of fashion was gone, Sir George still held his
place among the musicians of the old school, conducted occasionally
at the Ancient Concerts and the Philharmonic, and his glees are
still favourites after public dinners, and are sung by those old
bacchanalians, in chestnut wigs, who attend for the purpose of amusing
the guests on such occasions of festivity. The great old people at
the gloomy old concerts before mentioned always pay Sir George marked
respect; and, indeed, from the old gentleman's peculiar behaviour to his
superiors, it is impossible they should not be delighted with him, so he
leads at almost every one of the concerts in the old-fashioned houses in
town.
Becomingly obsequious to his superiors, he is with the rest of the world
properly majestic, and has obtained no small success by his admirable
and undeviating respectability. Respectability has been his great card
through life; ladies can trust their daughters at Sir George Thrum's
academy. “A good musician, madam,” says he to the mother of a new pupil,
“should not only have a fine ear, a good voice, and an indomitable
industry, but, above all, a faultless character--faultless, that is, as
far as our poor nature will permit. And you will remark that those young
persons with whom your lovely daughter, Miss Smith, will pursue her
musical studies, are all, in a moral point of view, as spotless as that
charming young lady. How should it be otherwise? I have been myself the
father of a family; I have been honoured with the intimacy of the wisest
and best of kings, my late sovereign George III., and I can proudly show
an example of decorum to my pupils in my Sophia. Mrs. Smith, I have the
honour of introducing to you my Lady Thrum.”
The old lady would rise at this, and make a gigantic curtsey, such a
one as had begun the minuet at Ranelagh fifty years ago; and, the
introduction ended, Mrs. Smith would retire, after having seen the
portraits of the princes, his late Majesty's snuff-box, and a piece of
music which he used to play, noted by himself--Mrs. Smith, I say, would
drive back to Baker Street, delighted to think that her Frederica had
secured so eligible and respectable a master. I forgot to say that,
during the interview between Mrs. Smith and Sir George, the latter would
be called out of his study by his black servant, and my Lady Thrum would
take that opportunity of mentioning when he was knighted, and how he
got his foreign order, and deploring the sad condition of OTHER musical
professors, and the dreadful immorality which sometimes arose in
consequence of their laxness. Sir George was a good deal engaged to
dinners in the season, and if invited to dine with a nobleman, as he
might possibly be on the day when Mrs. Smith requested the honour of
his company, he would write back “that he should have had the sincerest
happiness in waiting upon Mrs. Smith in Baker Street, if, previously, my
Lord Tweedledale had not been so kind as to engage him.” This letter,
of course, shown by Mrs. Smith to her friends, was received by them with
proper respect; and thus, in spite of age and new fashions, Sir George
still reigned pre-eminent for a mile round Cavendish Square. By the
young pupils of the academy he was called Sir Charles Grandison;
and, indeed, fully deserved this title on account of the indomitable
respectability of his whole actions.
It was under this gentleman that Morgiana made her debut in public life.
I do not know what arrangements may have been made between Sir George
Thrum and his pupil regarding the profits which were to accrue to the
former from engagements procured by him for the latter; but there was,
no doubt, an understanding between them. For Sir George, respectable as
he was, had the reputation of being extremely clever at a bargain; and
Lady Thrum herself, in her great high-tragedy way, could purchase a pair
of soles or select a leg of mutton with the best housekeeper in London.
When, however, Morgiana had been for some six months under his tuition,
he began, for some reason or other, to be exceedingly hospitable, and
invited his friends to numerous entertainments: at one of which, as I
have said, I had the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Walker.
Although the worthy musician's dinners were not good, the old knight
had some excellent wine in his cellar, and his arrangement of his party
deserves to be commended.
For instance, he meets me and Bob Fitz-Urse in Pall Mall, at whose
paternal house he was also a visitor. “My dear young gentlemen,” says
he, “will you come and dine with a poor musical composer? I have some
Comet hock, and, what is more curious to you, perhaps, as men of wit,
one or two of the great literary characters of London whom you would
like to see--quite curiosities, my dear young friends.” And we agreed to
go.
To the literary men he says: “I have a little quiet party at home: Lord
Roundtowers, the Honourable Mr. Fitz-Urse of the Life Guards, and a few
more. Can you tear yourself away from the war of wits, and take a quiet
dinner with a few mere men about town?”
The literary men instantly purchase new satin stocks and white gloves,
and are delighted to fancy themselves members of the world of fashion.
Instead of inviting twelve Royal Academicians, or a dozen authors, or
a dozen men of science to dinner, as his Grace the Duke of ---- and the
Right Honourable Sir Robert ---- are in the habit of doing once a
year, this plan of fusion is the one they should adopt. Not invite all
artists, as they would invite all farmers to a rent dinner; but they
should have a proper commingling of artists and men of the world. There
is one of the latter whose name is George Savage Fitz-Boodle, who-- But
let us return to Sir George Thrum.
Fitz-Urse and I arrive at the dismal old house, and are conducted up the
staircase by a black servant, who shouts out, “Missa Fiss-Boodle--the
HONOURABLE Missa Fiss-Urse!” It was evident that Lady Thrum had
instructed the swarthy groom of the chambers (for there is nothing
particularly honourable in my friend Fitz's face that I know of, unless
an abominable squint may be said to be so). Lady Thrum, whose figure is
something like that of the shot-tower opposite Waterloo Bridge, makes a
majestic inclination and a speech to signify her pleasure at receiving
under her roof two of the children of Sir George's best pupils. A
lady in black velvet is seated by the old fireplace, with whom a stout
gentleman in an exceedingly light coat and ornamental waistcoat is
talking very busily. “The great star of the night,” whispers our host.
“Mrs. Walker, gentlemen--the RAVENSWING! She is talking to the famous
Mr. Slang, of the ---- Theatre.”
“Is she a fine singer?” says Fitz-Urse. “She's a very fine woman.”
“My dear young friends, you shall hear to-night! I, who have heard every
fine voice in Europe, confidently pledge my respectability that the
Ravenswing is equal to them all. She has the graces, sir, of a Venus
with the mind of a Muse. She is a siren, sir, without the dangerous
qualities of one. She is hallowed, sir, by her misfortunes as by her
genius; and I am proud to think that my instructions have been the means
of developing the wondrous qualities that were latent within her until
now.”
“You don't say so!” says gobemouche Fitz-Urse.
Having thus indoctrinated Mr. Fitz-Urse, Sir George takes another of his
guests, and proceeds to work upon him. “My dear Mr. Bludyer, how do you
do? Mr. Fitz-Boodle, Mr. Bludyer, the brilliant and accomplished
wit, whose sallies in the Tomahawk delight us every Saturday. Nay, no
blushes, my dear sir; you are very wicked, but oh! SO pleasant. Well,
Mr. Bludyer, I am glad to see you, sir, and hope you will have
a favourable opinion of our genius, sir. As I was saying to Mr.
Fitz-Boodle, she has the graces of a Venus with the mind of a Muse. She
is a siren, without the dangerous qualities of one,” etc. This
little speech was made to half-a-dozen persons in the course of the
evening--persons, for the most part, connected with the public journals
or the theatrical world. There was Mr. Squinny, the editor of the
Flowers of Fashion; Mr. Desmond Mulligan, the poet, and reporter for
a morning paper; and other worthies of their calling. For though
Sir George is a respectable man, and as high-minded and moral an old
gentleman as ever wore knee-buckles, he does not neglect the little arts
of popularity, and can condescend to receive very queer company if need
be.
For instance, at the dinner-party at which I had the honour of
assisting, and at which, on the right hand of Lady Thrum, sat the oblige
nobleman, whom the Thrums were a great deal too wise to omit (the sight
of a lord does good to us commoners, or why else should we be so anxious
to have one?). In the second place of honour, and on her ladyship's left
hand, sat Mr. Slang, the manager of one of the theatres; a gentleman
whom my Lady Thrum would scarcely, but for a great necessity's sake,
have been induced to invite to her table. He had the honour of leading
Mrs. Walker to dinner, who looked splendid in black velvet and turban,
full of health and smiles.
Lord Roundtowers is an old gentleman who has been at the theatres five
times a week for these fifty years, a living dictionary of the stage,
recollecting every actor and actress who has appeared upon it for half a
century. He perfectly well remembered Miss Delancy in Morgiana; he knew
what had become of Ali Baba, and how Cassim had left the stage, and was
now the keeper of a public-house. All this store of knowledge he
kept quietly to himself, or only delivered in confidence to his next
neighbour in the intervals of the banquet, which he enjoys prodigiously.
He lives at an hotel: if not invited to dine, eats a mutton-chop
very humbly at his club, and finishes his evening after the play at
Crockford's, whither he goes not for the sake of the play, but of the
supper there. He is described in the Court Guide as of “Simmer's Hotel,”
and of Roundtowers, county Cork. It is said that the round towers really
exist. But he has not been in Ireland since the rebellion; and his
property is so hampered with ancestral mortgages, and rent-charges, and
annuities, that his income is barely sufficient to provide the modest
mutton-chop before alluded to. He has, any time these fifty years, lived
in the wickedest company in London, and is, withal, as harmless, mild,
good-natured, innocent an old gentleman as can readily be seen.
“Roundy,” shouts the elegant Mr. Slang, across the table, with a voice
which makes Lady Thrum shudder, “Tuff, a glass of wine.”
My Lord replies meekly, “Mr. Slang, I shall have very much pleasure.
What shall it be?”
“There is Madeira near you, my Lord,” says my Lady, pointing to a tall
thin decanter of the fashion of the year.
“Madeira! Marsala, by Jove, your Ladyship means!” shouts Mr. Slang. “No,
no, old birds are not caught with chaff. Thrum, old boy, let's have some
of your Comet hock.”
“My Lady Thrum, I believe that IS Marsala,” says the knight, blushing a
little, in reply to a question from his Sophia. “Ajax, the hock to Mr.
Slang.”
“I'm in that,” yells Bludyer from the end of the table. “My Lord, I'll
join you.”
“Mr. ----, I beg your pardon--I shall be very happy to take wine with
you, sir.”
“It is Mr. Bludyer, the celebrated newspaper writer,” whispers Lady
Thrum.
“Bludyer, Bludyer? A very clever man, I dare say. He has a very loud
voice, and reminds me of Brett. Does your Ladyship remember Brett, who
played the 'Fathers' at the Haymarket in 1802?”
“What an old stupid Roundtowers is!” says Slang, archly, nudging Mrs.
Walker in the side. “How's Walker, eh?”
“My husband is in the country,” replied Mrs. Walker, hesitatingly.
“Gammon! _I_ know where he is! Law bless you!--don't blush. I've been
there myself a dozen times. We were talking about quod, Lady Thrum. Were
you ever in college?”
“I was at the Commemoration at Oxford in 1814, when the sovereigns were
there, and at Cambridge when Sir George received his degree of Doctor of
Music.”
“Laud, Laud, THAT'S not the college WE mean.”
“There is also the college in Gower Street, where my grandson--”
“This is the college in QUEER STREET, ma'am, haw, haw! Mulligan, you
divvle (in an Irish accent), a glass of wine with you. Wine, here, you
waiter! What's your name, you black nigger? 'Possum up a gum-tree, eh?
Fill him up. Dere he go” (imitating the Mandingo manner of speaking
English)
In this agreeable way would Mr. Slang rattle on, speedily making himself
the centre of the conversation, and addressing graceful familiarities to
all the gentlemen and ladies round him.
It was good to see how the little knight, the most moral and calm of
men, was compelled to receive Mr. Slang's stories and the frightened air
with which, at the conclusion of one of them, he would venture upon
a commendatory grin. His lady, on her part too, had been laboriously
civil; and, on the occasion on which I had the honour of meeting this
gentleman and Mrs. Walker, it was the latter who gave the signal for
withdrawing to the lady of the house, by saying, “I think, Lady Thrum,
it is quite time for us to retire.” Some exquisite joke of Mr. Slang's
was the cause of this abrupt disappearance. But, as they went upstairs
to the drawing-room, Lady Thrum took occasion to say, “My dear, in
the course of your profession you will have to submit to many such
familiarities on the part of persons of low breeding, such as I fear Mr.
Slang is. But let me caution you against giving way to your temper
as you did. Did you not perceive that _I_ never allowed him to see my
inward dissatisfaction? And I make it a particular point that you should
be very civil to him to-night. Your interests--our interests depend upon
it.”
“And are my interests to make me civil to a wretch like that?”
“Mrs. Walker, would you wish to give lessons in morality and behaviour
to Lady Thrum?” said the old lady, drawing herself up with great
dignity. It was evident that she had a very strong desire indeed to
conciliate Mr. Slang; and hence I have no doubt that Sir George was to
have a considerable share of Morgiana's earnings.
Mr. Bludyer, the famous editor of the Tomahawk, whose jokes Sir George
pretended to admire so much (Sir George who never made a joke in his
life), was a press bravo of considerable talent and no principle, and
who, to use his own words, would “back himself for a slashing article
against any man in England!” He would not only write, but fight on a
pinch; was a good scholar, and as savage in his manner as with his
pen. Mr. Squinny is of exactly the opposite school, as delicate as
milk-and-water, harmless in his habits, fond of the flute when the state
of his chest will allow him, a great practiser of waltzing and dancing
in general, and in his journal mildly malicious. He never goes beyond
the bounds of politeness, but manages to insinuate a great deal that is
disagreeable to an author in the course of twenty lines of criticism.
Personally he is quite respectable, and lives with two maiden aunts at
Brompton. Nobody, on the contrary, knows where Mr. Bludyer lives. He has
houses of call, mysterious taverns, where he may be found at particular
hours by those who need him, and where panting publishers are in the
habit of hunting him up. For a bottle of wine and a guinea he will write
a page of praise or abuse of any man living, or on any subject, or on
any line of politics. “Hang it, sir!” says he, “pay me enough and I will
write down my own father!” According to the state of his credit, he
is dressed either almost in rags or else in the extremest flush of the
fashion. With the latter attire he puts on a haughty and aristocratic
air, and would slap a duke on the shoulder. If there is one thing more
dangerous than to refuse to lend him a sum of money when he asks for it,
it is to lend it to him; for he never pays, and never pardons a man to
whom he owes. “Walker refused to cash a bill for me,” he had been heard
to say, “and I'll do for his wife when she comes out on the stage!” Mrs.
Walker and Sir George Thrum were in an agony about the Tomahawk; hence
the latter's invitation to Mr. Bludyer. Sir George was in a great tremor
about the Flowers of Fashion, hence his invitation to Mr. Squinny. Mr.
Squinny was introduced to Lord Roundtowers and Mr. Fitz-Urse as one of
the most delightful and talented of our young men of genius; and Fitz,
who believes everything anyone tells him, was quite pleased to have
the honour of sitting near the live editor of a paper. I have reason to
think that Mr. Squinny himself was no less delighted: I saw him giving
his card to Fitz-Urse at the end of the second course.
No particular attention was paid to Mr. Desmond Mulligan. Political
enthusiasm is his forte. He lives and writes in a rapture. He is,
of course, a member of an inn of court, and greatly addicted to
after-dinner speaking as a preparation for the bar, where as a young man
of genius he hopes one day to shine. He is almost the only man to whom
Bludyer is civil; for, if the latter will fight doggedly when there is
a necessity for so doing, the former fights like an Irishman, and has a
pleasure in it. He has been “on the ground” I don't know how many
times, and quitted his country on account of a quarrel with Government
regarding certain articles published by him in the Phoenix newspaper.
With the third bottle, he becomes overpoweringly great on the wrongs
of Ireland, and at that period generally volunteers a couple or more of
Irish melodies, selecting the most melancholy in the collection. At five
in the afternoon, you are sure to see him about the House of Commons,
and he knows the “Reform Club” (he calls it the Refawrum) as well as if
he were a member. It is curious for the contemplative mind to mark those
mysterious hangers-on of Irish members of Parliament--strange runners
and aides-de-camp which all the honourable gentlemen appear to possess.
Desmond, in his political capacity, is one of these, and besides his
calling as reporter to a newspaper, is “our well-informed correspondent”
of that famous Munster paper, the Green Flag of Skibbereen.
With Mr. Mulligan's qualities and history I only became subsequently
acquainted. On the present evening he made but a brief stay at the
dinner-table, being compelled by his professional duties to attend the
House of Commons.
The above formed the party with whom I had the honour to dine. What
other repasts Sir George Thrum may have given, what assemblies of men
of mere science he may have invited to give their opinion regarding his
prodigy, what other editors of papers he may have pacified or rendered
favourable, who knows? On the present occasion, we did not quit the
dinner-table until Mr. Slang the manager was considerably excited
by wine, and music had been heard for some time in the drawing-room
overhead during our absence. An addition had been made to the Thrum
party by the arrival of several persons to spend the evening,--a man to
play on the violin between the singing, a youth to play on the piano,
Miss Horsman to sing with Mrs. Walker, and other scientific characters.
In a corner sat a red-faced old lady, of whom the mistress of the
mansion took little notice; and a gentleman with a royal button, who
blushed and looked exceedingly modest.
“Hang me!” says Mr. Bludyer, who had perfectly good reasons for
recognising Mr Woolsey, and who on this day chose to assume his
aristocratic air; “there's a tailor in the room! What do they mean by
asking ME to meet tradesmen?”
“Delancy, my dear,” cries Slang, entering the room with a reel, “how's
your precious health? Give us your hand! When ARE we to be married? Make
room for me on the sofa, that's a duck!”
“Get along, Slang,” says Mrs. Crump, addressed by the manager by her
maiden name (artists generally drop the title of honour which people
adopt in the world, and call each other by their simple surnames)--“get
along, Slang, or I'll tell Mrs. S.!” The enterprising manager replies by
sportively striking Mrs. Crump on the side a blow which causes a great
giggle from the lady insulted, and a most good-humoured threat to box
Slang's ears. I fear very much that Morgiana's mother thought Mr. Slang
an exceedingly gentlemanlike and agreeable person; besides, she was
eager to have his good opinion of Mrs. Walker's singing.
The manager stretched himself out with much gracefulness on the sofa,
supporting two little dumpy legs encased in varnished boots on a chair.
“Ajax, some tea to Mr. Slang,” said my Lady, looking towards that
gentleman with a countenance expressive of some alarm, I thought.
“That's right, Ajax, my black prince!” exclaimed Slang when the negro
brought the required refreshment; “and now I suppose you'll be wanted in
the orchestra yonder. Don't Ajax play the cymbals, Sir George?”
“Ha, ha, ha! very good--capital!” answered the knight, exceedingly
frightened; “but ours is not a MILITARY band. Miss Horsman, Mr. Craw,
my dear Mrs. Ravenswing, shall we begin the trio? Silence, gentlemen, if
you please; it is a little piece from my opera of the 'Brigand's Bride.'
Miss Horsman takes the Page's part, Mr. Craw is Stiletto the Brigand, my
accomplished pupil is the Bride;” and the music began.
“THE BRIDE.
“My heart with joy is beating,
My eyes with tears are dim;
“THE PAGE.
“Her heart with joy is beating
Her eyes are fixed on him;
“THE BRIGAND.
“My heart with rage is beating,
In blood my eye-balls swim!”
What may have been the merits of the music or the singing, I, of course,
cannot guess. Lady Thrum sat opposite the tea-cups, nodding her head
and beating time very gravely. Lord Roundtowers, by her side, nodded his
head too, for awhile, and then fell asleep. I should have done the same
but for the manager, whose actions were worth of remark. He sang with
all the three singers, and a great deal louder than any of them; he
shouted bravo! or hissed as he thought proper; he criticised all the
points of Mrs. Walker's person. “She'll do, Crump, she'll do--a splendid
arm--you'll see her eyes in the shilling gallery! What sort of a
foot has she? She's five feet three, if she's an inch! Bravo--slap
up--capital--hurrah!” And he concluded by saying, with the aid of the
Ravenswing, he would put Ligonier's nose out of Joint!
The enthusiasm of Mr. Slang almost reconciled Lady Thrum to the
abruptness of his manners, and even caused Sir George to forget that
his chorus had been interrupted by the obstreperous familiarity of the
manager.
“And what do YOU think, Mr. Bludyer,” said the tailor, delighted that
his protegee should be thus winning all hearts: “isn't Mrs. Walker a
tip-top singer, eh, sir?”
“I think she's a very bad one, Mr. Woolsey,” said the illustrious
author, wishing to abbreviate all communications with a tailor to whom
he owed forty pounds.
“Then, sir,” says Mr. Woolsey, fiercely, “I'll--I'll thank you to pay me
my little bill!”
It is true there was no connection between Mrs. Walker's singing and
Woolsey's little bill; that the “THEN, sir,” was perfectly illogical on
Woolsey's part; but it was a very happy hit for the future fortunes of
Mrs. Walker. Who knows what would have come of her debut but for that
“Then, sir,” and whether a “smashing article” from the Tomahawk might
not have ruined her for ever?
“Are you a relation of Mrs. Walker's?” said Mr. Bludyer, in reply to the
angry tailor.
“What's that to you, whether I am or not?” replied Woolsey, fiercely.
“But I'm the friend of Mrs. Walker, sir; proud am I to say so, sir; and,
as the poet says, sir, 'a little learning's a dangerous thing,' sir;
and I think a man who don't pay his bills may keep his tongue quiet at
least, sir, and not abuse a lady, sir, whom everybody else praises,
sir. You shan't humbug ME any more, sir; you shall hear from my attorney
to-morrow, so mark that!”
“Hush, my dear Mr. Woolsey,” cried the literary man, “don't make a
noise; come into this window: is Mrs. Walker REALLY a friend of yours?”
“I've told you so, sir.”
“Well, in that case, I shall do my utmost to serve her and, look you,
Woolsey, any article you choose to send about her to the Tomahawk I
promise you I'll put in.”
“WILL you, though? then we'll say nothing about the little bill.”
“You may do on that point,” answered Bludyer, haughtily, “exactly as
you please. I am not to be frightened from my duty, mind that; and mind,
too, that I can write a slashing article better than any man in England:
I could crush her by ten lines.”
The tables were now turned, and it was Woolsey's turn to be alarmed.
“Pooh! pooh! I WAS angry,” said he, “because you abuse Mrs. Walker,
who's an angel on earth; but I'm very willing to apologise. I
say--come--let me take your measure for some new clothes, eh! Mr. B.?”
“I'll come to your shop,” answered the literary man, quite appeased.
“Silence! they're beginning another song.”
The songs, which I don't attempt to describe (and, upon my word and
honour, as far as I can understand matters, I believe to this day that
Mrs. Walker was only an ordinary singer)--the songs lasted a great deal
longer than I liked; but I was nailed, as it were, to the spot, having
agreed to sup at Knightsbridge barracks with Fitz-Urse, whose carriage
was ordered at eleven o'clock.
“My dear Mr. Fitz-Boodle,” said our old host to me, “you can do me the
greatest service in the world.”
“Speak, sir!” said I.
“Will you ask your honourable and gallant friend, the Captain, to drive
home Mr. Squinny to Brompton?”
“Can't Mr. Squinny get a cab?”
Sir George looked particularly arch. “Generalship, my dear young
friend--a little harmless generalship. Mr. Squinny will not give much
for MY opinion of my pupil, but he will value very highly the opinion of
the Honourable Mr. FitzUrse.”
For a moral man, was not the little knight a clever fellow? He had
bought Mr. Squinny for a dinner worth ten shillings, and for a ride in
a carriage with a lord's son. Squinny was carried to Brompton, and set
down at his aunts' door, delighted with his new friends, and exceedingly
sick with a cigar they had made him smoke.