A CITY MAN.--SMITHFIELD SCENES.
George Montague was a tall, good-looking young man of about three or
four-and-twenty. His hair and eyes were black, his complexion rather
dark, and his features perfectly regular.
His manners were certainly polished and agreeable; but there was,
nevertheless, a something reserved and mysterious about him--an anxiety
to avert the conversation from any topic connected with himself--a
studied desire to flatter and gain the good opinions of those about him,
by means of compliments at times servile--and an occasional betrayal of
a belief in a code of morals not altogether consistent with the
well-being of society, which constituted features in his character by
no means calculated to render him a favourite with all classes of
persons. He was, however, well-informed upon most topics; ambitious of
creating a sensation in the world, no matter by what means; resolute in
his pursuit after wealth, and careless whether the paths leading to the
objects which he sought were tortuous or straightforward. He was
addicted to pleasure, but never permitted it to interfere with his
business or mar his schemes. _Love_ with him was merely the blandishment
of beauty; and _friendship_ was simply that bond which connected him
with those individuals who were necessary to him. He was utterly and
completely selfish; but he was somehow or another possessed of
sufficient tact to conceal most of his faults--of the existence of which
he was well aware. The consequence was that he was usually welcomed as
an agreeable companion; some even went so far as to assert that he was a
"devilish good fellow;" and all admitted that he was a thorough man of
the world. He must have commenced his initiation early, thus to have
acquired such a character ere he had completed his four-and-twentieth
year!
London abounds with such precocious specimens of thorough heartlessness
and worldly-mindedness. The universities and great public schools let
loose upon society every half-year a cloud of young men, who think only
how soon they can spend their own property in order to prey upon that of
others. These are your "young men _about_ town:" as they grow older they
become "men _upon_ the town." In their former capacity they graduate in
all the degrees of vice, dissipation, extravagance, and debauchery; and
in the latter they become the tutors of the novices who are entering in
their turn upon the road to ruin. The transition from the young man
about town to the man upon the town is as natural as that of a chrysalis
to a butterfly. These men _upon_ the town constitute as pestilential a
section of male society as the women _of_ the town do of the female
portion of the community. They are alike the reptiles produced by the
great moral dung-heap.
We cannot, however, exactly class Mr. George Montague with the men upon
the town in the true meaning of the phrase, inasmuch as he devoted his
attention to commercial speculations of all kinds and under all shapes,
and his sphere was chiefly the City; whereas men upon the town seldom
entertain an idea half "so vulgar" as mercantile pursuits, and never
visit the domains of the Lord Mayor save when they want to get a bill
discounted, or to obtain cash for a check of too large an amount to be
entrusted to any of their high-born and aristocratic companions.
Mr. George Montague was, therefore, one of that multitudinous class
called "City men," who possess no regular offices, but have their
letters addressed to the Auction Mart or Garraway's, and who make their
appointments at such places as "the front of the Bank," "the
Custom-house Wharf," and "under the clock at the Docks."
City men are very extraordinary characters. They all know "a certain
speculation that would make a sure fortune, if one had but the capital
to work upon;" they never fail to observe, while making this assertion,
that they _could_ apply to a friend if they chose, but that they do not
choose to lay themselves under the obligation; and they invariably
affirm that nothing is more easy than to make a fortune in the City,
although the greater portion of them remain without that happy
consummation until the day of their deaths. Now and then, however, one
of these City men _does_ succeed in "making a hit" by some means or
other; and then his old friends, the very men who are constantly
enunciating the opinion relative to the facility with which fortunes are
obtained in the City, look knowing, wink at each other, and declare
"that it never could have been done unless he'd had somebody with plenty
of money to back him."
Now Mr. Montague was one of those who adopted a better system of logic
than the vulgar reasoning. He knew that there was but little merit in
producing bread from flour, for instance; but he perceived that there
was immense credit due to those who could produce their bread without
any flour at all. Upon this principle he acted, and his plan was not
unattended with success. He scorned the idea "that money was necessary
to beget money;" he began his "City career," as he sometimes observed,
without a farthing; and he was seldom without gold in his pocket.
No one knew where he lived. He was sometimes seen getting into a Hackney
omnibus at the Flower Pot, a Camberwell one at the Cross Keys; or
running furiously after a Hammersmith one along Cheapside; but as these
directions were very opposite, it was difficult to deduce from them any
idea of his domiciliary whereabouts.
He was young to be a City man; the class does not often include members
under thirty; but of course there are exceptions to all rules; and Mr.
George Montague was one.
He was then a City man: but if the reader be anxious to know what sort
of _business_ he transacted to obtain his living; whether he dabbled in
the funds, sold wines upon commission, effected loans and discounts,
speculated in shares, got up joint-stock companies, shipped goods to the
colonies, purchased land in Australia at eighteen-pence an acre and sold
it again at one-and-nine, conducted compromises for insolvent tradesmen,
made out the accounts of bankrupts, arbitrated between partners who
disagreed, or bought in things in a friendly way at public sales;
whether he followed any of these pursuits, or meddled a little with them
all, we can no more satisfy our readers than if we attempted the
biography of the Man in the Moon.--all we can say is, that he was
invariably in the City from eleven to four; that he usually had "an
excellent thing in hand just at that moment;" and, in a word, that he
belonged to the class denominated _City Men_!
We have taken some pains to describe this gentleman; for reasons which
will appear hereafter.
Having been duly introduced to Walter Sydney by Mr. Stephens, and after
a few observations of a general nature, Mr. Montague glided almost
imperceptibly into topics upon which he conversed with ease and fluency.
Presently a pause ensued; and Mr. Stephens enquired "if there were
anything new in the City?"
"Nothing particular," answered Montague. "I have not of course been in
town this morning; but I was not away till late last night. I had a
splendid thing in hand, which I succeeded in bringing to a favourable
termination. By-the-by, there was a rumour on 'Change yesterday
afternoon, just before the close, that Alderman Dumkins is all wrong."
"Indeed," said Stephens; "I thought he was wealthy."
"Oh! no; _I_ knew the contrary eighteen months ago! It appears he has
been starting a joint-stock company to work the Ercalat tin-mines in
Cornwall----"
"And I suppose the mines do not really exist?"
"Oh! yes; they do--upon his maps! However, he has been exhibiting
certain specimens of tin, which he has passed off as Ercalat produce;
and it is now pretty generally known that the article was supplied him
by a house in Aldgate."
"Then he will be compelled to resign his gown?"
"Not he! On the contrary, he stands next in rotation for the honours of
the civic chair; and he intends to go boldly forward as if nothing had
happened. You must remember that the aldermen of the City of London have
degenerated considerably in respectability during late years; and that
none of the really influential and wealthy men in the City will have
anything to do with the corporation affairs. You do not see any great
banker nor merchant wearing the aldermanic gown. The only alderman who
really possessed what may be called a large fortune, and whose pecuniary
position was above all doubt, resigned his gown the other day in disgust
at the treatment which he received from his brother authorities, in
consequence of his connexion with the _Weekly Courier_--the only
newspaper that boldly, fearlessly, and effectually advocates the
people's cause."
"And Dumkins will not resign, you think?"
"Oh! decidedly not. But for my part," added Montague, "I feel convinced
that the sooner some change is made in the City administration the
better. Only conceive the immense sums which the corporation receives
from various sources, and the uses to which they are applied. Look at
the beastly guzzling at Guildhall, while there are in the very heart of
the City Augean stables of filth, crime, and debauchery to be
cleansed--witness Petticoat-lane, Smithfield----"
A species of groan or stifled exclamation of horror issued from the lips
of Walter as Montague uttered these words: her countenance grew deadly
pale, and her entire frame appeared to writhe under a most painful
reminiscence or emotion.
"Compose yourself, compose yourself," said Stephens, hastily. "Shall I
ring for a glass of water, or wine, or anything----"
"No, it is past," interrupted Walter Sydney; "but I never think of that
horrible--that appalling adventure without feeling my blood curdle in my
veins. The mere mention of the word Smithfield----"
"Could I have been indiscreet enough to give utterance to anything
calculated to annoy?" said Montague, who was surprised at this scene.
"You were not aware of the reminiscence you awoke in my mind by your
remark," answered Walter, smiling; "but were you acquainted with the
particulars of that fearful night, you would readily excuse my
weakness."
"You have excited Mr. Montague's curiosity," observed Stephens, "and you
have now nothing to do but to gratify it."
"It is an adventure of a most romantic kind--an adventure which you will
scarcely believe--and yet one that will make your hair stand on end."
"I am now most anxious to learn the details of this mysterious
occurrence," said Montague, scarcely knowing whether these remarks were
made in jest or earnest.
Walter Sydney appeared to reflect for a few moments; and then commenced
the narrative in the following manner:--
"It is now a little more than four years ago--very shortly after I first
arrived at this house--that I rode into town, attended by the same groom
who is in my service now. I knew little or nothing of the City, and felt
my curiosity awakened to view the emporium of the world's commerce. I
accordingly determined to indulge in a ramble by myself amidst the
streets and thoroughfares of a place of which such marvellous accounts
reach those who pass their youth in the country. I left the groom with
the horses at a livery-stable in Bishopsgate-street, with a promise to
return in the course of two or three hours. I then roved about to my
heart's content, and never gave the lapse of time a thought. Evening
came, and the weather grew threatening. Then commenced my perplexities.
I had forgotten the address of the stables where the groom awaited my
return; and I discovered the pleasing fact that I had lost my way just
at the moment when an awful storm seemed ready to break over the
metropolis. When I solicited information concerning the right path which
I should pursue, I was insulted by the low churls to whom I applied. To
be brief, I was overtaken by darkness and by the storm, in a place which
I have since ascertained to be Smithfield market. I could not have
conceived that so filthy and horrible a nuisance could have been allowed
to exist in the midst of a city of so much wealth. But, oh! the
revolting streets which branch off from that Smithfield. It seemed to me
that I was wandering amongst all the haunts of crime and appalling
penury of which I had read in romances, but which I never could have
believed to exist in the very heart of the metropolis of the world.
Civilisation appeared to me to have chosen particular places which it
condescended to visit, and to have passed others by without even leaving
a foot-print to denote its presence."
"But this horrible adventure?" said Montague.
"Oh! forgive my digression. Surrounded by darkness, exposed to the rage
of the storm, and actually sinking with fatigue, I took refuge in an old
house, which I am sure I could never find again; but which was situated
nearly at the end, and on the right-hand side of the way, of one of
those vile narrow streets branching off from Smithfield. That house was
the den of wild beasts in human shape! I was compelled to hear a
conversation of a most appalling nature between two ruffians, who made
that place the depôt for their plunder. They planned, amongst other
atrocious topics, the robbery of a country-seat, somewhere to the north
of Islington, and inhabited by a family of the name of Markham."
"Indeed! What--how strange!" ejaculated Montague: then immediately
afterwards, he added, "How singular that you should have overheard so
vile a scheme!"
"Oh! those villains," continued Walter, "were capable of crimes of a far
deeper dye! They discussed horror upon horror, till I thought that I
was going raving mad. I made a desperate attempt to escape, and was
perceived. What then immediately followed I know not, for I became
insensible: in a word, Mr. Montague, I fainted!"
A deep blush suffused her countenance, as she made this avowal--for it
seemed to have a direct relation to her sex; and she was well aware that
the secret connected therewith had been revealed by her benefactor to
George Montague. On his part, he gazed upon her with mingled interest
and admiration.
"I awoke to encounter a scene of horror," she continued, after a short
pause, "which you must fancy; but the full extent of which I cannot
depict. I can only _feel_ it even now. Those wretches were conveying me
to a room upon the ground-floor--a room to which the cells of the
Bastille or the Inquisition could have produced no equal. It had a
trap-door communicating with the Fleet Ditch! I begged for mercy--I
promised wealth--for I knew that my kind benefactor," she added,
glancing towards Mr. Stephens, "would have enabled me to fulfil my
pledge to them; but all was in vain. The murderers hurled me down the
dark and pestiferous hole!"
"Merciful heavens!" ejaculated Montague.
"It would appear that the house in question," proceeded Walter, "stood
upon the side of, and not over the Ditch. There can be, however, no
doubt that the trap-door was contrived for the horrible purpose of
disposing of those victims who fell into the merciless hands of the
occupants of the dwelling; for when I had fallen some distance, instead
of being immersed in black and filthy mud, I was caught upon a sloping
plank which shelved towards a large aperture in the wall of the Ditch. I
instinctively clung to this plank, and lay stretched upon it for some
moments until I had partially recovered my presence of mind. The
circumstance of having thus escaped a dreadful death gave me an amount
of courage at which I myself was astonished. At length I began to reason
whether it would be better to remain there until morning, and then
endeavour to reach the trap-door above my head, or to devise some means
of immediate escape. I decided upon the latter proceeding; for I
reflected that the morning would not afford light to that subterranean
hole to enable me to act with certainty; and I, moreover, dreaded the
extreme vengeance of those ruffians who had already given me a sample of
their brutality, should I happen to encounter them on emerging from the
trap-door. Lastly, I considered that it was also probable that I might
not succeed in raising the trap-door at all."
"What a fearful situation!" observed Montague.
"Horrible even to think of," added Stephens, who listened with the
deepest attention to this narrative, although he had heard it related on
former occasions.
"With my hands and legs I groped about," continued Walter, "and I
speedily ascertained my exact position with regard to the locality. My
feet were close to a large square aperture in the perpendicular wall
overhanging the Ditch; and the floor of the cellar was only a couple of
feet below the aperture. I accordingly got cautiously off the board, and
stood upon the damp ground. After the lapse of several minutes, during
which I nerved myself to adopt the idea that had struck me, I passed my
head through the aperture, and looked out over the Ditch. The stream
appeared rapid, to judge by its gurgling sound; and the stench that
exhaled from it was pestiferous in the extreme. Turning my head to the
left I saw hundreds of lights twinkling in the small narrow windows of
two lines of houses that overhung the Ditch. The storm had now
completely passed away--the rain had ceased--and the night was clear and
beautiful. In a few minutes I was perfectly acquainted with the entire
geography of the place. The means of escape were within my reach. About
three feet above the aperture through which I was now looking, a plank
crossed the Ditch; and on the opposite side--for the Ditch in that part
was not above two yards wide from wall to wall--was a narrow ledge
running along the side of the house facing the one in which I was, and
evidently communicating with some lane or street close by. I can
scarcely tell you how I contrived to creep through the aperture and
reach the plank overhead. Nevertheless, I attempted the dangerous feat,
and I accomplished it. I crossed the plank, and reached the ledge of
which I have spoken: it terminated in the very street where stood the
terrible den from which I had just so miraculously escaped. Indeed, I
emerged upon that street only at a distance of a few yards from the door
of that detestable place. To hurry away in a contrary direction was my
first and most natural impulse; but I had not proceeded far when the
door of a house was suddenly thrown violently open, and out poured a
crowd of men and women, among whom I was, as it were, immediately hemmed
in."
"What! another adventure?" exclaimed Montague.
"One calculated to inspire feelings of deep disgust, if not of alarm,"
answered Walter. "It appeared that two women had been quarreling and had
turned out to fight. They fell upon each other like wild cats, or as you
would fancy that tigers would fight. A clear and lovely moon lighted
this revolting scene. A circle was formed round the termagants, and for
ten minutes did they lacerate themselves with fists and nails in a
fearful manner. Their clothes were torn into ribands--their countenances
were horribly disfigured with scratches--the blood poured from their
noses--and their hair, hanging all dishevelled over their naked
shoulders, gave them a wild, ferocious, and savage appearance, such as I
never could have expected to encounter in the metropolis of the
civilised world."
"And in the very heart of the City," added Mr. Montague.
"Suddenly a cry of '_The Bluebottles!_' was raised, and the crowd,
belligerents and all, rushed pell-mell back again into the house. In
spite of all my endeavours to escape I was hurried in with that hideous
mob of ferocious-looking men and brazen-faced women. In a few moments I
found myself in a large room, in which there were at least thirty
wretched beds huddled close together, and so revoltingly dirty that the
cold pavement or a hedge-side would have seemed a more preferable couch.
And, oh! how can I describe the inmates of that den, many of whom were
crowding round a fire cooking provender, which filled the place with a
sickening and most fetid odour. There were young girls almost naked,
without shoes or stockings, and whose sunken checks, dimmed eyes, and
miserable attire contrasted strangely with their boisterous mirth. Some
of these unfortunate creatures, nevertheless, retained traces of
original beauty prematurely faded. The men were hatless and shoeless;
indeed the entire assembly consisted of males and females evidently of
the most wretched description. Scarcely had I time to cast a glance
around me when I was questioned as to how I came there? what I wanted?
and whether I meant to stand anything? 'I will tell you what it is,'
said one to his companions, 'he is a swell who is come to have a look at
these kind of cribs, and he must pay his footing.' I immediately
comprehended the nature of the impression which my presence had created,
and presented the individual who had spoken with a couple of
half-crowns. The sight of the money produced an immense feeling in my
favour. Heaven only knows how many gallons of beer were fetched from a
neighbouring public-house; and when the inmates of that lazar-house--for
I can scarcely call it anything else--had all partaken of the liquor, I
was overwhelmed with offers of service. One declared, that if I merely
came to see the neighbourhood he would take me round to every place in
the street; another assured me, that if I had committed a forgery or any
other 'genteel crime,' he would either help me to lie secure until the
matter had blown over, or to escape from the country; and so on. I
suffered the wretches to retain the impression that curiosity had alone
led me thither; and as soon as I had made this announcement the mistress
of the house was summoned to do the honours of the establishment. A
blear-eyed old crone made her appearance, and insisted upon showing me
over the house. 'These rooms,' said she, meaning the two upon the ground
floor, 'are for those who can afford to pay threepence for their bed and
who have supper to cook.' We then ascended to the first floor. 'These
are the four-penny beds,' said the old woman, pointing with pride and
satisfaction to some thirty or forty couches, a shade cleaner, and the
least thing further off from each other than those down stairs. The
rooms on the first floor were also filled with lodgers; and another
demand was made upon my purse. On the third floor and in the attics were
the most horrible scenes of wretchedness which I had yet beheld. Those
dens were filled with straw beds, separated from each other only by
pieces of plank about eight or ten inches in height. Men, women, and
children were all crowded together--sleeping pell-mell. Oh! it was a
horrible, horrible spectacle. To be brief, I escaped from that moral
plague-house; and in a few moments was traversing Smithfield once more.
Even the tainted air of that filthy enclosure was refreshing after the
foul atmosphere from which I had just emerged."
Louisa entered the room at this moment to announce that luncheon was
prepared in another apartment.
"And you never took any steps to root out that nest of villains in the
Old House whence you escaped alive so miraculously?" said Montague
sipping a glass of exquisite wine after his luncheon.
"I wrote two anonymous letters the very next morning," answered Walter:
"one to Mr. Markham, warning him of the contemplated burglar at his
house; and another to the Lord Mayor of London. It did not altogether
suit Mr. Stephens's plans----"
"No--not to make a fuss about an affair which would have been sure to
bring your name into notoriety," added this gentleman hastily.
"That adventure has no doubt given you a distaste for late rambles,"
said Montague.
"In the City--decidedly so," was the reply. "I seldom go into London,
early or late--I have so few inducements--so few acquaintances! By the
way, a few evenings ago I treated myself to a visit to the Opera, and
there accident threw me into conversation with a gentleman and lady who
sat in the same box as myself. The result was an invitation to the abode
of the lady--a Mrs. Arlington----"
"Mrs. Arlington," ejaculated Montague, a light flush animating his
countenance.
"The same. She is _the friend_ of Sir Rupert Harborough. I am anxious to
see something of the world now and then--and to avail myself of my
present garb for that purpose. I accordingly called upon Mrs. Arlington
last evening, and learnt 'a lesson of life.' I saw an elegant woman, a
baronet, a fashionable gentleman, and a very interesting young man,
associating with a vulgar wretch of the name, I believe, of Talbot,
whose manners would have disgraced a groom. I must, however, observe
that the interesting young gentleman to whom I allude did not seem to be
more pleased with the conversation and conduct of this vulgarian than
myself. One coincidence somewhat extraordinary occurred--that same
interesting young man was no other than Mr. Richard Markham, one of the
sons of----"
"Ah! indeed--how singular!" exclaimed George Montague, not waiting till
Walter finished his sentence; "very singular!" he added; then, having
tossed off a bumper of Madeira, he walked up to the window, where he
affected to inhale with delight the exquisite fragrance of the flowers
that adorned the casement.