_A Peep at a Tavern Concert.--Colin falls in love, parts with his money,
and gets into difficulties._
The entrance to the “saloon” of the Tavern where the Concert was to be
held lay through a dram-shop. As Colin and his companion passed the
bar, the latter familiarly recognised several shabby-genteel and
dissipated-looking young men, who stood there drinking gin-and-water,
and talking exquisite nonsense to a pretty-faced toy-like bar-maid,
whose principal recommendation with her master consisted in the
skill with which she contrived to lure and detain at the bar all such
simpletons as usually spent the greater portion of their spare time
amidst such scenes. By the side of the passage, and near the door of
the saloon, was pasted up a small paper, on which was the following
announcement: “On Sundays, sixpence, value given.”
The “value given” consisted of about a dozen spoonsful of either gin or
rum, with very hot water, to make it appear strong,--or of a pot of ale
or stout, at the discretion of the customer.
Very much to Colin's astonishment,--as well it might be, considering
that he had never before seen aught of the kind more extensive than a
country inn,--he was suddenly ushered by his companion into a “saloon,”
containing about from three to five hundred persons, arranged on forms
placed across the room, each form having before it a narrow raised
ledge, not unlike those sometimes seen in the pews of churches, on which
to lodge the respective pots, bottles, and glasses of the company. Down
the avenues, which ran longitudinally, for the convenience of passage,
certain individuals were calling shrimps, screwed up in conical white
packages of one penny each; while the perfume, if such it could be
called, from some scores of pipes and cigars, ascended in multitudinous
little clouds above the heads of the company, and covered as with a
filmy atmosphere the frescoed landscapes with which the walls above were
bountifully decorated. At the remote end of the room appeared a stage
and proscenium on a small scale, after the fashion of a Minor Theatre.
Shortly after Colin and his friend had taken their seats, a gentleman
commenced playing an overture upon an instrument which had been highly
admired there ever since its introduction, as it formed within itself
a magnificent combination of organ, piano, clarionet, and bagpipe, and
possessed besides the additional advantage of occasionally producing
tones at its own will and pleasure to which those of no other instrument
in the world might be compared, and of which no adequate conception
can be formed, unless the reader has enjoyed the exquisite delight of
hearing a “fantasia extempore” played on the hinges of some unoiled
door, as it gradually, and in varying time, declined from a wide open
position to the door-cheek.
As I have not the most distant intention of wearying either the reader
or myself with a detailed description of the night's entertainment, I
shall merely observe, that after the curtain drew up, a succession of
songs, comic, patriotic, and sentimental, was introduced, and sung by
various members of the professional company. Amongst these appeared
one, on seeing whom Wintlebury exclaimed to his companion, “That's my
sister!”
Colin looked. A beautiful-complexioned girl was on the
stage,--bright-eyed, lively, and attractively attired in the showy
costume of a theatrical Neapolitan maid. After a brief prelude on the
famous Orchestræolophonagpipe, she sung, apparently not without effort,
but with the most bewitching assumption of modesty telling its troubles
to the moon, a song the burden of which ran “_Too many lovers will
puzzle a maid!_”
“Encore!--encore!” enthusiastically cried a gentleman, who was sitting a
few seats in advance, as he clapped his hands madly together, and tossed
his legs at random under the seat before him, “admirable, bi'gar!--me
quite consent vith dat. Too many _is_ too much!”
“Hangcoor!” repeated a young sailor, considerably more than half-seas
over, as he unconsciously re-charged his pipe, as though he were ramming
down the wadding of a gun, “hangcoor!--Go it agen, Bess, or whatever
your name is. Hangcoor!”
This word, under a dozen different pronunciations, ran round the room,
while Miss Harriet Wintlebury made a profound courtesy, and proceeded to
repeat her song.
As Colin gazed, and gazed again, turned away his eyes, and as instantly
fixed them upon the same beautiful object again, his bosom burned, and
his cheeks grew flushed,--he felt as though in the presence of a being
whom he could think scarcely inferior to the angels--at least, he had
never in his life seen _woman_ as she is before. For what were the
simple beings under that name whom he had met in the out-of-the-way
country nook he had so recently left? What was his late mistress, Miss
Sowersoft?--what the maids on the farm?--what even Fanny herself?--mere
plain, dull, plodding, lifeless creatures of the feminine gender, and
nothing more. But this enchantress!--his heart leaped up, and in that
one moment he felt more of the deep yearning of love than ever in the
course of his whole life he had felt before.
“Let us go nearer,” he whispered to his companion; and in the next
minute they were forcing their way down one of the passages between the
forms towards the other end of the room. Before they had succeeded in
obtaining a seat on the last form, close under the stage-lamps, Miss
Harriet had concluded her melody, and retired amidst considerable
applause. Until the period of her reappearance the time occupied by
other performers seemed to Colin endless. Under other circumstances, the
novelty and freshness of such an entertainment would have beguiled his
attention deeply, and resolved hours into the seeming space of but a
few minutes; but now the sense of pleasure derived from this source was
rendered dull and pointless by comparison with that far keener delight,
that tumultuous throng of hopeful passions, which had so suddenly and
strangely taken possession of his bosom. At length she came
again,--he started, astonished. Could it be the same? The clear bright
complexion--(or what had seemed at the further end of the room to be
so)--now looked opaque and earthy; the white was dead white, and the
red as abruptly red as though St. Anthony had been busy with his pencil,
patching those cheeks with fire; while the substratum of bone and flesh
looked worn into a shape of anxious pain, that gave the lie direct and
palpable to the colourable pretensions of the surface. And then the
handsome bust, which at a distance seemed so beautiful, now appeared a
most miserable artistical mockery of nature; and the fixed meaningless
gaze,--the mouth formally extended in order to display the teeth,--the
dead lack-lustre stare at the remote end of the room, calculated to
produce an impression on the more distant portion of the audience,--all
combined deeply and strongly to impress the horrible conviction on
the mind, that this poor creature, in spite of all assumptions and
decorations to the contrary, was a _very poor_, worn-out, deplorable
creature indeed! It forced upon the spectator something like the idea
of a death's head endeavouring to be merry,--a skull fitted with glass
eyes, and covered with a thin painted mask of parchment, striving to
laugh and look happy, in order to be consistent with the laughter and
the happiness around it. Add to this the hollow faint voice,--(the mere
echo of the sound it once had been,)--pumped up from lungs that seemed
to have lost all power,--to have decayed until scarcely any portion
remained,--and we shall feel impressed, as Colin was, with a fearful,
almost a terrible, sense of the poor uses to which humanity is sometimes
put, and of the deep wretchedness often existing among those whose
occupation in life is to _look_ gay, whatever they may feel.
In truth, consumption was feeding on her, seemingly deep and
irremediable. Yet she struggled on: what else could she? Still she
strove, still fulfilled her occupation every night, still sung, still
tried to look merry, although her heart was all out of heart, and
her bosom was filled with fear and anxiety from the dread sense of
approaching death--too surely at hand--and she unprepared! Perhaps to
come to her on that very stage,--perhaps _then!_ And all this to gain a
morsel of daily bread!
Although reflections of this nature crowded on Colin's mind in a heavy
throng, as he gazed on the poor made-up form before him, still he could
not entirely free himself from the impression which her appearance had
previously produced upon him. That which was artificial, and affected
to others, was not so to his perceptions, for his inexperience would not
allow him to see it. The appearance of modesty was to him real modesty;
of grace, was grace; of lightheartedness and joy, as real as though a
single care had never entered that bosom since the day it first stemmed
the rude tide of the world. And as for the rest,--just as with every
other imperfection which may exist in the object of any lover's
hopes--so was it with hers. Through familiarity they were soon
overlooked; and, like the shadows on the moon, though they chequered,
they did not extinguish the general light.
At the conclusion of the performance Mr. Wintlebury borrowed ten
shillings of Colin,--promising to pay him again as soon as he could get
into work,--and they parted for the evening. Our hero returned to his
humble bed in Mrs. Popple's garret, to pass a restless night amidst
strangely-mingled visions of tavern concerts and beautiful singing
ladies.
As, in his present state of feeling, there was nothing which in
his heart Colin so much desired as an opportunity of obliging his
second-floor neighbour, Miss Wintlebury, it luckily happened that in
the course of a very short time she failed not to afford him various
opportunities of so doing, having in all probability been taught her
cue by the brother. After some trifling requests, such as borrowing tea,
&c., she at last ventured, though very reluctantly indeed, to ask
the loan, just for three days, of four pounds fifteen, if he _could_
possibly do her that great obligation, in order to satisfy the impudent
demands of the apothecary, the tea-dealer, the baker, and the butcher,
who severally and respectively had peremptorily cut off the supplies.
All these friendly applications Colin responded to with unparalleled
promptitude, although the last one so very materially enlarged the
hollow of his purse, that he began to marvel how he himself should
contrive to clear his way as far as to the end of the next fortnight.
This position of affairs somewhat aroused him from the idle day-dream in
which he had been indulging. It was time, high time, that he set about
doing something to earn a subsistence; for, besides the amount he had
thus expended in supplying the wants of others, he had also lessened his
stock very rapidly by attending nightly at the concert-room to hear
his mistress's voice, which he thought the finest in the world, and to
rejoice over the popular applause with which she there seldom failed to
be greeted. For, singular as it may appear, he had never yet met with
her in their own house, nor exchanged a single word with her in private
upon any occasion whatever. His personal introduction yet remained to be
made.
Several subsequent days he spent in various futile endeavours to
obtain employment. Some, who otherwise would have engaged him, wanted a
character from his last place. He had none to give; and, therefore,
was denied the opportunity of earning one. Others required a person
partially acquainted with their business; and so his services could not
be rendered available. Meantime he had not neglected to call once or
twice at the Yorkshire House, and inquire whether any letter had arrived
there directed for him. No. The Squire had not written in reply to
the letter he had despatched from that place, and all hope of deriving
assistance from that quarter seemed, of course, entirely banished.
“Doubtless,'” thought he, “Mr. Lupton has heard some bad accounts of me,
and has wholly given me up.” In this conjecture our hero was, however,
totally mistaken. Mr. Lupton had not yet returned from the excursion
of a few weeks' duration, of which he spoke when Colin was at the Hall;
and, consequently, had not seen the letter in question. Neither, had
he done so, would his return have been of any avail in this particular
instance; since it most unfortunately happened for Colin that on the day
but one following the arrival of his epistle, it so fell out that Doctor
Rowel was called to attend the Squire's housekeeper upon the attack of a
sudden illness. On this occasion, while left in the drawing-room alone,
the doctor's eye chanced to alight upon a number of unopened letters
lying on the table, in readiness for the owner of the mansion on his
arrival; and amongst them he espied one, on the corner of which was
written the name of “Colin Clink.” He hastily took it up; stole a
glance at its contents by shining it against the sun; and, finding it to
contain certain very serious statements touching himself, he took a bold
step at once, and, regardless of consequences, put it into the fire.
Before the servant returned to conduct him up stairs, every vestige of
the letter had totally disappeared. Thus had Doctor Rowel not only for
the time being saved himself, but also obtained that knowledge of which
he stood in much need,--the knowledge of Colin's place of retreat and
particular address. Of these he instantly resolved to make the earliest
possible use.
Disappointed in all his expectations, and defeated in every endeavour
to obtain the means of making a livelihood, Colin returned to his little
domicile, and on the spur of the moment wrote a very dolorous letter to
his mother and Fanny, in which he set forth all his recent disasters,
and the trouble he was now in, adding, that unless something or other to
his advantage turned up very shortly he should scarcely know which way
to turn himself for a living.
And yet, when he thought the matter more calmly over again, after the
letter was despatched, and could not be recalled, he plucked up heart,
and for another evening at least drove away care by retiring to the
Condor Tavern, and taking his accustomed place within easy sight of the
adorable Harriet Wintlebury.