Lack a day! what a gay
What a wonderful great town!
In each street, thousands meet,
All parading up and down.
Crossing--jostling--strutting--running,
Hither--thither--going--coming;
Hurry--scurry--pushing--driving,
Ever something new contriving.
Oh! what a place, what a strange London Town,
On every side, both far and wide, we hear of its renown.
~~353~~~
Escorting to the ever-varying promenade of fashion, the Hon. Tom Dashall
and his Cousin Bob, whose long protracted investigation of Life in
London was now drawing to a close, proceeded this morning to amuse
themselves with another lounge in Bond-street: this arcadia of dignified
equality was thronged, the carriage-way with dashing equipages, and
the pave with exquisite pedestrians. Here was one rouged and whiskered;
there another in petticoats and stays, while his sister, like an Amazon,
shewed her nether garments half way to the knee. Then “passed smiling
by” a Corinthian bear, in an upper benjamin and a Jolliffe shallow. A
noted milliner shone in a richer pelisse than the Countess, whom the day
before she had cheated out of the lace which adorned it. The gentleman
with the day-rule, in new buckskins and boots, and mounted on a
thorough-bred horse, quizzed his retaining creditor, as he trotted along
with dusty shoes and coat; the “lady of easy virtue” stared her keeper's
wife and daughter out of countenance. The man milliner's shop-boy, _en
passant_, jogged the duke's elbow; and the dandy pickpocket lisped and
minced his words quite as well as my lord.
Tom pointed out some of the more dashing exhibitants; and Bob inquiring
the name of a fine woman, rather _en bon point_, with a French face, who
was mounted on a chesnut hunter, and whom he had never before seen in
the haunts ~~354~~~ of fashion--“That lady,” said he, “goes by the name
of _Speculator_; her real name is Mademoiselle Leverd, of the Theatre
Français at Paris: she arrived in this country a month since, to
“have an opportunity of displaying her superior talents; though it
is whispered that the object of her journey was not altogether in the
pursuit of her profession, but for the purpose of making an important
conquest.”
“And who is that charming woman,” continued Bob, “in the curricle next
to L------d F------?”
“That,” returned Tom, “is Mrs. Orbery Hunter. The beautiful man next
you, is the “commercial dandy,” or as Lord G----l styles him, Apollo;
and his Lordship is a veracious man, on which account R------ calls
G------ his lyre.”
“Ah, do you see that dashing fellow in the Scotch cloak, attended by
a lad with his arm in a sling? That is the famous Sir W. M------,who
doubles his income by gambling speculations; and that's one of his
decoys, to entrap young country squires of fortune to dine with him,
and be fleeced. In return, he is to marry him (on condition of receiving
£100. for every thousand) to an heiress, the daughter of his country
banker.”
“Why, all the first whips in the female world are abroad to-day. There
is the flower of green Erin, Lady Foley. See with what style she fingers
the ribbans. Equally dexterous at the use of whip and tongue; woe to the
wight who incurs the lash of either.
“That reverend divine in the span new dennet and the Jolliffe shallow,
who squares his elbows so knowingly, as he rubs on his bit of blood, is
Parson A------. He is the proprietor of the temple of gaming iniquity,
at No. 6, Pall Mall. He is a natural son of Lord B------re, by whom
he was brought up, liberally educated, and presented with church
preferments of considerable value. He married, in early life, the
celebrated singer, Miss M--h--n, whom he abandoned, with his infant
family. This lady found a protector for herself and children in the
person of the Rev. Mr. P------s, and having since obtained a divorce
from her former husband, has been married to him. The parson boasts of
his numerous amours, and, a few years since, took the benefit of the
act. Before he ventured upon the splendid speculations at the Gothic
Hall, with F------r T------n, Mr. Charles S------, and Lord D------,
he used to frequent the most notorious g------g houses, ~~355~~~
occasionally picking up a half crown as the pigeons were knocked down
by the more wealthy players. But, chousing his colleagues out of their
shares, and getting the Gothic Hall into his own hands, he has become
the great man you see, and may truly be called by the title of autocrat
of all the Greeks.
“And who,” inquired Bob, “is that gay careless young fellow in the
Stanhope, who sits so easy while his horse plunges?”
“That,” replied Tom, “is the Hon. and Rev. Fitz S------, with the best
heart, best hand, and the best leg in Bond-street. He is really one of
the most fascinating men in polished society, and withal, the best
judge of a horse at Tattersalls, of a dennet at Long Acre, or a segar in
Maiden Lane.”
“You need not tell me who that is on the roan horse, with red whiskers
and florid complexion. (The Earl of Y------, of course). Madame B.
tells a curious story of him and a filly belonging to Prince Paul. His
Lordship had a great desire to ride the said filly, and sent Madam B.
to know the terms. 'Well!' said his Lordship, when she returned--'Fifty
pounds,' she replied.--'Hem!' said his lordship, 'I will wait till next
year, and can have her for five-and-twenty.'”
“By this hand, another female equestrian _de figure_.' That tall young
woman on the chesnut, is Lady Jane P------, sister of Lord U------. They
say, that she has manifested certain pawnbroking inclinations, and has
shewn a partiality in partnership at Almack's, to the golden balls.
“That fine young woman, leaning out of the carriage window, whose glossy
ringlets are of the true golden colour, so much admired by the dandies
of old Rome, is his Lordship's wife. He's not with her. But you know he
shot Honey at Cumberland Gate, when he was two hundred miles off, and
therefore he may be in the carriage, though he's away.
“The person in the shabby brown coat is the Duke of Argyle. The pair
of horses that draw his carriage is the only job that Argyle ever
condescended to engage in.”
“And who is that fat ruddy gentleman, in the plain green coat, and the
groom in grey?”
~~356~~~ “What, you're not up to the change of colour? That's our old
friend the Duke again, and the grey livery augurs, (if I mistake not),
a visit to Berkeley square. His R------ H------ must take good care,
or that bit of blood will be seized while standing at the door of the
Circe, as his carriage was the other day, by the unceremonious nabman.
But that's nothing to what used to occur to the Marquis of W------. They
say, that if he deposited a broach, a ring, or a watch upon his table,
a hand and arm, like that of a genius in a fairy tale, was seen to
introduce itself _bon-gre, mal-gre_, through the casement, and instantly
they became 'scarce.'”
“But I have heard,” said Bob, “of a fashionable nabman asking the Duke
the time, and politely claiming the watch as soon as it was visible.”
The most prominent characters of the lounge had now disappeared, and
Tom and Bob pursuing their course, found themselves in a few minutes in
Covent Garden, from whence, nothing occurring of notice, they directed
their steps towards Bow-street, with the view of deriving amusement from
the proceedings of justice in the principal office on the establishment
of the metropolitan police, and in this anticipation they were not
disappointed.{1}
1 More Life in St. Giles's.--Mr. Daniel Sullivan, of
Tottenham Court Road, green-grocer, fruiterer, coal and
potatoe merchant, salt lish and Irish pork-monger, was
brought before the magistrate on a peace-warrant, issued at
the suit of his wife, Mrs. Mary Sullivan. Mrs. Sullivan is
an Englishwoman, who married Mr. Sullivan for love, and has
been “blessed with many children by him.” But
notwithstanding she appeared before the magistrate with her
face all scratched and bruised, from the eyes downward to
the tip of her chin; all which scratches and bruises, she
said, were the handy-work of her husband.
The unfortunate Mary, it appeared, married Mr. Sullivau
about seven years ago; at which time he was as polite a
young Irishman as ever handled a potatoe on this side the
Channel; he had every thing snug and comfortable about him,
and his purse and his person, taken together, were
“ondeniable.” She herself was a young woman genteely brought
up--abounding in friends and acquaintance, and silk gowns,
with three good bonnets always in use, and black velvet
shoes to correspond. Welcome wherever she went, whether to
dinner, tea, or supper, and made much of by every body. St.
Giles' bells rang merrily at their wedding--a fine fat leg
of mutton and capers, plenty of pickled salmon, three ample
dishes of salt fish and potatoes, with pies, pudding and
porter of the best, were set forth for the bridal supper;
all the most “considerablest” families in Dyott Street and
Church Lane, were invited, and every thing promised a world
of happiness--and for five long years they were happy. She
loved, as Lord Byron would say, “she loved and was beloved;
she adored and she was worshipped;” but Mr. Sullivau was too
much like the hero of the Lordship's tale--his affections
could not “hold the bent,” and the sixth year had scarcely
commenced, when poor Mary discovered that she had “outlived
his liking.” From that time to the present he had treated
her continually with the greatest cruelty; and, at last,
when by this means he had reduced her from a comely young
person to a mere handful of a poor creature, he beat her,
and turned her out of doors.
This was Mrs. Sullivan's story; and she told it with such
pathos, that all who heard it pitied her, except her
husband.
It was now Mr. Sullivan's turn to speak. Whilst his wife was
speaking, he had stood with his back towards her, his arms
folded across his breast to keep down his choler; biting his
lips and staring at the blank wall; but the moment she had
ceased, he abruptly turned round, and, curiously enough,
asked the magistrate whether Mistress Sullivau had done
spaking.
“She has,” replied his worship; “but suppose you ask her
whether she has any thing more to say.”
“I shall, Sir!” exclaimed the angry Mr. Sullivan. “Mistress
Sullivan, had you any more of it to say '!”
Mrs. Sullivan raised her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her
hands together, and was silent.
“Very well, then,” he continued, “will I get lave to spake,
your Honour?”
His Honour nodded permission, and Mr. Sullivan immediately
began a defence, to which it is impossible to do justice; so
exuberantly did he suit the action to the word, and the
word to the action. “Och! your Honour, there is something
the matter with me!” he began; at the same time putting two
of his fingers perpendicularly over his forehead, to
intimate that Mrs. Sullivan played him false. He then went
into a long story about a “Misther Burke,” who lodged in his
house, and had taken the liberty of assisting him in his
conjugal duties, “without any lave from him at all at all.”
It was one night in partickler, he said, that he went to bed
betimes in the little back parlour, quite entirely sick with
the head-ache. Misther Burke was out from home, and when the
shop was shut up, Mrs. Sullivan went out too; but he didn't
much care for that, ounly he thought she might as well have
staid at home, and so he couldn't go to sleep for thinking
of it. “Well, at one o'clock in the morning,” he continued,
lower-ing his voice into a sort of loud whisper; “at one
o'clock in the morn-ing Misther Burke lets himself in with
the key that he had, and goes up to bed--and I thought
nothing at all; but presently I hears something come tap,
tap, tap, at the street door. The minute after comes down
Misther Burke, and opens the door, and sure it was Mary--
Mistress Sullivan that is, more's the pity--and devil a bit
she came to see after me at all in the little back parlour,
but up stairs she goes after Misther Burke. Och! says 1, but
there's some-thing the matter with me this night! and I got
up with the night-cap o' th' head of me, and went into the
shop to see for a knife, but I couldn't get one by no manes.
So I creeps up stairs, step by step, step by step,” (here
Mr. Sullivan walked on tiptoe all across the office, to show
the magistrate how quietly he went up the stairs), “and when
I gets to the top I sees 'em, by the gash (gas) coming
through the chink in the window curtains; I sees 'em, and
'Och, Mistress Sullivan!' says he: and 'Och, Misther Burke,'
says she:--and och! botheration, says I to myself, and what
shall I do now?” We cannot follow Mr. Sullivan any farther
in the detail of his melancholy affair; it is sufficient
that he saw enough to convince him that he was dishonoured:
that, by some accident or other, he disturbed the guilty
pair, whereupon Mrs. Sullivan crept under Mr. Burke's bed,
to hide herself; that Mr. Sullivan rushed into the room, and
dragged her from under the bed, by her “wicked leg;” and
that he felt about the round table in the corner, where Mr.
Burke kept his bread and cheese, in the hope of finding a
knife.
“And what would you have done with it, if you had found it?”
asked his worship.
“Is it what I would have done with it, your honour asks?”
exclaimed Mr. Sullivan, almost choked with rage--“Is it what
I would have done with it?--ounly that I'd have digged it
into the heart of 'em at the same time!” As he said this, he
threw himself into an attitude of wild desperation, and made
a tremendous lunge, as if in the very act of slaughter.
To make short of a long story, he did not find the knife;
Mr. Burke barricadoed himself in his room, and Mr. Sullivan
turned his wife out of doors.
The magistrate ordered him to find bail to keep the peace
towards his wife and all the King's subjects, and told him,
that if his wife was indeed what he had represented her to
be, he must seek some less violent mode of separation than
the knife.
There not being any other case of interest, Tom and Bob left
the office, not, however, without a feeling of commiseration
for Mr. Sullivan, whose frail rib and her companion in
iniquity, now that the tables were turned against them by
the injured husband's “plain unvarnished tale,” experienced
a due share of reprobation from the auditory.
~~558~~~ Pursuing their course homeward through St. James'-square:
“Who have we here?” exclaimed Tom; “as I live, no other than the
lofty Honoria, an authoress, a wit and an eccentric; a combination
of qualities which frequently contribute to convey the possessor to a
garret, and thence to an hospital or poor house. It is not uncommon to
find attic salt in the first floor from heaven, but rather difficult
to find the occupier enabled to procure salt whereby to render porridge
palateable. The lady Honoria, who has just passed, resides in a lodging
in Mary-le-bone. She having mistaken stature for beauty, and attitude
for greatness, a tune on her lute for fascination, a few strange
opinions and out of the way sayings for genius, a masculine appearance
for attraction, and bulk for irresistibility, came on a cruise to London
with a view to call at C------House, where she conceived she might be
treated like a Princess.
“She fondly fancied that a certain dignified personage who relieved her
distress, could not but be captivated with the very description of her;
in consequence of which, she launched into expenses which she was but
ill able to bear, and now complains of designs formed against her and of
all sorts of fabulous nonsense. It must, however, be acknowledged, that
an extraordinary taste for fat, has been a great som-ce of inconvenience
to the illustrious character alluded to, for corpulent women have been
in the habit of daily throwing themselves in his way under some pretence
or other; and if he but looked at them, they have considered themselves
as favourites, and in the high road to riches and fame.
“It is well known that a certain French woman, with long flowing black
hair, who lived not an hundred miles from Pimlico, was one who fell into
this error. Her weight is about sixteen stone--and on that account she
sets herself down as this illustrious person's mistress; nay, because he
saw her once, she took expensive lodgings, ran deeply in debt, and now
abuses the great man because he has not provided for her in a princely
style, “_pour se beaux yeux_;” for it must be admitted, that she can boast
as fine a pair of black eyes as ever were seen. The circumstance of
this taste for materialism, is as unfortunate to the possessor, as a
convulsive nod of the head once was to a rich gentleman, who was never
without being engaged in some law suit or other, for lots knocked down
to him at auctions, owing to his incessant and involuntary noddings at
these places. The fat ladies wish the illustrious amateur to pay for
peeping, just as the crafty knights of the hammer endeavoured to make
the rich gentleman pay for his nodding at them.”
“Fat, fair, and forty, then,” said Sparkle, “does not appear to be
forgotten.”
~~360~~~ “No,” was the reply, “nor is it likely: the wits of London are
seldom idle upon subjects of importance: take for instance the following
lines:--
“When first I met thee, FAT and fair,
With forty charms about thee,
A widow brisk and _debonair_,
How could I live without thee.
Thy rogueish eye I quickly spied,
It made me still the fonder,
I swore though false to all beside,
From thee I'd never wander.
But old Fitzy now,
Thou'rt only fit to tease me,
And C----------M I vow,
Has learn't the art to please me.”
By this time they were passing Grosvenor gate, when the Hon. Tom Dashall
directed the attention of his Cousin to a person on the opposite side of
the street, pacing along with a stiff and formal air.
“That,” said he, “is a new species of character, if it may properly be
so termed, of which I have never yet given you any account. Sir Edward
Knowell stands, however, at the head of a numerous and respectable class
of persons, who may be entitled Philosophic Coxcombs. He proceeds with
geometrical exactness in all his transactions. You can perceive finery
of dress is no mark of his character; on the contrary, he at all times
wears a plain coat; and as if in ridicule of the common fop, takes care
to decorate his menials in the most gorgeous liveries.
“The stiffness and formality of his appearance is partly occasioned by
the braces which he very judiciously purchased of Martin Van Butchell,
and partly by the pride of wealth and rank.
“There is a pensiveness in his aspect, which would induce any one to
imagine Sir Edward to be a man of feeling; but those who have depended
upon outward appearances alone, have found themselves miserably
deceived; for as hypocrisy assumes a look of sanctity, so your
philosophic coxcomb's apparent melancholy serves only as a mask to cover
his stupidity.
“Sir Edward is amorously inclined; but he consults his reason, or
pretends to do so, and by that means renders his pleasures subservient
to his health. It cannot be denied he sometimes manifests contortions of
aspect not exactly in unison with happiness; but his feelings are ever
selfish, and his apparent pain is occasioned by the nausea of a debauch,
or perhaps by the pressure of a new pair of boots. If you are in
distress, Sir Edward hears your tale with the most stoical indifference,
and he contemplates your happiness with an equal degree of apathy--a
sort of Epictetus, who can witness the miseries of a brother without
agony or sympathy, and mark the elevation of a friend without one
sentiment of congratulation: wrapt up in self, he banishes all feeling
for others.
~~361~~~ “This philosopher has a great number of imitators--perhaps not
less than one thousand philosophic coxcombs visit London annually; and
if Sir Edward were to die, they might all with great propriety lay claim
to a participation in the property he might leave behind him, as near
relations to the family of the Knowells. These gentlemen violate all the
moral duties of life with impunity: they are shameless, irreligious,
and so insignificant, that they seem to consider themselves born for
no useful purpose whatever. Indeed they are such perfect blanks in the
creation, that were they transported to some other place, the community
would never miss them, except by the diminution of follies and vices.
Like poisonous plants, they merely vegetate, diffuse their contagious
effluvia around, then sink into corruption, and are forgotten for ever.”
“Whip me such fellows through the world,” exclaimed Sparkle, “I have no
relish for them.”
On calling in at Long's Hotel, they were informed that Sparkle's servant
had been in pursuit of his master, in consequence of letters having
arrived from the country; and as Dashall knew that he had two excellent
reasons why he should immediately acquaint himself with their contents,
the party immediately returned to Piccadilly.