Turning towards his companion the elder Giant uttered these words in a
grave, majestic tone:
‘Magog, does boisterous mirth beseem the Giant Warder of this ancient
city? Is this becoming demeanour for a watchful spirit over whose
bodiless head so many years have rolled, so many changes swept like empty
air—in whose impalpable nostrils the scent of blood and crime,
pestilence, cruelty, and horror, has been familiar as breath to
mortals—in whose sight Time has gathered in the harvest of centuries, and
garnered so many crops of human pride, affections, hopes, and sorrows?
Bethink you of our compact. The night wanes; feasting, revelry, and
music have encroached upon our usual hours of solitude, and morning will
be here apace. Ere we are stricken mute again, bethink you of our
compact.’
Pronouncing these latter words with more of impatience than quite
accorded with his apparent age and gravity, the Giant raised a long pole
(which he still bears in his hand) and tapped his brother Giant rather
smartly on the head; indeed, the blow was so smartly administered, that
the latter quickly withdrew his lips from the cask, to which they had
been applied, and, catching up his shield and halberd, assumed an
attitude of defence. His irritation was but momentary, for he laid these
weapons aside as hastily as he had assumed them, and said as he did so:
‘You know, Gog, old friend, that when we animate these shapes which the
Londoners of old assigned (and not unworthily) to the guardian genii of
their city, we are susceptible of some of the sensations which belong to
human kind. Thus when I taste wine, I feel blows; when I relish the one,
I disrelish the other. Therefore, Gog, the more especially as your arm
is none of the lightest, keep your good staff by your side, else we may
chance to differ. Peace be between us!’
‘Amen!’ said the other, leaning his staff in the window-corner. ‘Why did
you laugh just now?’
‘To think,’ replied the Giant Magog, laying his hand upon the cask, ‘of
him who owned this wine, and kept it in a cellar hoarded from the light
of day, for thirty years,—“till it should be fit to drink,” quoth he. He
was twoscore and ten years old when he buried it beneath his house, and
yet never thought that he might be scarcely “fit to drink” when the wine
became so. I wonder it never occurred to him to make himself unfit to be
eaten. There is very little of him left by this time.’
[Picture: Gog and Magog]
‘The night is waning,’ said Gog mournfully.
‘I know it,’ replied his companion, ‘and I see you are impatient. But
look. Through the eastern window—placed opposite to us, that the first
beams of the rising sun may every morning gild our giant faces—the
moon-rays fall upon the pavement in a stream of light that to my fancy
sinks through the cold stone and gushes into the old crypt below. The
night is scarcely past its noon, and our great charge is sleeping
heavily.’
They ceased to speak, and looked upward at the moon. The sight of their
large, black, rolling eyes filled Joe Toddyhigh with such horror that he
could scarcely draw his breath. Still they took no note of him, and
appeared to believe themselves quite alone.
‘Our compact,’ said Magog after a pause, ‘is, if I understand it, that,
instead of watching here in silence through the dreary nights, we
entertain each other with stories of our past experience; with tales of
the past, the present, and the future; with legends of London and her
sturdy citizens from the old simple times. That every night at midnight,
when St. Paul’s bell tolls out one, and we may move and speak, we thus
discourse, nor leave such themes till the first gray gleam of day shall
strike us dumb. Is that our bargain, brother?’
‘Yes,’ said the Giant Gog, ‘that is the league between us who guard this
city, by day in spirit, and by night in body also; and never on ancient
holidays have its conduits run wine more merrily than we will pour forth
our legendary lore. We are old chroniclers from this time hence. The
crumbled walls encircle us once more, the postern-gates are closed, the
drawbridge is up, and pent in its narrow den beneath, the water foams and
struggles with the sunken starlings. Jerkins and quarter-staves are in
the streets again, the nightly watch is set, the rebel, sad and lonely in
his Tower dungeon, tries to sleep and weeps for home and children. Aloft
upon the gates and walls are noble heads glaring fiercely down upon the
dreaming city, and vexing the hungry dogs that scent them in the air, and
tear the ground beneath with dismal howlings. The axe, the block, the
rack, in their dark chambers give signs of recent use. The Thames,
floating past long lines of cheerful windows whence come a burst of music
and a stream of light, bears suddenly to the Palace wall the last red
stain brought on the tide from Traitor’s Gate. But your pardon, brother.
The night wears, and I am talking idly.’
The other Giant appeared to be entirely of this opinion, for during the
foregoing rhapsody of his fellow-sentinel he had been scratching his head
with an air of comical uneasiness, or rather with an air that would have
been very comical if he had been a dwarf or an ordinary-sized man. He
winked too, and though it could not be doubted for a moment that he
winked to himself, still he certainly cocked his enormous eye towards the
gallery where the listener was concealed. Nor was this all, for he
gaped; and when he gaped, Joe was horribly reminded of the popular
prejudice on the subject of giants, and of their fabled power of smelling
out Englishmen, however closely concealed.
His alarm was such that he nearly swooned, and it was some little time
before his power of sight or hearing was restored. When he recovered he
found that the elder Giant was pressing the younger to commence the
Chronicles, and that the latter was endeavouring to excuse himself on the
ground that the night was far spent, and it would be better to wait until
the next. Well assured by this that he was certainly about to begin
directly, the listener collected his faculties by a great effort, and
distinctly heard Magog express himself to the following effect:
* * * * *
In the sixteenth century and in the reign of Queen Elizabeth of glorious
memory (albeit her golden days are sadly rusted with blood), there lived
in the city of London a bold young ’prentice who loved his master’s
daughter. There were no doubt within the walls a great many ’prentices
in this condition, but I speak of only one, and his name was Hugh Graham.
This Hugh was apprenticed to an honest Bowyer who dwelt in the ward of
Cheype, and was rumoured to possess great wealth. Rumour was quite as
infallible in those days as at the present time, but it happened then as
now to be sometimes right by accident. It stumbled upon the truth when
it gave the old Bowyer a mint of money. His trade had been a profitable
one in the time of King Henry the Eighth, who encouraged English archery
to the utmost, and he had been prudent and discreet. Thus it came to
pass that Mistress Alice, his only daughter, was the richest heiress in
all his wealthy ward. Young Hugh had often maintained with staff and
cudgel that she was the handsomest. To do him justice, I believe she
was.
If he could have gained the heart of pretty Mistress Alice by knocking
this conviction into stubborn people’s heads, Hugh would have had no
cause to fear. But though the Bowyer’s daughter smiled in secret to hear
of his doughty deeds for her sake, and though her little waiting-woman
reported all her smiles (and many more) to Hugh, and though he was at a
vast expense in kisses and small coin to recompense her fidelity, he made
no progress in his love. He durst not whisper it to Mistress Alice save
on sure encouragement, and that she never gave him. A glance of her dark
eye as she sat at the door on a summer’s evening after prayer-time, while
he and the neighbouring ’prentices exercised themselves in the street
with blunted sword and buckler, would fire Hugh’s blood so that none
could stand before him; but then she glanced at others quite as kindly as
on him, and where was the use of cracking crowns if Mistress Alice smiled
upon the cracked as well as on the cracker?
Still Hugh went on, and loved her more and more. He thought of her all
day, and dreamed of her all night long. He treasured up her every word
and gesture, and had a palpitation of the heart whenever he heard her
footstep on the stairs or her voice in an adjoining room. To him, the
old Bowyer’s house was haunted by an angel; there was enchantment in the
air and space in which she moved. It would have been no miracle to Hugh
if flowers had sprung from the rush-strewn floors beneath the tread of
lovely Mistress Alice.
Never did ’prentice long to distinguish himself in the eyes of his
lady-love so ardently as Hugh. Sometimes he pictured to himself the
house taking fire by night, and he, when all drew back in fear, rushing
through flame and smoke, and bearing her from the ruins in his arms. At
other times he thought of a rising of fierce rebels, an attack upon the
city, a strong assault upon the Bowyer’s house in particular, and he
falling on the threshold pierced with numberless wounds in defence of
Mistress Alice. If he could only enact some prodigy of valour, do some
wonderful deed, and let her know that she had inspired it, he thought he
could die contented.
Sometimes the Bowyer and his daughter would go out to supper with a
worthy citizen at the fashionable hour of six o’clock, and on such
occasions Hugh, wearing his blue ’prentice cloak as gallantly as
’prentice might, would attend with a lantern and his trusty club to
escort them home. These were the brightest moments of his life. To hold
the light while Mistress Alice picked her steps, to touch her hand as he
helped her over broken ways, to have her leaning on his arm,—it sometimes
even came to that,—this was happiness indeed!
When the nights were fair, Hugh followed in the rear, his eyes riveted on
the graceful figure of the Bowyer’s daughter as she and the old man moved
on before him. So they threaded the narrow winding streets of the city,
now passing beneath the overhanging gables of old wooden houses whence
creaking signs projected into the street, and now emerging from some dark
and frowning gateway into the clear moonlight. At such times, or when
the shouts of straggling brawlers met her ear, the Bowyer’s daughter
would look timidly back at Hugh, beseeching him to draw nearer; and then
how he grasped his club and longed to do battle with a dozen rufflers,
for the love of Mistress Alice!
The old Bowyer was in the habit of lending money on interest to the
gallants of the Court, and thus it happened that many a richly-dressed
gentleman dismounted at his door. More waving plumes and gallant steeds,
indeed, were seen at the Bowyer’s house, and more embroidered silks and
velvets sparkled in his dark shop and darker private closet, than at any
merchants in the city. In those times no less than in the present it
would seem that the richest-looking cavaliers often wanted money the
most.
[Picture: A Gallant Cavalier]
Of these glittering clients there was one who always came alone. He was
nobly mounted, and, having no attendant, gave his horse in charge to Hugh
while he and the Bowyer were closeted within. Once as he sprung into the
saddle Mistress Alice was seated at an upper window, and before she could
withdraw he had doffed his jewelled cap and kissed his hand. Hugh
watched him caracoling down the street, and burnt with indignation. But
how much deeper was the glow that reddened in his cheeks when, raising
his eyes to the casement, he saw that Alice watched the stranger too!
He came again and often, each time arrayed more gaily than before, and
still the little casement showed him Mistress Alice. At length one heavy
day, she fled from home. It had cost her a hard struggle, for all her
old father’s gifts were strewn about her chamber as if she had parted
from them one by one, and knew that the time must come when these tokens
of his love would wring her heart,—yet she was gone.
She left a letter commanding her poor father to the care of Hugh, and
wishing he might be happier than ever he could have been with her, for he
deserved the love of a better and a purer heart than she had to bestow.
The old man’s forgiveness (she said) she had no power to ask, but she
prayed God to bless him,—and so ended with a blot upon the paper where
her tears had fallen.
At first the old man’s wrath was kindled, and he carried his wrong to the
Queen’s throne itself; but there was no redress he learnt at Court, for
his daughter had been conveyed abroad. This afterwards appeared to be
the truth, as there came from France, after an interval of several years,
a letter in her hand. It was written in trembling characters, and almost
illegible. Little could be made out save that she often thought of home
and her old dear pleasant room,—and that she had dreamt her father was
dead and had not blessed her,—and that her heart was breaking.
The poor old Bowyer lingered on, never suffering Hugh to quit his sight,
for he knew now that he had loved his daughter, and that was the only
link that bound him to earth. It broke at length and he
died,—bequeathing his old ’prentice his trade and all his wealth, and
solemnly charging him with his last breath to revenge his child if ever
he who had worked her misery crossed his path in life again.
From the time of Alice’s flight, the tilting-ground, the fields, the
fencing-school, the summer-evening sports, knew Hugh no more. His spirit
was dead within him. He rose to great eminence and repute among the
citizens, but was seldom seen to smile, and never mingled in their
revelries or rejoicings. Brave, humane, and generous, he was beloved by
all. He was pitied too by those who knew his story, and these were so
many that when he walked along the streets alone at dusk, even the rude
common people doffed their caps and mingled a rough air of sympathy with
their respect.
One night in May—it was her birthnight, and twenty years since she had
left her home—Hugh Graham sat in the room she had hallowed in his boyish
days. He was now a gray-haired man, though still in the prime of life.
Old thoughts had borne him company for many hours, and the chamber had
gradually grown quite dark, when he was roused by a low knocking at the
outer door.
He hastened down, and opening it saw by the light of a lamp which he had
seized upon the way, a female figure crouching in the portal. It hurried
swiftly past him and glided up the stairs. He looked for pursuers.
There were none in sight. No, not one.
He was inclined to think it a vision of his own brain, when suddenly a
vague suspicion of the truth flashed upon his mind. He barred the door,
and hastened wildly back. Yes, there she was,—there, in the chamber he
had quitted,—there in her old innocent, happy home, so changed that none
but he could trace one gleam of what she had been,—there upon her
knees,—with her hands clasped in agony and shame before her burning face.
‘My God, my God!’ she cried, ‘now strike me dead! Though I have brought
death and shame and sorrow on this roof, O, let me die at home in mercy!’
There was no tear upon her face then, but she trembled and glanced round
the chamber. Everything was in its old place. Her bed looked as if she
had risen from it but that morning. The sight of these familiar objects,
marking the dear remembrance in which she had been held, and the blight
she had brought upon herself, was more than the woman’s better nature
that had carried her there could bear. She wept and fell upon the
ground.
A rumour was spread about, in a few days’ time, that the Bowyer’s cruel
daughter had come home, and that Master Graham had given her lodging in
his house. It was rumoured too that he had resigned her fortune, in
order that she might bestow it in acts of charity, and that he had vowed
to guard her in her solitude, but that they were never to see each other
more. These rumours greatly incensed all virtuous wives and daughters in
the ward, especially when they appeared to receive some corroboration
from the circumstance of Master Graham taking up his abode in another
tenement hard by. The estimation in which he was held, however, forbade
any questioning on the subject; and as the Bowyer’s house was close shut
up, and nobody came forth when public shows and festivities were in
progress, or to flaunt in the public walks, or to buy new fashions at the
mercers’ booths, all the well-conducted females agreed among themselves
that there could be no woman there.
These reports had scarcely died away when the wonder of every good
citizen, male and female, was utterly absorbed and swallowed up by a
Royal Proclamation, in which her Majesty, strongly censuring the practice
of wearing long Spanish rapiers of preposterous length (as being a
bullying and swaggering custom, tending to bloodshed and public
disorder), commanded that on a particular day therein named, certain
grave citizens should repair to the city gates, and there, in public,
break all rapiers worn or carried by persons claiming admission, that
exceeded, though it were only by a quarter of an inch, three standard
feet in length.
Royal Proclamations usually take their course, let the public wonder
never so much. On the appointed day two citizens of high repute took up
their stations at each of the gates, attended by a party of the city
guard, the main body to enforce the Queen’s will, and take custody of all
such rebels (if any) as might have the temerity to dispute it: and a few
to bear the standard measures and instruments for reducing all unlawful
sword-blades to the prescribed dimensions. In pursuance of these
arrangements, Master Graham and another were posted at Lud Gate, on the
hill before St. Paul’s.
A pretty numerous company were gathered together at this spot, for,
besides the officers in attendance to enforce the proclamation, there was
a motley crowd of lookers-on of various degrees, who raised from time to
time such shouts and cries as the circumstances called forth. A spruce
young courtier was the first who approached: he unsheathed a weapon of
burnished steel that shone and glistened in the sun, and handed it with
the newest air to the officer, who, finding it exactly three feet long,
returned it with a bow. Thereupon the gallant raised his hat and crying,
‘God save the Queen!’ passed on amidst the plaudits of the mob. Then
came another—a better courtier still—who wore a blade but two feet long,
whereat the people laughed, much to the disparagement of his honour’s
dignity. Then came a third, a sturdy old officer of the army, girded
with a rapier at least a foot and a half beyond her Majesty’s pleasure;
at him they raised a great shout, and most of the spectators (but
especially those who were armourers or cutlers) laughed very heartily at
the breakage which would ensue. But they were disappointed; for the old
campaigner, coolly unbuckling his sword and bidding his servant carry it
home again, passed through unarmed, to the great indignation of all the
beholders. They relieved themselves in some degree by hooting a tall
blustering fellow with a prodigious weapon, who stopped short on coming
in sight of the preparations, and after a little consideration turned
back again. But all this time no rapier had been broken, although it was
high noon, and all cavaliers of any quality or appearance were taking
their way towards Saint Paul’s churchyard.
During these proceedings, Master Graham had stood apart, strictly
confining himself to the duty imposed upon him, and taking little heed of
anything beyond. He stepped forward now as a richly-dressed gentleman on
foot, followed by a single attendant, was seen advancing up the hill.
As this person drew nearer, the crowd stopped their clamour, and bent
forward with eager looks. Master Graham standing alone in the gateway,
and the stranger coming slowly towards him, they seemed, as it were, set
face to face. The nobleman (for he looked one) had a haughty and
disdainful air, which bespoke the slight estimation in which he held the
citizen. The citizen, on the other hand, preserved the resolute bearing
of one who was not to be frowned down or daunted, and who cared very
little for any nobility but that of worth and manhood. It was perhaps
some consciousness on the part of each, of these feelings in the other,
that infused a more stern expression into their regards as they came
closer together.
‘Your rapier, worthy sir!’
At the instant that he pronounced these words Graham started, and falling
back some paces, laid his hand upon the dagger in his belt.
‘You are the man whose horse I used to hold before the Bowyer’s door?
You are that man? Speak!’
‘Out, you ’prentice hound!’ said the other.
‘You are he! I know you well now!’ cried Graham. ‘Let no man step
between us two, or I shall be his murderer.’ With that he drew his
dagger, and rushed in upon him.
The stranger had drawn his weapon from the scabbard ready for the
scrutiny, before a word was spoken. He made a thrust at his assailant,
but the dagger which Graham clutched in his left hand being the dirk in
use at that time for parrying such blows, promptly turned the point
aside. They closed. The dagger fell rattling on the ground, and Graham,
wresting his adversary’s sword from his grasp, plunged it through his
heart. As he drew it out it snapped in two, leaving a fragment in the
dead man’s body.
All this passed so swiftly that the bystanders looked on without an
effort to interfere; but the man was no sooner down than an uproar broke
forth which rent the air. The attendant rushing through the gate
proclaimed that his master, a nobleman, had been set upon and slain by a
citizen; the word quickly spread from mouth to mouth; Saint Paul’s
Cathedral, and every book-shop, ordinary, and smoking-house in the
churchyard poured out its stream of cavaliers and their followers, who
mingling together in a dense tumultuous body, struggled, sword in hand,
towards the spot.
With equal impetuosity, and stimulating each other by loud cries and
shouts, the citizens and common people took up the quarrel on their side,
and encircling Master Graham a hundred deep, forced him from the gate.
In vain he waved the broken sword above his head, crying that he would
die on London’s threshold for their sacred homes. They bore him on, and
ever keeping him in the midst, so that no man could attack him, fought
their way into the city.
The clash of swords and roar of voices, the dust and heat and pressure,
the trampling under foot of men, the distracted looks and shrieks of
women at the windows above as they recognised their relatives or lovers
in the crowd, the rapid tolling of alarm-bells, the furious rage and
passion of the scene, were fearful. Those who, being on the outskirts of
each crowd, could use their weapons with effect, fought desperately,
while those behind, maddened with baffled rage, struck at each other over
the heads of those before them, and crushed their own fellows. Wherever
the broken sword was seen above the people’s heads, towards that spot the
cavaliers made a new rush. Every one of these charges was marked by
sudden gaps in the throng where men were trodden down, but as fast as
they were made, the tide swept over them, and still the multitude pressed
on again, a confused mass of swords, clubs, staves, broken plumes,
fragments of rich cloaks and doublets, and angry, bleeding faces, all
mixed up together in inextricable disorder.
The design of the people was to force Master Graham to take refuge in his
dwelling, and to defend it until the authorities could interfere, or they
could gain time for parley. But either from ignorance or in the
confusion of the moment they stopped at his old house, which was closely
shut. Some time was lost in beating the doors open and passing him to
the front. About a score of the boldest of the other party threw
themselves into the torrent while this was being done, and reaching the
door at the same moment with himself cut him off from his defenders.
‘I never will turn in such a righteous cause, so help me Heaven!’ cried
Graham, in a voice that at last made itself heard, and confronting them
as he spoke. ‘Least of all will I turn upon this threshold which owes
its desolation to such men as ye. I give no quarter, and I will have
none! Strike!’
For a moment they stood at bay. At that moment a shot from an unseen
hand, apparently fired by some person who had gained access to one of the
opposite houses, struck Graham in the brain, and he fell dead. A low
wail was heard in the air,—many people in the concourse cried that they
had seen a spirit glide across the little casement window of the Bowyer’s
house—
A dead silence succeeded. After a short time some of the flushed and
heated throng laid down their arms and softly carried the body within
doors. Others fell off or slunk away in knots of two or three, others
whispered together in groups, and before a numerous guard which then rode
up could muster in the street, it was nearly empty.
[Picture: Death of Master Graham]
Those who carried Master Graham to the bed up-stairs were shocked to see
a woman lying beneath the window with her hands clasped together. After
trying to recover her in vain, they laid her near the citizen, who still
retained, tightly grasped in his right hand, the first and last sword
that was broken that day at Lud Gate.
* * * * *
The Giant uttered these concluding words with sudden precipitation; and
on the instant the strange light which had filled the hall faded away.
Joe Toddyhigh glanced involuntarily at the eastern window, and saw the
first pale gleam of morning. He turned his head again towards the other
window in which the Giants had been seated. It was empty. The cask of
wine was gone, and he could dimly make out that the two great figures
stood mute and motionless upon their pedestals.
After rubbing his eyes and wondering for full half an hour, during which
time he observed morning come creeping on apace, he yielded to the
drowsiness which overpowered him and fell into a refreshing slumber.
When he awoke it was broad day; the building was open, and workmen were
busily engaged in removing the vestiges of last night’s feast.
Stealing gently down the little stairs, and assuming the air of some
early lounger who had dropped in from the street, he walked up to the
foot of each pedestal in turn, and attentively examined the figure it
supported. There could be no doubt about the features of either; he
recollected the exact expression they had worn at different passages of
their conversation, and recognised in every line and lineament the Giants
of the night. Assured that it was no vision, but that he had heard and
seen with his own proper senses, he walked forth, determining at all
hazards to conceal himself in the Guildhall again that evening. He
further resolved to sleep all day, so that he might be very wakeful and
vigilant, and above all that he might take notice of the figures at the
precise moment of their becoming animated and subsiding into their old
state, which he greatly reproached himself for not having done already.
CORRESPONDENCE
TO MASTER HUMPHREY
‘SIR,—Before you proceed any further in your account of your friends and
what you say and do when you meet together, excuse me if I proffer my
claim to be elected to one of the vacant chairs in that old room of
yours. Don’t reject me without full consideration; for if you do, you
will be sorry for it afterwards—you will, upon my life.
‘I enclose my card, sir, in this letter. I never was ashamed of my name,
and I never shall be. I am considered a devilish gentlemanly fellow, and
I act up to the character. If you want a reference, ask any of the men
at our club. Ask any fellow who goes there to write his letters, what
sort of conversation mine is. Ask him if he thinks I have the sort of
voice that will suit your deaf friend and make him hear, if he can hear
anything at all. Ask the servants what they think of me. There’s not a
rascal among ’em, sir, but will tremble to hear my name. That reminds
me—don’t you say too much about that housekeeper of yours; it’s a low
subject, damned low.
‘I tell you what, sir. If you vote me into one of those empty chairs,
you’ll have among you a man with a fund of gentlemanly information
that’ll rather astonish you. I can let you into a few anecdotes about
some fine women of title, that are quite high life, sir—the tiptop sort
of thing. I know the name of every man who has been out on an affair of
honour within the last five-and-twenty years; I know the private
particulars of every cross and squabble that has taken place upon the
turf, at the gaming-table, or elsewhere, during the whole of that time.
I have been called the gentlemanly chronicle. You may consider yourself
a lucky dog; upon my soul, you may congratulate yourself, though I say
so.
‘It’s an uncommon good notion that of yours, not letting anybody know
where you live. I have tried it, but there has always been an anxiety
respecting me, which has found me out. Your deaf friend is a cunning
fellow to keep his name so close. I have tried that too, but have always
failed. I shall be proud to make his acquaintance—tell him so, with my
compliments.
‘You must have been a queer fellow when you were a child, confounded
queer. It’s odd, all that about the picture in your first paper—prosy,
but told in a devilish gentlemanly sort of way. In places like that I
could come in with great effect with a touch of life—don’t you feel that?
[Picture: A Charming Fellow]
‘I am anxiously waiting for your next paper to know whether your friends
live upon the premises, and at your expense, which I take it for granted
is the case. If I am right in this impression, I know a charming fellow
(an excellent companion and most delightful company) who will be proud to
join you. Some years ago he seconded a great many prize-fighters, and
once fought an amateur match himself; since then he has driven several
mails, broken at different periods all the lamps on the right-hand side
of Oxford-street, and six times carried away every bell-handle in
Bloomsbury-square, besides turning off the gas in various thoroughfares.
In point of gentlemanliness he is unrivalled, and I should say that next
to myself he is of all men the best suited to your purpose.
‘Expecting your reply,
‘I am,
‘&c. &c.’
* * * * *
Master Humphrey informs this gentleman that his application, both as it
concerns himself and his friend, is rejected.